Birthday Girl

Today is Bekka's 7th birthday. Even though I've already spent $200 on the Saturday party, Brian insisted we go out for a family dinner. Bekka's restaurant choice, The Olive Garden, was regrettable. Their slogan "When You're Here, You're Family" is faulty advertising, unless you come from a passive aggressive, lazy family. Not only did our apathetic waitress, Caren (worst way to spell Karen) not look any of us in the eye, I question whether or not she had bathed in the past week. She smelled of dirty carpet and menthol cigarettes. That was the least of my problems. Even though I knew they microwave their food, it was still upsetting to bite into a half frozen tortellini. And then, the waiter at the table next to us was trying to up-sell them to a Kendall-Jackson, the low hanging fruit of wine makers, which made me grimace. The fact that Bekka thinks this is the best food on Earth makes me feel like a failure, not as a parent, I've already accepted that I am indeed that, but as a human being. No one, on this planet, should hold that restaurant in such high regard. Not even a 7 year old.

And Brian gave her her present - a TMobile Sidekick. Still a better phone than my 2 year old Razr.