the continuing saga of how cheesecake factory is destroying my life.

4 Sep

Today was like any other day, in that I went to Cheesecake Factory for lunch and my kid was the one jumping on the booth and pressing her face up against the glass, leaving tongue trails of avocado in her wake. And shocker shocker, it was a totally shitty experience.

Ok, well not the company. That part was exceptional today, because in addition to my Energizer Bunny of a daughter and my mommy, my good friend from sleepaway camp joined us. Bari has a new baby herself, so she was really quite non-judgemental when my babygirl did things like spit tomatoes all over my iPhone or eat her boogers. Just kidding, her kid is only like a few weeks old and he doesn’t do nasty shit other than poop in the bathtub and that he really can’t even control. Probably Bari thinks I’m literally the opposite of mother of the year, but really there’s no way to comprehend the Terrible Twos unless you’re in the midst of it. Sort of like a hurricane. Or armed robbery. Or acid trip. Or intestinal parasite.

Anyway, let’s not dwell on my mediocre parenting skills. Instead we should worry about the nightmare that is Cheesecake Factory. Like for instance, when dealing with the issue of lunch, when did it become a luxury to get utensils? Guess how many people we had to ask for a fork and knife while we all salivated over the bread and butter (not my babygirl, she chowed down on those  butter packets like they were covered in chocolate). Three! Three people! It was painful. The worst part of it was that we were sitting right next to a wait station and I so badly wanted to set the fucking table myself but since Bari was there I didn’t want to act inappropriate, because Bari is like totally demure and ladylike. She didn’t coin the term “crapalicious” or anything. A few minutes later, the 3 of us were passed out on the table TOTALLY FAMISHED AND WASTING AWAY AND ALMOST DYING FROM LACK OF CARBS when this waitress chick cruised by and was like “hey, do you guys want silverware?”

“No thanks,” I told her coyly waving her away. “We went to Medieval Times the other day and we’re like so over forks. Yes we want forks, bitch!”

A little while later after my babygirl had successfully eaten the cloth napkins and learned how to spell, the food had still not arrived. We flagged down our waitress to ask her what was taking so long. “Um, YOU,” she said, pointing her finger so close to Bari’s face that if she sported a large schnoz she would have gotten hit. “You ordered the turkey burger and that’s what we’re waiting for.” My mom and I were so pissed at Bari that we made her sit next to my kid.

Seven hours later (I’m not even exaggerating because time with a 2-year-old is like dog years – it just adds up faster) we got our food. Well, me and my mom and my babygirl got her food. Bari, not so much. The manager dude came over (I can’t keep track if this is the same guy as the last 8 times, but he was equally as douchey). He knelt down at the table, which is a huge pet peeve unless I’m six-years-old and we’re at fucking Friendly’s. “Heyyyyyy, really sorryyyyyy about the wait.” (I’ve been watching Finding Nemo every morning, so apparently this manager sounds like that turtle surfer dude in the East Australian Current, the EAC.) “Your turkey burger is actually done. We’re just waiting for the fries.”

We tried to figure out how to deal with this information. Bari was very nice. I ignored him because I already had my food so what the hell did I care? My mom stared at him quizzically, secretly thanking the lord that her manager doesn’t kneel at tables. Then again she’s preggo, so that could go horribly wrong if she did. The turkey burger finally arrived, but Señor Kneeling Dude lingered for like way too long. Did he want to pull up a chair? Did he want to see if we chew with our mouths open? Did he want me and Bari to break out into our famous “Rent” duet where one of us plays the part of Mark and one of us plays the part of Everyone Else? The answer is a mystery, but at least we’re all on the same page that Cheesecake Factory blows. Except for the cheesecake. And the menu. And the portion size vs. the price. And the general convenience. But seriously, I’m glad it’s not my restaurant. Who wants to make millions of dollars off a mediocre operation anyway? I’d much rather have a mediocre operation and be broke.

This evening, after I had finally settled down from the horrifying Cheesecake experience, I opened my doggy bag to heat up my babygirl’s grilled cheese  and corn succotash (she filled up on butter packets and a little bit of bread and a daiquiri) only to find that they didn’t put it in the fucking container. It was empty. Like empty. Empty like my heart, and my kid’s stomach. I was forced to feed her some questionable cheese and two cans of tuna fish, because I really need to go food shopping and she was too hungry to wait.

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One Response to “the continuing saga of how cheesecake factory is destroying my life.”

  1. blabs4@aol.com September 4, 2012 at 11:44 pm #

    Was the container really empty??

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