On the way home from the mountains, we stopped at a Pizza Hut for dinner. The children and I all love parmesan cheese and use it very liberally on our pizza. A friend taught me to take the top off the shaker so you can "really" cover your pizza thoroughly.
When Deanna reached for the parmesan, Don beat her to it. Then he began covering her pizza for her. When she complained, he shook parmesan onto her hands, then the table around her plate, a little over her shoulder . . .
She got to giggling. Daelyn and I watched quietly. We decided not to ask for Don to pass the shaker, afraid he'd give us a similar treatment. We waited patiently for him to finish, which took quite some time. Deanna was laughing and shaking her hands, trying to get all the parmesan off them.
Daelyn and I shook our heads.
"Daddy, you're crazy," he said. I agreed vigorously.
Just then, the waitress approached our table.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
We all turned and looked blankly at her. Obviously, we were not okay. In fact, in general, our family is anything but okay. We're crazy, mixed-up, and fun, but not okay. She looked back at our strange expressions, obviously confused at our response. When I finally realized she was asking if we needed anything, I cracked up.
"We are DEFINITELY NOT okay," I told her, then pointed to the pile of parmesan on the table in front of Deanna.
The poor girl; she seemed like a nice sort. I felt very bad for her. How can anyone prepare to wait on a family like ours?
Thank goodness, she had a good sense of humor and seemed to understand the expressions on our faces. But the question, "Are you okay" will never again hold quite the same meaning for us.
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