Random Musings

O'Charley's

I'm off this week for spring break, so I'm able to get done a lot of things that I can't normally do because my work hours don't allow for it. When I'm working, I go in before everything opens, and by the time I get off, so is everyone else. Forget about going to the bank, the post office, the doctor or anything else that's done during the day. I have to take off work if the matter is pressing.

So yesterday and today were spent running around, doing those types of things. Today, after visiting office supply stores and Walmarts, looking for some office materials I needed, picking up supplies I had to have to complete some calligraphy on a wedding invitation job I have been comissioned to do, and then getting my hair done, I decided to treat myself to dinner.

Despite the fact that I have this week off, my husband still has to work, and with my nest now empty, I'm usually home alone, which I LOVE. There is no script to which I have to stick. I don't have to please anyone or be concerned for anyone other than myself. I come and go as I please. My time is my own. I haven't felt this free since I was a teenager.

Tonight he's working the late shift, and I didn't feel like cooking, so I took myself to dinner at one of the local O'Charley's. I carried with nme my journal and my writer's notebook because I never can tell what's going to happen that I might want to capture for posterity, and my memory isn't to be counted upon these days.

The hostess led me to a small booth with plush burgandy vinyl seats. I was glad that I was wearing jeans and not shorts. I disliike the feel of vinyl sticking to my naked skin, especially on the back of my thighs as I'm sitting; jeans slide right across it.

The booth was in the back where I could tell it would be relatively quiet, which is good for writing. I don't like for it to be completely silent when I'm working; a low din actually aids me in my thinking and the flow of my words. I could hear that a television was on somewhere. It took a few minutes for me to realize that it was right over my head; the sound coming from it was that low.

My waiter was a young guy named Dustin. Somehow he physically matched his name. He was red. Sparse, spiky red hair, ruddy cheeks and lips. His shirt was even red. I think the fact that I was writing impressed him. He was very careful about how he approached me when he brought the nenu, my drink, and the entree I ordered. He didn't come back a lot of times to check on me, but I could see out of the corner of my eye that he was watching to see if I wanted anything.

I find that to be true of most wait people when I've been in a restaurant, writing. Especially the younger people. Maybe they're students, and they understand. Older people who wait on me are polite, but I think it intrigues them more. Older people often make comment or even ask what I'm working on. Most young people don't ask, they just get very quiet, almost reverent.

The bread they bring you before your meal at O'Charley's smells and perhaps looks better than it tastes. They come to the table nice and hot, but as a bread baker, I can tell from sight that they aren't allowed enough time to properly rise. They're flatter than they should be. The taste is sweet, the way that I like rolls to be, but they're tough, like I said, as if they weren't allowed to properly rise before being put into the oven. The art to baking bread is really time. It takes a lot of time to do it right. I took a bite of one, but that was it. I decided it wasn't worth it to fill up the space I had with something I didn't really want, and then not have room to finish what I came to eat.

The bar was to my left, and I could hear the voices of the people who were working back there. I could tell from the sound that these were people who enjoyed each other's company. I couldn't hear exactly what they were saying; I wasn't interested. The tone was congenial and the talk free-flowing. It's nice when you actually enjoy the people you're forced to be with every day at work. I think I would quit a job if I didn't enjoy the people there. I get along with almost everyone. It's rare that I run across someone I don't like. But I think it would kill me to have to be somewhere that I was stuck with people I found to be unpleasant or maybe who reacted to me as if they thought that of me.

As I sat there, I reflected upon how much I enjoy being on my own. I wondered if I would enjoy it so much if it was a permanent thing. Right now, I have my husband, but with our hours, we aren't together a lot. It's a pleasure when we do get to spend time with one another. I do enjoy my own company; I always have, but even as a kid, when I closed off, I always had the option of returning to the fold when I felt like it. Sometimes when I get to thinking that I could really get to like being on my own, I have to remind myself to be careful what I ask for.

As I sat there thinking, out of no where, the acrid scent of cigarette smoke wafted over to the table. It was an unexpected, intrusive, and these days unpleasant odor. Since restaurants here in Georgia have adopted a no-smoking policy, it isn't something one incurs in that setting any more. It's almost shocking now when you do. I don't know how we ever tolerated it back in the day, when people smoked wherever they wanted and the rest of us were left breathing it in.

As I was growing up, my father smoked Taryntons like a chimney. I can remember riding in the car with him, him smoking, and me hanging out of the car window with carsick. He finally quit when my mother, a non-smoker, developed asthma and us kids bought him a smokeless ashtray. I don't think he ever discussed it with anyone. My mother said that he didn't with her, but I believe he suspected that his smoking was what led to her getting sick from that as an adult when most people have it from childhood. We thought she was getting it from the smoke, thus the ashtray. Whatever- he quit, which was good for everyone.

The party in the booth behind me, smelled the smoke, too and commented on how offensive it was. For a moment, I turned around and we all talked about it, trying to see from where it was coming, but we couldn't see anyone in our area who had lit up. It was probably someone going out of the door, which was right by my booth, and they couldn't quite wait until they were all the way out. We just got the blow back.

I ate my three-cheese burger and fries, thinking about how that wasn't the most healthy meal in the world, but it sure was good. And also thinking of the things I need to do tomorrow. Heading the list is a trip to the tax man. I hate doing this every year, but at least I have the time now to get it done without taking a notch out of one of my precious weekend days. After tomorrow, all of the have-to-dos will be out of the way, and then it will be on to the whatever-I-want-to-do's for the rest of the week.

Time surely does fly when you're having fun.