Oh, To Be a Canuck, For Reals

I wrote this out last night, long-hand, while Baby Girl and I were out for dinner (entirely an unnecessary expense, particularly considering yesterday's post). And so:

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I'm overhearing the weirdest conversation. I am in O'Charley's with Baby Girl and the waitress we always have is at the table behind us. She judges me with her eyes when I order beer, more so when I ask for the second beer, though she has no way of knowing that I live about 100 yards away and that we have walked here with the shorter of us in a stroller.

Anyway, she is having a conversation at the table behind Baby Girl about going to Canada - she's leaving next week [non sequiter: Aretha Franklin is singing, "Think, think, think about what you're trying to do to me..."]. I don't know if her move is permanent (God, I hope so), and she's saying, "Healthcare is free. I could be a millionaire!" The people at her table seem to accept this with knowing head nods. I'm not sure what they're nodding at.

I know that healthcare is free in Canada, but I'm not sure that means that Ottowans are, as a matter of general course, driving Miatas all over the tundra.

Anyway, the fact that she's leaving (and obviously leaving this job, which is this only means through which I interact with her), means that I can stop saying loudly mid-meal, "Hope you're ready for a quick walk home, Baby Girl!" so she knows I'm not strapping my daughter into a carseat to drive her off in a drunken joyride while I, all the whilst trying not to get unintentionally ass-ba-joinked by the gearshift of my Corolla, simultaneously smoke crack and get fucked by a dark-haired boy with brown eyes and a crooked smile in full view of her before we all plummet to our deaths off the side of the Grand Canyon, which is nowhere near here.

This waitress never seems to notice that Baby Girl eats her broccoli, slowly and carefully, but entirely, while I drink two tall Amber Bocks and write tomorrow's blog entry on the back of - what is this? Huh. An invitation to reestablish my dental insurance - an invitation to reestablish my dental insurance. She's off to Canada, and I'm due to have a (hopefully) less judgmental waitress - maybe one who will throw a shot of whiskey in with my beers, just cause.

I mean, anyone who's watched my daughter scream at me, "NO TALKEE ME, MAMA!" (I swear, she's so not PC, doing her toddler-ethnic-minority-voice) knows that I'm fucking entitled to that boilermaker. And now that Baby Girl just blew a kiss to me and accidentally in the process spit a mouthful of partially-chewed-up broccoli in my direction, I feel I'm multiply entitled. I'll still take that green, smelly kiss, of course.

And, if she's off to the land of the millionaires and Alanis Morisette, my waitress can at least share the wealth before she departs...