Lunch

Work often gets in the way of real life but there are good things that come from it: work friends. Not the friends that you ask how they’re doing while passing them in a corridor because you really don’t care how they’re doing. Real work friends: the kind you stop for when you ask them how they’re doing. The kind you can bitch to because you missed a birthday party for another departmental meeting. I have moved around a bit in the last little while, and my newest job has brought me to Heidi: a true work friend who has become an always friend. Her kids are the same age as mine and she has all the same issues as any real mom. She’s not afraid to tell me when her kids are monsters and she’s not afraid to get watery-eyed when talking about how much she adores them (even in the bad times). As someone that I see as being a kindred spirit, we’ve decided to occasionally get together outside of the cubicle jungle. This brings me to my story about Lunch.

The capital on Lunch is no typo: it is capitalized because it turned into an event. Heidi and I met at a book fair in a park, with all of our kids in tow (two 5 year olds, 1 3-year old and 1 2-year old). I got there late as always, so it ended up that we got there just as Heidi was leaving. We decided it would be a great idea to just get some lunch before parting ways. A family restaurant would be great. It was lunch after all, what could happen?

It started out simple enough “Oh, they’re cute” said an elderly couple waiting to be seated. Others went out of their way to tell us how well behaved our kids were (Heidi and I must have been waiting for the shit to hit the fan because neither of us seemed to mind the inference that we were a nice, blended lesbian couple). Seating? After they have picked their seats by clawing at each other to get the right spot (side/near the wall/beside Mommy/whatever)they decided that under the table was much more appealing. Bathroom trips? For four children we must have gone 6 times. Volume? So loud even the waitresses were giving us dirty looks (this is a family restaurant where they should be used to wound up children. Well, not ours apparently!). Utensils? 8 sets. Yep 8. There were 6 of us all eating food that required no utensils. Whispered threats to the kids to be good or we’re leaving them behind? Countless. By the end of the meal, that older couple that thought our children were cute were shooting daggers across the restaurant to get our kids the hell OUT. Normally I wouldn’t care about this. The reason I did was that everyone in the restaurant had that same hate on. I think all conversation in the restaurant stopped except to say “When is that gay couple going to take those monsters out of this restaurant?”

After what was possibly the longest lunch of our lives, Heidi and I paid and got out, but not before seriously contemplating a large shot of tequila and telling our fellow patrons that the children were not ours, we were just seeing if it would be worth it for us to adopt someday. I’ve been back to the restaurant since and a funny thing happens every time: the hostess sees me coming and flips the sign to “Closed” while shrugging her shoulders in a gesture that could mean “Sorry we’re full” or “Stay out. FOREVER.” I just nod with resignation to say “I understand. I totally understand. Sincere apologies for the last time.”

Next time Heidi and are going to picnic. With tequila.