Role reversal

Good golly, such rancor! While it's true AnnaRay is know in some circles as "The One With The Rage" it's not at all like her to be so freakin' vocal about it. She's a seether, not a spewer. That sort of inarticulate lizard-brained rant is something you'd be more likely to hear from the likes of me. What's going on here? Is it the blogging? Is it Portland? My whole world is topsy turvy.

Like the other night: we're at a Sushi restaurant, and you know it's good because it's tiny, unassuming and packed. We've really got the sushi jones, so we decide to wait out the line, but the clock is ticking because The Boy will last only so many minutes before erupting in a voluble mass of toddler energy. The containment window is small. We get a table in a reasonable amount of time, but for some reason we are invisible to the wait staff. Did I mention this place is tiny? Maybe a dozen tables and at three waitresses working (well, one was working, and that may have been the problem) but 15 minutes go by without someone acknowledging us. The boy has already tired of poking things with chopsticks, removing the ice from our water glasses with a fork and lining the sugar packets up in an orderly row on the sodden table. He has moved zooming the toy cars we keep in the diaper bag for just this sort of emergency off the table when AnnaRay - the one who makes me ask how much longer it's going to be whenever there's a wait, the one who insists I am too pushy when I march up to a counter and place my order when the people ahead are standing around like grazing cattle - this AnnaRay gets up, walks over to one of the waitresses and tells her we would like to order before The Boy starts swinging on the curtains that separate the eating area from the restrooms. Very Bold. And yes, I do find it sexy.

But Anna's not the only one acting out of character. Not long after our food has finally arrived, I realize we are in desperate need of napkins. There are some right there at the abandoned waitress station not three steps from where I sit. Normally, I would slide on over and grab a handful, knowing that catching the eye of our waitress and alerting her to our plight is an impossible dream, but I didn't. Why? Good lord, I think I was afraid of getting in trouble! This from a person who never has any qualms about stepping into an empty men's room when the ladies' is full. What the hell is wrong with me?

It was Saturday night, but it felt like Freaky Friday.