The Kind They Serve at McDonald's

I woke up remembering the french fry incident, and then I couldn't get back to sleep.

Last night Peter and I met Aliza and our group of friends for a celebration. We were celebrating my birthday, Justine's birthday, Peter's and my wedding anniversary and Justine and Florian's wedding anniversary. Also Rosh Hashana, because, why not? We went to Cafe Cluny which I love, partly because the people who work there are uncharacteristically human for a bistro of its ilk, and partly because it's right around the corner from me. I put on makeup and my high-heeled boots. I was very excited.

I love this particular group of friends because they're hilarious and smart and they love you no matter how stupid, boring or juvenile you become after tippling one too many. I mean, I hope they still love me. After last night.

There's a moment when you sort of peak under the influence. In that moment, your razor wit clocks lightning speed and you can carry on three conversations at one time, which you want to do because you love each and every person at this table with all your heart.

I think I started sliding over to the dark side in the middle of my entree. I may be giving myself too much credit, it may have happened before that. But I guess I'd had two glasses of Malbec at that point. Someone observed that my salmon was mashed all over my plate into a kind of stew with the braised vegetables. I explained an innate guiding principle I have when it comes to eating, and of course, life: work first, enjoy later. So I habitually cut up all the food on my plate before eating any of it. I went on to tell a very dull story about my brother Luke and myself at the breakfast table in 1977, cutting up our pancakes all at one time, and how appalled my father was, etc., etc.

Yes, so I told the whole numbing story while my polite friends politely listened and politely reacted and changed the subject. It wasn't long before I was going on at length about a book written by some friends of mine, which is about your astrological sign and how it affects your sexual preferences and behaviors. By trying to remember what the book said about the different signs, I think I managed to insult everyone at the table at least once.

I also managed to slip in at least one horrific exaggeration about Peter, while he was sitting right there, listening. It's something I do all the time. Last night, it was something about his upcoming colonoscopy and how he won't shut up about the arduous and potentially vile day of preparation involved. In reality, he has only mentioned it a handful of times. Actually, he has hardly talked about it at all. But then I realized that I was doing it as I was doing it, and called myself on it to the whole table. I apologized to Peter and to them, and, so that I might keep digging my hole deeper, I explained that I was given to exaggeration as a way of making myself seem more interesting. I have a fear of not being interesting, I told them, to which they were obliged to say, "don't be ridiculous, of course you're interesting."

Okay. So Jen and I were sharing an order of fries. They were the divine McDonald's kind of fries. I think we were just about at the bottom when I turned away, no doubt hurling some inappropriate comment at someone, and when I turned back, the fries were gone. Horrified, I said to Jen, "were we finished with those?" She wasn't sure, she thought there were some left, at the very least five or six stubby ones bathed in salt. We were outraged. How could a busboy just swoop in and remove them? There were more and we weren't finished. Just then our lovely Waitress appeared - she was already silently hating us - and feigning humility, I whined about the premature confiscation. She responded by coming back with an entire new order of fries. I scarfed like half of them, and had four or five hanging out of my mouth as the profiteroles were served.

I mean, where is the dignity? Where is the dignity?

And it really went downhill from there. I can't think of anything too specific because apparently I was in quite a muddle. All I know is that there was profiterole on my blouse when I got home.