I’ll be the first to admit I don’t get out much (I hear Tracy and Rhonda muttering amen). But there’s a good reason for that. One, the majority of people annoy me. I had my fair share of the multitudes during my fifteen years of retail. Two, I’m happy at home. It’s cozy, it’s comfy, and I have everything I need. Namely books. Three, I have given myself a nearly unattainable goal of reading 75 books this year. I’m currently ahead of schedule by six, but I think that’s mainly due to being off Facebook for Lent. I have no doubt that I will be sucked right back into its addictiveness come April 2nd. Really, I’m dreading it. Just like everybody else, I’m friends with people I don’t follow. These people are the ones who will no doubt message me, wondering why I haven’t been sucked into their latest drama. Right now I can claim that I didn’t see it “because I’m not on Facebook” but that excuse won’t fly in two weeks time. And people don’t want to hear that I really just don’t care. It is rude, I recognize that. But I can’t help it. The truth’s the truth. There ARE things I can’t wait to look at, though. A couple of my friends have taken vacation, and I do love pictures of places I’ve never been. I’m looking forward to perusing those. Quizzes about what Disney warrior you would be, not so much. Inspirational quotes are in the same category, as well as frogs declaring me a Happy Wednesday. I can live without all that mindless drivel. *taking long sip pf wine*

Back to my latest outing. Book Club was Wednesday. I don’t know how this happened, but it came to be our locale for this particular gathering was set as Waffle House. Yes, that’s right. I don’t know why. We’re probably the first book club in the history of the world that ever met at one.

I got there last, par the course in all aspects of my life. As I settled into the slightly sticky booth, I mumbled, “Well, we really are here, aren’t we?” It was twenty after five. The place was hoppin’. There was your resident crackhead at the counter, a man with a softball sized bandage on the smack dab middle of his forehead in the booth behind us, and a scattering of other….people….stationed about sporadically.

I did note there were people there treating it like a bar. There was one guy who vehemently insisted he wasn’t skipping out on his bill, he was just going out “for a smoke”. Maybe they were in AA and missed the camaraderie that comes from sitting for hours on a barstool with like minded mortals. Waffle House would be a sad substitute, in my estimation. Seeing as this was only my third visit to a Waffle House in the duration of my life on this planet- and my second one stone cold sober- I was taking it all in like a kid at the circus.

Which, basically, I was.

Then I focused my wide eyed attention to the menu.

I promise I’m not a snob. Except that I kinda am. But when you can order a steak for $7.99 from the same menu that offers hash browns with enticing additives, such as mushrooms, I’m thinking I should order something that is easily recognizable. Something that could not be altered without it being evident. Something like a giant waffle. So that’s what I got. And hashbrowns, smothered, covered, and diced. The diced part, to the uninformed, is tomatoes. They were hidden in the middle like a potato pinata. Smothered referred to the onions, for reasons unknown, and covered bespoke of the orange cheese drizzled haphazardly about. But none of this could cover up the flavor of oil. The book up for discussion was The Handmaids Tale, which I strongly encourage you to read, if only so you’ll be as disgusted as me. Don’t get me wrong, it’s wonderfully written and I’m so glad we chose it because I never in a million years would have picked it up on my own accord. That’s the great thing about book club. Once you’re signed on, you have to read what’s been decided on. Unless you’re whiny and have to have things your way and hop around book club to book club to suit your needs. Luckily, even when I hate the book, I love the company, so there’s that. We had our conversation over the rattle and bang of a non gender-specific cook and eventually a jukebox. I will say the place was a bit cleaner than I had anticipated, although I could have pulled a slide to make Tom Cruise green with envy. And by the time we left, I fit right in, as I had manged to stream a line of syrup down the exact middle of my shirt, which, in turn, made my arm sticky. There are no pictures to commemorate the occasion, because I believe most people know what the inside and outside of a Waffle House look like. Once, I was next door to one and there was a car parked in their lot with “Just Married” scrawled all over it. I was tempted to go see about that, but refrained. I do wish I had managed to get one of the gentleman with the head wound. I’m not likely to forget him, but I fear that my readers may not believe in his existence, although I do have three witnesses. But, then too, I assume most of y’all have also darkened the door of a Waffle House near or far, and know that nothing really is out of the ordinary there. This guy even had some female companions. I imagine they were his wife and daughters, but what an odd restaurant to celebrate the coming home after a surgery. Or maybe not. Maybe they knew he wouldn’t draw as much attention there as he would at say, Cracker Barrel.

As we were winding up, the gentleman seated behind my side of the booth spoke up to comment on Rhonda’s use of her hands for wide gesturing. He was on my nerves in two seconds flat and I rose to leave. He was one of those that had arrived alone, and wanted to become a part of something. Myself, on the other hand, wanted to be apart of the situation.

But he drew them in. As I rolled my eyes and thought about the blog post already forming in my mind, Rhonda and Tracy chatted animatedly with him. I think he was trying to be Rick Bragg. I was trying to be David Copperfield. The waitress sensed my aggravation early on and had whisked my check away.

While we stood next to the counter, I admired a little girl dressed to the nines there with her mom. She was fabulous in her pink booties, sparkly tights, gauzy blouse, and beribboned hair. That little girl could have been me thirty-odd years ago. Hell, I was looking pretty cute in my honeybee flats, if I do say so myself.

Farewell to the Waffle House, with your crack whore that stayed the entirety of our visit, to the yapping dogs locked in the vehicle out front that also stayed the duration, and your overall eccentricness.

I think the Waffle House would be a honey hole of a place to write. Of course, #1 is, and always will be, airports. Co-op runs a close second, though. I will say the service there could show several upscale establishments how it’s done. I didn’t want for nothing, except which couldn’t be attained.