Oh do I love the "ole" truck stops! What Pilot, T/A and FJ did to truckers is simply unforgivable. Travel centers be damned. So when I pull into one of these older Ambest places, like Shoemaker's here in "scenic" Lincoln, NE., with a big parking lot, no lines and plenty of trash cans - it's good to be home again. Mrs. Grumpy said if I didn't get out of the truck and get some real food, she was going to Fedex me some whoop ass "right quick." Believe me, ya'll don't want any whoop ass from Mrs. Grumpy, be it from Fedex, UPS or DHL. So in I went. You've got to go through their little store to get to the restaurant, and it's mighty hard not to buy something. I had to stop myself, because I was hungry and I needed the exercise walking around after dinner. I had my eye on this rebel fish license plate for $4.95. But it would have to wait and maybe I'll come to my senses and forget about it while eating. I go to the back, away from everyone else, to find a nice quiet spot, by myself. I try a booth and amazingly I fit right in. Just like the old days. These booths were probably installed years ago, before everything shrunk except our waistlines. I ordered a sweet tea and glanced at the menu. The special was cat fish. Do they have good cat fish in Nebraska? Don't know and I wasn't going to take the chance. Something occurred to me though. The waitress, who had way too much black eyeliner on for a "good girl", had no rear end. Below her back there was nothing. Flat as a pancake. Flat as a box top. I wondered how her tight pants stayed up. It was as though she had backed into a metal die cutting machine, down came the blade and off came her ass. Poor girl. But she seemed nice enough and I gave her my order for the soup & salad bar and the steak sandwich with fries. The french dressing was not the typical travel center bottled crap, but tasted home made with a honey kick to it. Very good. The salad came out of a big commercial plastic bag - nothing special. The potato soup also tasted home made and it felt good going down. The steak was as flat as road kill and was as salty as jerky. It had some char-broiled taste, but not much. Should have ordered the fish special. The large round seeded roll that the road kill was on had all the juices soaked in and was good. The fries were just perfect - hot curly fries just like Mrs. Grumpy and I like - with ketchup (preferably Hunt's) heavily smeared on them. All in all the meal was just what I needed - except one thing. Just as I sat down with my salad from the bag, in my personal quiet area, away from everybody else, here comes the traveling family of 5. Damn, damn, damn. Every trucker knows and dreads the horrible traveling family of 5. Why for goodness sakes do they decide to sit near me? There are plenty of other tables elsewhere. Let's start with the dad. He's losing his hair and is 'bout 40. He is kinda short - maybe 5' 7", thin and would instantly remind you of that safety guy every driver despises. In other words, he ain't one of us. And to top it off, he's got one of those "I'm trying but just can't grow a real man's mustache" neither here nor there hair growth under his lip - the kind that guys who are trying to make corporal try to grow. I take an instant dislike to this guy. He looks and acts like a weasel. The wife is ok. Actually she seems the most normal of the bunch. Then there is the 8 year old daughter who is trying real hard to be her mom. She sits away from the father and right next to mom. The son. The son, is well, how should we say, definitely ADD, OCD and every other "D". He is too thin. He can't sit down. He doesn't shut up. He has to touch everything. He has to pick everything up, feel it and then put it down. He walks around, sits down, gets up, walks around again, touches everything and then disappears somewhere. Probably to touch everything in the damn store. Oh, you just wanna shoot him with a tranquilizer dart. Why couldn't they just leave him tied up in the SUV. No one would blame them. They all order breakfast for dinner. Are they on another time zone? The father has his cell phone camera out taking pictures of his monkey son touching things. Is this for science? Maybe they're both part of some annoy the poor trucker experiment. He leaves the table with the cell phone camera to follow the son touching everything. I sure hope he doesn't grab one of the cashier's large boobs. Now that would be a picture. Back to the table. The wife has made herself a mega "health" salad towering over everything else on the table and the daughter is on her second hot chocolate, both with heaping gobs of whipped cream. 90 degrees outside and all this family needs is more sugar, caffeine and cocoa. Now next to the daughter is the mother. She's got the typical real short, almost lesbian looking hairdo, common among many senior women. Her faded beige bra straps are coming out of her sleeveless shirts and I see one is worn out. The elastic is worn and the strap is wrinkly. Being married to Mrs. Grumpy for 30 years has taught me a lot about brassieres. Looking at this mother, she definitely needs a new one. Without good straps, well, let's say nothing stays up, and "things" sag. Definitely the case here. Everything else she had on is slightly too large and definitely polyester. Now I wonder whose mother is she. I've completely forgotten about my meal. I'm obsessed with this family and I've got to get to the bottom of this. Ok, so I told you the son who can't sit still has gone to touch everything and the weasel father with the creepy moustache is following him with the cell phone camera. Are you with me? Good. So there's the mother with the "lesbian" hairdo and one bad bra strap on one end of the table, the hot cocoa daughter in the middle and the mega "health" salad mom at the other end. Nothing is said. See-lencio. The mother is bored. The mother is looking around for who the hell knows what. Care to guess? Yup. She is the mother-in-law! The mother of the creepy mustachioed weasel guy. The mom mom - mother of the ADD/OCD son, hot cocoa daughter and wife of the creepy mustachioed weasel guy - couldn't care if she (the mother-in-law) choked on her eggs and blue berry muffins. The food comes. Creepy weasel husband comes back. Then soon after, wild monkey boy comes back dancing all around, up and down, swinging his arms, yelling "when did the food come, when did the food come?" Does anyone have a banana? The waitress (black eyeliner missing an ass) comes over to me and says "I've got to go on break - "they're (the evil 5) kill'n me over there." She said if I need anything she'd be over "there" - pointing to (not letting "them" see) her "secret" hiding place . She assigns the "family" to two other "unknowing) waitresses. The family starts to eat like this is the last supper. I'm done. I pay the bill. The creepy mustachioed husband - the weasel - walks behind me as I'm signing the receipt. Man did he finish fast. I did not forget the rebel fish license plate and go into the store. I'm walking around. I glance to my right. I see dad thumbing through the girly magazines in the back. So that's where he went! Poor mom is stuck with the daughter, now probably on her 4th hot chocolate, the ODD/OCD wild monkey boy son and the polyester mother in law who needs a new bra. What a interesting dinner here at Shoemakers! And yes, I did buy the plate along with a pen I didn't need and a pint of Edy's Maxx mint brownie ice cream, which I definitely didn't need, but boy oh boy did it feel good goin' down. The photo credit is http://www.flickr.com/photos/firasco/396544240
Friday, August 29, 2008
Dinner at Shoemakers...
Oh do I love the "ole" truck stops! What Pilot, T/A and FJ did to truckers is simply unforgivable. Travel centers be damned. So when I pull into one of these older Ambest places, like Shoemaker's here in "scenic" Lincoln, NE., with a big parking lot, no lines and plenty of trash cans - it's good to be home again. Mrs. Grumpy said if I didn't get out of the truck and get some real food, she was going to Fedex me some whoop ass "right quick." Believe me, ya'll don't want any whoop ass from Mrs. Grumpy, be it from Fedex, UPS or DHL. So in I went. You've got to go through their little store to get to the restaurant, and it's mighty hard not to buy something. I had to stop myself, because I was hungry and I needed the exercise walking around after dinner. I had my eye on this rebel fish license plate for $4.95. But it would have to wait and maybe I'll come to my senses and forget about it while eating. I go to the back, away from everyone else, to find a nice quiet spot, by myself. I try a booth and amazingly I fit right in. Just like the old days. These booths were probably installed years ago, before everything shrunk except our waistlines. I ordered a sweet tea and glanced at the menu. The special was cat fish. Do they have good cat fish in Nebraska? Don't know and I wasn't going to take the chance. Something occurred to me though. The waitress, who had way too much black eyeliner on for a "good girl", had no rear end. Below her back there was nothing. Flat as a pancake. Flat as a box top. I wondered how her tight pants stayed up. It was as though she had backed into a metal die cutting machine, down came the blade and off came her ass. Poor girl. But she seemed nice enough and I gave her my order for the soup & salad bar and the steak sandwich with fries. The french dressing was not the typical travel center bottled crap, but tasted home made with a honey kick to it. Very good. The salad came out of a big commercial plastic bag - nothing special. The potato soup also tasted home made and it felt good going down. The steak was as flat as road kill and was as salty as jerky. It had some char-broiled taste, but not much. Should have ordered the fish special. The large round seeded roll that the road kill was on had all the juices soaked in and was good. The fries were just perfect - hot curly fries just like Mrs. Grumpy and I like - with ketchup (preferably Hunt's) heavily smeared on them. All in all the meal was just what I needed - except one thing. Just as I sat down with my salad from the bag, in my personal quiet area, away from everybody else, here comes the traveling family of 5. Damn, damn, damn. Every trucker knows and dreads the horrible traveling family of 5. Why for goodness sakes do they decide to sit near me? There are plenty of other tables elsewhere. Let's start with the dad. He's losing his hair and is 'bout 40. He is kinda short - maybe 5' 7", thin and would instantly remind you of that safety guy every driver despises. In other words, he ain't one of us. And to top it off, he's got one of those "I'm trying but just can't grow a real man's mustache" neither here nor there hair growth under his lip - the kind that guys who are trying to make corporal try to grow. I take an instant dislike to this guy. He looks and acts like a weasel. The wife is ok. Actually she seems the most normal of the bunch. Then there is the 8 year old daughter who is trying real hard to be her mom. She sits away from the father and right next to mom. The son. The son, is well, how should we say, definitely ADD, OCD and every other "D". He is too thin. He can't sit down. He doesn't shut up. He has to touch everything. He has to pick everything up, feel it and then put it down. He walks around, sits down, gets up, walks around again, touches everything and then disappears somewhere. Probably to touch everything in the damn store. Oh, you just wanna shoot him with a tranquilizer dart. Why couldn't they just leave him tied up in the SUV. No one would blame them. They all order breakfast for dinner. Are they on another time zone? The father has his cell phone camera out taking pictures of his monkey son touching things. Is this for science? Maybe they're both part of some annoy the poor trucker experiment. He leaves the table with the cell phone camera to follow the son touching everything. I sure hope he doesn't grab one of the cashier's large boobs. Now that would be a picture. Back to the table. The wife has made herself a mega "health" salad towering over everything else on the table and the daughter is on her second hot chocolate, both with heaping gobs of whipped cream. 90 degrees outside and all this family needs is more sugar, caffeine and cocoa. Now next to the daughter is the mother. She's got the typical real short, almost lesbian looking hairdo, common among many senior women. Her faded beige bra straps are coming out of her sleeveless shirts and I see one is worn out. The elastic is worn and the strap is wrinkly. Being married to Mrs. Grumpy for 30 years has taught me a lot about brassieres. Looking at this mother, she definitely needs a new one. Without good straps, well, let's say nothing stays up, and "things" sag. Definitely the case here. Everything else she had on is slightly too large and definitely polyester. Now I wonder whose mother is she. I've completely forgotten about my meal. I'm obsessed with this family and I've got to get to the bottom of this. Ok, so I told you the son who can't sit still has gone to touch everything and the weasel father with the creepy moustache is following him with the cell phone camera. Are you with me? Good. So there's the mother with the "lesbian" hairdo and one bad bra strap on one end of the table, the hot cocoa daughter in the middle and the mega "health" salad mom at the other end. Nothing is said. See-lencio. The mother is bored. The mother is looking around for who the hell knows what. Care to guess? Yup. She is the mother-in-law! The mother of the creepy mustachioed weasel guy. The mom mom - mother of the ADD/OCD son, hot cocoa daughter and wife of the creepy mustachioed weasel guy - couldn't care if she (the mother-in-law) choked on her eggs and blue berry muffins. The food comes. Creepy weasel husband comes back. Then soon after, wild monkey boy comes back dancing all around, up and down, swinging his arms, yelling "when did the food come, when did the food come?" Does anyone have a banana? The waitress (black eyeliner missing an ass) comes over to me and says "I've got to go on break - "they're (the evil 5) kill'n me over there." She said if I need anything she'd be over "there" - pointing to (not letting "them" see) her "secret" hiding place . She assigns the "family" to two other "unknowing) waitresses. The family starts to eat like this is the last supper. I'm done. I pay the bill. The creepy mustachioed husband - the weasel - walks behind me as I'm signing the receipt. Man did he finish fast. I did not forget the rebel fish license plate and go into the store. I'm walking around. I glance to my right. I see dad thumbing through the girly magazines in the back. So that's where he went! Poor mom is stuck with the daughter, now probably on her 4th hot chocolate, the ODD/OCD wild monkey boy son and the polyester mother in law who needs a new bra. What a interesting dinner here at Shoemakers! And yes, I did buy the plate along with a pen I didn't need and a pint of Edy's Maxx mint brownie ice cream, which I definitely didn't need, but boy oh boy did it feel good goin' down. The photo credit is http://www.flickr.com/photos/firasco/396544240
