A strongly worded letter -- another Vintage Megan moment

Tabby and I @ my birthday party

My good friend, Tabby, celebrated a birthday on Friday, and she was kind enough to ask me to join her family celebration today at Cracker Barrel. I had an official role, too. Yes, I was to serve as the Forward Reconnaissance Team -- my mission was to secure a table with five seats. I won't go into the long, sordid story of how horribly busy it was, and how it seemed that I was surrounded by only the elderly, none of which could walk with out the assistance of some sort of walking apparatus that ended up on the Molestation side of the "too close to my rump" spectrum ... or how every woman with too much make-up and no sense of fashion pushed me out of the way to get a better view of the animated, musical, glittery, over-priced Christmas doo-dad that happened to also be hanging too close to my rump. No, I won't go into that kind of detail. Let's just say I was in Holiday Hell being felt-up by every over-80 in Georgetown, Kentucky.

So, it was an absolute relief when the hostess called my name about 30 minutes after my arrival. This was short-lived, however, as I was informed, upon my arrival to the hostess podium, that they do not seat an incomplete party at their table. The party must all be in the restaurant, otherwise, no seating.

Now, for those of you who know me, you can see where this is heading. I maintained my composure, but you can be sure, I was more than a little annoyed, and my "Well, that hardly seems fair," comment to the hostess I think gave a slight hint in that general direction.

As I stood and watched her give away my table and seat a half a dozen more people, I became down-right indignant. So I marched up to the snotty hostess, and I kindly requested to speak to her manager.

Josh, who was all of 12 years old, I am sure, bee-bopped up to me, and I calmly explained my dilemma. Dear Reader, are you sitting down for this? Because it really requires a good firm grasp of something. Josh said to me, "well, it is our policy that if you aren't all here, I must seat someone else. You see, we feel like we can get still get you in, while seating an intact group, ensuring we get more money."

What was on the tip of my tongue was, "I see you are putting the almighty dollar ahead of your customer service," but I stopped just short of that because I wanted to save that beautiful gem for the strongly worded letter I was penning as I stared into Josh's bleary little 12-year old eyes. Instead, I reiterated that I thought their policy was unfair and stupid.

Another 20 minutes of waiting, and they called me to the table at the same time that Tabby called me to say that they were in the parking lot. Snotty Table Seating Nazi said she could allow them to seat me if the rest of the party was in the parking lot, and so I followed another individual into the dining room, where there was a flurry of activity to make a nice table for us.

It is at this point in the story that you must really think deeply about why you love me and call me friend, because I am about to reveal a portion of this story that may cause you to question your loyalties where I am concerned. For as I was sitting down at the table, my cell rang.

"Hey girl," Tabby says. "I'm here. Where are you?"

"I'm in the middle section, across from the fireplace."

"Are you in the back? I'm standing right in front of the fireplace."

"Move a bit to your left."

"Where are you?"

"Tabby, you aren't in front of the fireplace." Long pause, as my eyes lock with Josh's. "Tabby?"

"Yeah?"

"What Cracker Barrel are you at?"

"The Shelbyville Cracker Barrel. What Cracker Barrel are you at?"

"The Georgetown one."

Somewhere in Georgetown, Kentucky, there is a Cracker Barrel manager holding a voodoo doll with my name on it. He's getting ready to do evil things to it ...

I don't blame him ...