A friend of mine from back East recently reminded me of Friendly’s.

As a kid, we used to go to there for ice cream treats and if it was a really a special occasion, we’d preface our desserts with one of their fabulous burgers. When Tim and I were in Foxboro, MA last fall (when the bus got flooded, but that’s another blog entry) I squealed with delight when we passed by a Friendly’s in our Jeep. I hadn’t even thought about the place in years. Being an East Coast thing, Tim had never heard of it.

“We have to go! We have to go!” I exclaimed, channeling my inner 9 year old as I bounced in my seat in the Jeep. Tim dutifully drove us back for dinner that night.

I had remembered not only the food, but the service which strives to live up to the restaurant’s name. To every single one of my change orders (fried onions on my burger instead of bacon, lo carb chocolate in my milkshake, ranch dressing with my onion rings, slab of raw onion and don’t forget the steak sauce) the waitress whooped an enthusiastic, “NO PROBLEM!” As a kid, to have an adult hang on your every word and treat every request as gospel, was kinda nice. As a bus phobic, to hear a “NO PROBLEM!” in a situation where I could really be assured that there was none, was kinda liberating.

But, the Friendly’s in Augusta, ME (yep, I was on a roll reliving the highlights of my childhood, just as Tim was on a roll sleeping on the couch because he couldn’t stand the reek of onions in the bed) seemed to lack the same… Friendly-ness. When I gave my by now, usual order, there was not a “NO PROBLEM!” to be heard. Instead, the waitress practically sneered, “the woman likes her condiments.” Haven’t these people been trained that sarcasm is not particularly friendly? Then, my order complete, I was treated to a “she’s the condiment queen!” I guess at least that’s some sort of promotion from princess. Tim, who always rolls his eyes at my dining requests (and who takes great pride in following his order with, “and I’ll have it exactly like it is on the menu”) was trying not to let his milkshake shoot through his nostrils after that Heinzien coronation. Then, unfortunately for us all, I noticed my ice tea glass said, “free refills.” You must understand that at Friendly’s, freverything is freenamed. The onion rings are “fronions,” the shakes, “fribbles,” and so on. So, I ask the fraitress, “How come the drinks aren’t called, freefills?” She shot me a strange look, finally got it and narrowed her eyes at me.

“Freefills. Cute. I’ll let management know. It’ll be one more thing for them to throw at us.”

That was the last time we went to Friendly’s.

Tim has been around my family long enough that he knows what the Yiddish word "shmata" means. ("Rag," as in, when something spills, my mother screams, "Get me a shmata!") So, one day on our trip, when I was nagging him about something or other, (probably something to do with driving) he turns to me and says, "Gee. Someone's on the shmata."

So, today I go to my seamster (well, he's not a seamstress and alterer sounds like he does castrations). There's no parking except right out front in the no parking zone. I leave my emergency lights blinking, because if I get towed, that's exactly what it would be and run in. There's only one try on room and it's occupied -- by a woman who's talking on her cell phone. She's talking about how she's getting her dress altered. I can feel my blood pressure rising as I wait... and wait... and wait. Finally, little miss all important comes out in a rather unimaginatve gown and settles herself in front of the mirror. Finally. Now, we can get going here. Only... she doesn't know how long she wants the thing. She and the ever patient Mr. Lai try out various lengths, but the poor dear just can't make up her mind. Finally, she turns to me.
"Do you have an opinion?" She asks. Do I ever. But, to my credit, I simply reply with my own query.
"That depends on what you're wearing it to."
"The Grammys" she replies with a smirk. You might think that was the last straw. In fact, it was only the penultimate one. The last straw occured a spit second later as I spied a tow truck lumbering down the lane toward my unsuspecting Saab. So, you'll understand that, as I ran out the door, I gave the only appropriate response possible under the circumstances: "You're wearing THAT to the Grammys?"

Yes, we're back home, but I thought I would leave you for now, with a picture of how our bus looked after traversing the "roads" in Alaska. I'm sorry (and sufficiently chastised by many of you) that I have been neglecting the blog. But, I have good reason -- working diligently on a book proposal for a bus memoir. For now, here's a link to some press our trip is already getting. pn.psychiatryonline.org/cgi/content/full/41/1/11 And, have no fear! There may very well be a new blog acomin': Tim, ever tiring of how (his perception) I portray him in the blog as, "an idiot" (his perception, again)will likely be pushed over the edge by this post's picture and may finally, as I have often retorted, "get your own blog!"