On The Town

I don’t know if it’s just Los Angeles, or just The Cheesecake Factory, but let me tell you – that place is a well-oiled machine. When Ryan and I went there the other night (yes, the faux-Vartan night) we learned first hand their waiting process. First, you go and give them your name. Then, they punch a few numbers in on the computer and they give you one of those plastic doohickeys* that lights up and vibrates when your table is ready. So, we go wait outside, like good little patrons, and forty-five minutes later the device starts flashing. We go in the restaurant (or factory, I suppose) and hand the doohickey to the woman at the counter, who then proceeds to tell us to “wait over there.” She punches something into the computer, and hands the device to the woman behind her. Woman #2 puts the device away, reads info on her computer (seriously, they were two feet apart… just talk to one another) and then writes the name Ryan on a slip of paper and places it on a counter with ten other slips of paper. Apparently, we weren’t ready to be seated, just ready to be moved into the next corral. We are now standing with ten other disillusioned parties who are also still waiting to be seated. As we are on our second wait, a man approaches woman #1 with the typical, “You said our table would be ready in forty-five minutes and we’ve been waiting over an hour!” Woman #1 asks for his name, punches it into her computer and says, “Sir, it says here that you have been waiting for thirty minutes and that your table will be ready in fifteen.” That’s right. He was bitch-slapped. He walked back outside with his tail between his legs. Don’t mess with the machine, Boyo.

As Ryan and I were walking out of Target this evening, we passed a woman letting two young girls out of her car. The girls could not have been older than thirteen. As they got out of the car, one of the girls yells oh-so-politely** “Mom, my cell is still in the back of the car, if you want to call me, just call Jenny’s.” Excuse me? You are twelve years old, girlies… what do you need a cell phone for? How far away from home can you get without your parents driving you anyway? Shouldn’t they know where you are without having to call? How often are you left alone unsupervised and away from a landline? What is this world coming to?

I find my answer as about two minutes later I walked by a woman and her nine-year-old daughter. The child was sporting a Louis Vuitton purse. Please. What is she carrying in there? Her Barbie chapstick? As I examine the contents of my purse I find: lipstick, checkbook, wallet, cell phone and car keys. I would assume that little Sally is carrying none of these things. She doesn’t even have a driver’s license or credit card, so she doesn’t need a wallet. Why does she need a designer handbag? If she feels the need to clutch something, how about Hello Kitty? It’s much less expensive.

*As I type the word “doohickies” into my computer, I find that is incorrect spelling. It is actually “doohickeys.” I guess when it’s a fictitious word, you aren’t supposed to change the ‘y’ to an ‘ie’ when making it plural.

**Not really politely as much as rudely