Pretty in Plaid: A Life, a Witch, and a Wardrobe, or the Wonder Years Before the Condescending, Egomaniacal Self-Centered Smart-Ass Phase Read Free Page B

lover. Ha!”
    Jesus Christ, who brings someone a gigantic plate of liver and egg sac ? What kind of messed-up, Draconian diner is this that they would serve such a plate of horrors to a child? On her birthday ? I mean, I’m only eight! I can’t possibly be expected to deal with the trauma of all that’s on my plate right now.
    “Did you think you’d just get a tail and some claw meat?” my father asks wearily.
    I nod. Here’s the thing—I wanted Big Mean Green to die for being a jerk to the other lobsters in the tank; I just didn’t want his—or I guess her —blood on my hands. My father takes my plate and gives it to my mom. “Julia, make this less prehistoric for her.”
    My mom begins to break the lobster down, stealthily stuffing disgusting little bits of entrails into her mouth. My mother is descended from a race of people whose diets primarily consisted of whatever crap they could find washed up on the beach. That part of my ancestry must be recessive.
    Minutes later, she returns my plate with nothing but tail and claw meat on it. I nod with approval—this is better. I saw off a part of the white flesh and give it a few generous dunks in the vat of drawn butter. I tentatively place the bite in my mouth and begin to chew.
    The lobster is . . . rubbery. Not fishy or crabby or meaty or velvety. It’s just rubbery. This tastes like I took a Wham-O Super-Ball, cut it in half, and dipped it in herbed butter. I bet if I threw my lobster tail on the floor it’d bounce around all crazy-like, knocking over coffee cups and spilling soup. I take another bite and chew and chew and chew, but I seem to make no headway. I may as well be nibbling on my dad’s new set of Firestones. We drove all the way to Connecticut for this ?
    “What do you think?” my mom asks expectantly, smoothing a hand over her Carol Brady-esque modified mullet.
    I contemplate before I answer. “I think I’d like a cheeseburger.”
    And no, I’m not sorry. If someone would have just saved me one damn bite last summer in Maine at the lobster boil and hadn’t greedily wolfed down every scrap themselves, we could have avoided this whole fiasco.
    No one gets me a burger 10 so I concentrate on dipping my French fries in the butter sauce. Not bad! I poke a bit more at my lobster and move it around my plate so it looks like I’ve eaten whatever arbitrary amount is enough to score me ice cream afterward.
    If my dog Samantha were here, I could try to slip her some of the gristly white meat, but she’s not much of an accomplice. 11 She’s as likely to spit out yucky stuff (e.g., spinach, zucchini, anything my Noni grows in her own garden, which I’m relatively sure she fertilizes, ahem, herself) as I am. Chances are if I’m not into it, Sam’s not either.
    The waitress returns to clear our plates and she’s smirking again. Listen up, Flo, at least my hair isn’t so big I have to scratch my head with a writing utensil.
    “Didn’t like it?” She snickers.
    “I’m eight; I don’t eat that much,” I reply. Seriously, I will not be mocked by someone in a smock . “However, I’ve left room for dessert. I shall have pistachio ice cream, please,” I tell her officiously.
    I’m only guaranteed dessert when we’re dining out, so I make sure to order my treat when I select my entrée. (I suspect the waitresses appreciate my efficiency.) The only problem is my mom always dives into whatever confection I receive, which is so not fair. She says she doesn’t want a whole dessert; she just wants some of mine. I counter by telling her that’s unfortunate, because I want all of mine and to keep her damn fork away from my pie.
    Ninety percent of the trouble I’ve been in in my life started with dinner in a restaurant.
    The waitress tells me, “Comin’ right up, hon.” And then she winks at my parents, who wink back. What does that mean? Is she in on our at-home no-dessert policy? Is that bitch going to bring the check in lieu of my ice