A Pregnant Pause

Tonight, several of us went out to dinner to celebrate Phoebe's birthday. Someone selected the Buffalo Inn, a peculiar place, indeed. The first time I went to this establishment, I was told by a relative stranger that I looked like I like my sex freaky, which of course made me uncomfortable and gave me poor associations. On the second trip, I very much enjoyed the food, but was seated next to an honest to gosh cult holding a meeting. They were planning the terms of their group's exclusivity. As diverse as the Southern California population generally is, the cult is strikingly Caucasian, something that could also be said of the Buffalo Inn clientele as a whole. The leader was preaching that if there are new members of the group that "don't look like you," they still need to give them a chance, which we eavesdroppers interpreted as perhaps a discussion of inducting people of other races. When Michael Michael inquired with the server as to what was going on next to us, ey dismissed the people as weirdos -- "they're some kind of friendship group, they met on the internet or something."

This trip, the fun began as soon as arriving at the parking lot. Two people approached their truck, a countrified woman with big hair and an even bigger display of cleavage and a man whom she drunkenly held on to. It was quite a sight, made even better when she referred to the man she seemed to be flirting with as her brother. The next couple we spied in the parking lot was boring. As Phoebe put it, "we could have seen them in Connecticut." Just then, I spotted movement coming from behind a car in a distance, and suggested that maybe that person would be more exciting. Exciting it was: it was a scraggily man on crutches with a missing tooth and a lazy eye. As he passed by us and said hello, I could barely contain my wonderment. Afterwards, I wanted the record to reflect that I was excited for the possibilities of the mysterious figure before I even realized it was operating on three legs.

At first, we took a table outside near a live band playing your favorite rock/country fused hits; the lead singer looked like Kenny Rogers. Soon, however, my compatriots felt cold and asked to move in, later admitting they felt uncomfortable because we were being stared at by a table of uniformed members of the military seated adjacent to us. I was oblivious to them, instead staring at the restaurant's owner who had long white flowing hair, the same length as his similarly white flowing beard. It was beautifully absurd.

Inside, we took one of the few tables upstairs for a more private experience. Only then did we learn our server was morbidly obese, or in politer terms, eight months pregnant. This fact made some of my friends feel bad for forcing her to walk up the stairs just for us or for even ordering food that she would later have to fetch for us. In particular, Eric looked so pained by this process you'd think he was giving birth himself. Meanwhile, I guess I'm an asshole, because I really didn't have many qualms about the whole thing. I unapologetically ordered my food figuring she wanted my tip; it seemed more awkward to me to say "I want a beer, but I don't want to make you get it for me." Besides, she's fat, she could stand the exercise.

The restaurant has a large selection of beer. The pregnant waitress told us about her favorite choices, then recounted a time when she drank seventeen different kinds once and was super drunk. Hearing that come from a woman "of her condition," I felt more uncomfortable than I ever had in this place before, which is saying something. Granted, she's probably refering to a time before getting knocked up, but who knows. According to Madeleine, if a pregnant woman asks for a drink, you have to serve it to her, or else it could be considered gender discrimination. While this practice is disconcerting, it reminded me of a funny photo that was sent to me recently.


The photo of a pregnant woman smoking in itself isn't amusing, but the caption underneath it makes it funny in a how-ridiculous-can-people-get kind of way. The photo's subject is the kind of person that lowers my respect for humanity. I'm going to guess she frequents the Buffalo Inn.