People Are People

The ride from the Mall to the hotel puts us in an even better mood. People can be so funny.

The couple sitting across from us was evidently expecting a baby. From the absence of other baby gear and an actual live child, I guessed this would be their first. From the looks of things she was about 6 months into the game.

And had waived the white flag. Given up on anything not expressly required by law to be done before going out into public. Hair in a sloppy knot on top of her head. Not a crumb of makeup (which made her “woe is me” grimace that much more appealing.) Hubby’s college fraternity sweatshirt. Oversized sweatpants (assumed to also belong to hubby). Bedroom slippers.

And hubby had taken this opportunity to relax his mojo as well. Attire from the same collection. Instead of hair in a knot, he was sporting a two day beard and a couple of stains.

I looked around half expecting the fashion police to be surrounding the car with weapons drawn. I can only imagine the depths they’ll reach by Junior’s full gestational maturity. Ain’t gonna be pretty.

We schlepped through the rain sharing an umbrella that strained not to invert. We were soaked to our knees and laughing our heads off and decided to stop for a drink and a few minutes of playoff hockey at the hotel bar. Maybe stay long enough to enjoy the Maitre D’s Happy Hour.

This may just be my opinion, but if you are in a position where your guests’ satisfaction depends almost entirely on your ability to understand and respond to their requests, you should have a fairly decent grasp on the language most of them are anticipated to communicate in.

Whoever hired the bar tender must feel otherwise.

When Scott and I sat down we were approached by Janet who placed cocktail napkins in front of us in anticipation of our bar order.

Which she evidently had enormous difficulty interpreting.

Scott ordered a “strong Tanqueray and tonic.” Not complicated. Janet looked at us quizzically.

Scott clarified. Double the gin, half the tonic.

A tentative nod. I was not inspired to be confident that Janet would whip up a drink where Scott could a) smell the juniper berries from an arm’s length or b) expect to have his nose hairs burned off with the first sip.

I was right to doubt.

Scott’s drink was watery. My chardonnay was warm enough to poach an egg.

Janet couldn’t find the hockey game. She refused to part with the clicker so we could.

The bill was $20.

We listened to her talk some other hockey fan patrons out of ordering the hummus (“People don’t like it enough to finish it.” What???) and into ordering the Blue Cheese Chips at a few dollars more.

We decided we’d try our luck at the Happy Hour. Declined a second round.

She protested claiming that the hotel “serves only bottom shelf drinks at Happy Hour.” How nice of her to give her employer such a ringing endorsement.

We’d take our chances. The $10 drinks were nearing the “unfit for human consumption” range. And besides we had plans for the night.