I know it, you know it, everybody knows it: Actions speak louder than words. But today, I got to see that ugly truth up close and personal.

I have a new ritual. Every Friday morning that I’m not doing the secretary gig, I skedaddle down to the International House Of Pancakes to devour crepes. Usually I have a former cheerleader as my waitress, the always bubbly and pert Farrah. However, today, it seemed that I was an orphan, as I had no less than three serving my every whim. I have no idea which one I actually tipped.

I was seated by a sweet girl that I would guess is of Indian origin. Indian like Taj. She offered to bring my drink while I looked over the menu. “She’ll be with you shortly,” she promised as she made her exit. “She” never appeared, so instead my hostess took my order (banana crepes with Nutella this week). Another waitress stopped by moments later to ascertain that my order had been taken.

I was just sitting there, mildly enjoying the buzz of activity from people around me. The overall mood was one of merriment. I don’t know who these people are who aren’t at work on a Friday morning. They’re of all ages, and I’m typically the only one there dining alone. Frequently there are pairs of men, strictly business, chatting about this joint venture or that merge. Last time there was a lady with her two daughters seated in the booth behind me, celebrating the birthday of one of the daughters. This I understand. These giant groups of people whooping it up? I got nuttin’. Oftentimes there are older couples, clearly retired, just out running errands together. I find this exceedingly sweet.

This morning as I waited on my decadent crepes, a couple of ladies were seated behind me.

All at once, their voices began an assault on my eardrums.

The most nasally, obnoxious, nauseating Yankee accent known to Southerners spewed from her throat a litany of complaints. Something was too small, she complained immediately to the hostess. “Why did they make them smaller, they were too small already…” She whined.

I dared not turn around. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.

Then she went on about the eggs, how she would really like some nice scrambled eggs, but she’s not going to order them because every time she gets them here they’re cold. So cold, in fact, that butt-ahh will not even melt on them.

Her dining partner is suitably aghast.

I’m wondering why she keeps coming back if their eggs are so bad.

Then I wonder why I care, and try to scroll Instagram, concentrating on sandy beaches and the like.  I don’t want to eavesdrop on them, but it’s dang near impossible as she is sitting a scant twenty-four inches away.

Why don’t they put me in the way back? Maybe next time I’ll act intimidated to be eating alone. Or maybe I’ll just ask for seclusion. At any rate, here come my crepes.

The one-sided conversation behind me continues. Now she’s counseling the woman with her (mother? sister? Surely not a friend, no one would voluntarily put up with this kind of abuse) about what to eat, how to order, and why she shouldn’t get what was evidently discussed in the car trip here. She seems to have some health issues and doesn’t eat regularly. The complainer starts telling her how she doesn’t need to eat cereal, she needs to eat bananas. And how, when she does feel like eating, she shouldn’t overdo it.

I am now envisioning a Jersey woman: overdone hair dyed black as pitch, overdone makeup with lots of oily coral colored lipstick, gobs of gold jewelry, but no bangles, because I haven’t heard them. It’s a little early in the day for animal print, so my guess is probably basic black with teal accents and the animal print on a scarf that’s tied to the handle of her 1999 designer bag. Her companion is elderly, meek (duh), and shriveled and could certainly use a few extra calories she hopes to glean from her French toast donut or whatever it is she wants.

The waitress comes for the order. Lo and behold, the complainer orders eggs! Of course, they come with strict instructions on the temperature, and the reasoning behind her request. She also has a list of directions of how she would like her food prepared, down to the salt and pepper dusted on the toast. Completely over the top from being a picky order, I couldn’t remember it all if I tried. The poor waitress questioned one thing, to make sure she had it right, and she answered in the most condescending tone I’ve heard in quite some time. I was about to choke. Of course, she ordered first, and when the other lady went to order, she broke in, adding “And that’s all.” I would have punched her right in the throat and called an Uber.

Orders taken, the waitress moves off. Jersey picks up with a new list of problems, these related to the church, where they’re presumably helping feed the homeless through a local rescue ministry. She doesn’t have a problem with that, what she has an issue with is people eat seven days a week and the church is only feeding them five. Not only that, but just one meal a day. People eat three times a day. You can get by with two, if you eat breakfast late enough, but isn’t it simply atrocious that they’re not doing more?

I have yet to hear what commitment she makes towards this provided meal, but the other lady makes deviled eggs. “Well, that’s fine, if that’s what you want to do, but it adds up if you do it every week. I’m just saying.”

Evidently her generosity doesn’t extend to making much besides criticisms.

I can’t think of what it was she asked the other lady, but when a response didn’t come her way, or at least the one she was satisfied with, she asked again. She was put off. “I was just wondering. Just being nosy,” like her admitting it made it okay.

Dear Jesus, here comes their food.

The waitress was rewarded by, “No, that’s hers, that’s all. Yes, this is mine. Mine. Mine. Now I see that I didn’t get {insert offense here} after I specifically asked for it, and this isn’t right, you’ll have to take this back. Now, I guess I’ll just have to wipe this silverware off because I asked for clean and you didn’t bring that, either. It’s fine. Now, extra napkins, and take this.”

The poor waitress apologizes timidly and scurries away as fast as her legs will take her without actually running. I want to chase after her. I’m sure she’ll try to send someone else back to their table. I would. I want to tell her it’s not the end of the world, this woman is a terrible creature who must be destroyed.

But no, she returns with the replacement of whatever was wrong and keeps moving.

“Naaaapkins!!!” the evil Yankee screams shrilly after her.

I’m completely mortified to even be in the same restaurant as this miserable cow.

I’m rubbing my eyebrows off as I try to remain calm and not spew my venom all over her. Then the unthinkable happens:

She begins to pray.

My head is about to EXPLODE. 

And once she’s done with her little talk with Jesus, the dissatisfactions begin again. “I don’t like our waitress,” she says around a mouthful of what I assume is eggs.

“Why not?” the other lady asks.

“I just don’t. She just seems…I don’t know. I bet she’s new.”

Undesirable waitress in question arrives with my bill.

“Excuse me, are you new?” she asks her.

Unbelievable.

The waitress shakes her head.

“It’s just because….well…could you bring me….no, I’m good. Nevermind. Nothing.”

The waitress is clearly relieved to be excused once again.

I wish I’d hit the Powerball the other night. I would have bailed this poor girl out on the spot. And I would have probably had to hire a lawyer to make amends for all the things I would have said to this good for nothing customer who has ruined my perfectly delicious and beautiful crepes with all her loudmouth grievances.

I signed my slip and began to compose a note to the good people of IHOP before I could get thrown in jail. While I wrote, she droned on about the state of her vehicle and how her top concern was tires. Lord help the automotive establishment she ports in.

The last thing I heard before I stood up was the other woman wanting something sweet, and she was berating her, “Look in front of you. What is that? What is it? Something sweet!”

I got up and finally turned my most evil stare on her, sizing her up for the first time. She was nothing like I pictured. The first thing I noticed was her hair- a mess of gray, SOS pad wiry sort-of curls that were way past being a flattering length. She had on a dirty t-shirt that did nothing for her oversize figure. Maybe the booth size was what she had been griping about when she first sat down. But she probably requested one just so she’d have a platform. I’m no wisp of a female, myself, and try to be respectful of other’s feelings, but this woman was a breed alone. I should not extract one iota of sympathy for her.

How I would have loved to smash those cold eggs right into her pinched face.

I hope that the poor waitress’ day was not ruined, I hope that she doesn’t remember her come tonight when she’s home with her children helping them do schoolwork, or maybe taking her own night classes. I hope that wicked bitch never crosses her mind again, unless it’s when she thinks back to when she got more than a tip on a debit card slip.

I’ve lived through some pretty vicious customers of my own nearly every day. What made it better was having people on your side, most especially the next person in line who would roll their eyes and tell you not to let it get you down. Don’t spread the hate, just laugh them off for the worthless patronage they are, and don’t dwell on how much time you wasted.

I didn’t pray before my meal, but I did pray during, to keep me from saying something that would make me so angry for months to come that IHOP would forever be tainted. My prayers were answered.

But Lord, if she didn’t deserve it.