I pretty much lost my shit big time today. I’m glad my mum doesn’t read this, because my use of bad language since becoming a big fat barren has excelled. *takes a bow*
@subfertilechick (aka http://myassistedconceptionjourney.wordpress.com/) sent me a tweet in response to my fury today, which made me chuckle and calmed me down muchly (thanks). Unfortunately, in the meantime I had already made several rather rude comments rather too loudly, only eaten a third of my dinner before dramatically throwing my napkin on the plate (and staring angrily to the side), and refused the waiter’s kind offer of putting the rest of the food in a box with, “NO GIVE ME THE BILL.” I then instructed my husband to pay, and not leave a tip. Nice. My grand finale was storming out of the restaurant (ruined slightly by trying to push the door open from the wrong side, followed by pushing the door open from the right side, followed by realising it was a pull and finally bursting forth from the restaurant in a fit of fucking fury). Well done me.
What annoyed me so bad? We were at a nice(ish) restaurant. It’s an award winning independent Italian. The main courses are like, £15ish. Nice, but not going to break the bank. Anyway, it’s still quite a lot. When you add in starters and drinks, it’s a good £50 meal. I’m not made of gold.
I have a question. If you have a baby and a toddler, is it okay to take them to a nice(ish) restaurant for dinner at 8pm at night?
If your answer is:
A) Yes, please go to 2
B) No, please go to 3
2. FUCK OFF MY BLOG, and while you are at it, fuck off in general. Yeah, I mean you, FUCK OFF.
3. Let’s be friends, and maybe make an Act of Parliament to generally speaking keep most people with young children out of most restaurants after their bedtime. Obviously I appreciate there are occasionally exceptions to this rule, for which I will grant individual pardons if you give me a good enough bribe.
Where is 1? Who are you, the Queen of Sheba?
I am shit at maths, but I’m pretty sure we all know the equation: children + past their bedtime + restaurant = fucking annoying.
I am not allowed to scream all the way through my entire meal. I am not allowed to climb over other people and other people’s stuff. I am not allowed to get my tits out at the table to feed my three year old. I am not allowed to get my tits out at the table FULL STOP. I am not allowed to talk to my husband in a very loud stupid baby voice. I am not allowed to get my pooey nappy out at the table. I am not allowed to squeal with joy or fury while I am eating. I am not allowed to run round and round and round the restaurant. I am not allowed, but you, my child-bearing friends are. Oh yes. You are allowed to do all of those things and more because you have children. You are allowed to RUIN the evening of every single other person in the room who doesn’t have children, because you do.
Pardon? What was that? Oh! You are entitled to be here as much as me? Fuck that, no you aren’t. I’m not ruining anyone else’s evening by my mere presence in the restaurant; you are.