My dad and stepmother called that they were still 10 minutes away from the restaurant. I decided to be brave and take a seat at the bar. I ordered my Pino Grigio minding my own business when I noticed a lady standing beside me. (Now is a good time to preface saying that restaurant is between a hotel and theatre where my stepmother joked that you had to be over 70 and wearing a Jewish star to be admitted.)
I innocently glanced up at the tall, chubby lady wearing funky glasses. She smiled at me, stuck out her hand and said, "Hi, I'm Rachel." Unenthusiastic to shake a strangers hand, I dimly smiled and said, "Susie."
"So, where are you in town from?"
"Oh, I live near by...Just waiting for my parents for dinner."
"Oh. Meeting your parents huh. Well I'm just getting ice for my juice," magically producing a mini-can of Dole pineapple juice.
Holding back laughter. "Oh, well, that's good."
"Yep, just trying to get my daily vitamins!"
"Well, it was nice to meet you Susie. Have a good night, see you around."
God I hope not. Did I just get hit on? It strangely felt like it. I just about downed the rest of my glass wondering if my natural makeup and bohemian clothes make me look like a lesbian. Then I came to my senses asking myself, what does a lesbian even look like? This afternoon I was watching an old episode of Seinfeld and a reporter thought Jerry and George were gay companions. They kept freaking out about it once it was printed in the paper, but then always added the comment, "not that that's a bad thing!" So, maybe getting hit on by a lesbian is not a bad thing, it was kinda flattering.
We sat at a table by the window. I watched some older gentleman leave the restaurant and light their cigarettes when I noticed one of the old guys is holding a wooden hitter box. For those who may not know, it's a wooden box that holds a hollow metal cigarette, basically, you put your weed in there. I watched as they stopped outside the window in front of the planter. I told my dad to watch as the guy set his cigarette on the side of the planter, lit the metal cig, then quickly switched back to the real cig. Now, I've done this in public before, years ago, in college. We'd do it in bars, or in beer gardens surrounded by people near my own age who were probably doing the same thing. But these guys were like older than my father, I'd guess between 65-70. I quipped that if I had to go watch a play in that theatre I'd probably have to get stoned too.
My dad then questioned, "how do you know what that is." I answered, "Because I used to have one dad, you know, for when I used to smoke pot recreationaly." "What does that mean?" "I don't know, it was a word mom came up with to describe my once in a while partaking." Silence. "But remember dad, you never caught me on the back porch with _______, that was one of your other children."
I love that in situations like this, sometimes its easier to blame a sibling for something they once did. Refresh the old mans memory to make myself like the innocent child who never got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. I guess that's one of the great reasons we have siblings.