Be prepared to hate me.
We didn't chaperon the church dance last Friday night.
I for one, was beyond disappointed with the very unfortunate turn of events. Every single teenager from our congregation bailed, which left us--two lonely, grown up chaperons with absolutely no one's fun to ruin.
I took the call letting us know that we were off the hook. And after that, I was the one who flatly informed Jared we were going to the dance anyway...
ME: I don't care if the kids aren't going! My outfit is all laid out! We're going to the dance!
JARED: I'll take you to the all-you-can-eat Chinese buffet instead.
ME: A movie, too?
So off we went, to the Chinese buffet and then to see Slumdog Millionaire, which, I might add, deserved each and every one of its eight Academy Awards.
And before I move on, I know what all you Mormons are thinking....But Amy! Slumdog Millionaire is rated R! We're not supposed to watch R rated movies! My Word!
Well guess what? My mother-in-law told me I should see it, and I'm not claiming to be any kind of master scriptorian or anything, but I'm absolutely sure that somewhere in the Bible there's a verse that reads, "And the sins of the children shall rest upon the heads of their Mothers-in Law." Or something like that.
So in all actuality, my mother-in-law's gonna have some serious explaining to do when she tries to get into heaven someday. I wish her only the best.
So, on the way to the movie, Jared and I stopped to eat at The Silver City China Buffet. The sign said it was "The Finest Food in this Fine City." And really now, who was I to doubt something so convincing? After all, I'm humble (and fun to be around).
We entered the buffet, paid our nine dollars each, and within three seconds flat I'd loaded my warm, white plate with some boneless spare ribs, an eggroll, six pieces of sesame chicken, lo-mein, three crab rangoons, a spoonful of those crunchy noodles, and one piece of broccoli with garlic sauce. You know me...moderation in all things.
I settled into my booth, happily rubbed my palms together over my plate, and entered the beginning stages of spearing some chicken when something caught my eye.
It was a girl who, bless her heart, was wearing a little black tank top, probably size small. And her gut? Well, I'd have to venture a guess that her abdominal area was a comfortable size extra large. Her boobular region was spilling out of the boobular holders, and let's not forget, it's February in Maine. Tank tops are completely uncalled for--especially on our bigger lady friends.
Now don't get me wrong here--I myself am all to familiar with an extra large stomach area. But the difference? Mine remains covered at all times because no one, no one, wants someone else's stretch marks hanging in the General Tso's Beef.
I watched the fashion offender load her plate even higher than mine, and meticulously balance the deep-fried goods as she tiptoed over to the condiment station. Now she really had my attention. You see, I love duck sauce more than anyone else I know, and I was planning to lose my frickin' noodle if this woman had the audacity to defile my condiment of choice. That went for the sweet n' sour, too.
Again, I of all people, understand a passion for spicy mustard--but this girl? This girl planted her plate right on the condiment table, stared dipping her Chinese food items, one by one, into the communal condiment dishes and then consuming it right there on the spot.
Barf. On. Me.
At one point, I shiz you not, that woman had a good six inches of crab rangoon dangling from her teeth. And of course, just as you'd expect, it fell. Into the duck sauce. And she fished it out. With her fingers. And ate it again.
Okay now, barf on me a little more. Believe you me, I'm the woman who fought off an intense craving for a McDonald's double cheeseburger through the duration of 'SuperSize Me,' but damn, this was was above and beyond the call of duty. My world had officially been rocked.
So that's my tale of last Friday night. I still haven't recovered.