(I’m a bit delayed on this post, but it had to be told.  It’s too ridiculous to not share.  And I promised Jenn I would.)

Mother’s Day brought together various members of mine and Chris’s family, gathering around a breakfast table at a little restaurant in South County, RI.  His mother, my mother, nieces and nephews, our brothers and sisters (except my sister was missing – we missed you, Court!), various significant others and one esteemed grandmother.

Full table.  Lots of conversation.  We aren’t exactly quiet people, so the noise level may have been slightly excessive.  There were 14 of us, after all, seated around this table.  Coffee was flowing.  Mickey Mouse pancakes were being devoured by little mouths.  I overheard the following exchange between my 6 year old nephew C and Chris’s 5 year old niece MP:

C:  (excited bouncing on his heels)  So when Kerri and Chris get married, we’ll be cousins.

MP:  (putting her hands up)  Awesome.

We may have been chatty, but it’s Mother’s Day, for crying out loud.  (If you are taking your mother to a quiet, romantic breakfast, you may need to rethink things.)  There was laughter and conversation and the beauty of two different families breaking bread together.

Our waitress, a woman who looked about 55 and spoke as though she had been smoking since she was in the womb, was walking by with the coffee pot when we heard her loudly address the table behind us.

“That’s it.  That’s enough!  You can get out now.  There are five doors – use one of them.”

Indistinct mumbling from the table behind us.

“Leave!  Now!”  Hollering now.  Her rough right hand went straight to her hip and her left hand brandished the coffee pot as though it was Excalibur.

The couple at the table behind us violently drank down the rest of their coffee, wiped their mouths angrily with their sleeves, and filed out the door, shooting us dirty looks.

“What happened?”  Someone from our table asked.

The waitress pushed away the lock of hair that had tumbled loose from her ponytail in her fury.  “That woman was mocking you.”  She gestured to my mother.  “And you, I think.”  She gestured to me.  “She’s a drunk.  And couldn’t take that you guys were talking, I guess.  Every time you said something, she repeated it.  And then she started repeating me.  No one talks back to me.  So I told her where to go!”

That woman was mocking my mother?  And me?  Was there almost a Mother’s Day brawl?

“What?  That lady?  If I had known, I would have gone right over there, sat down, and asked her Hot coffee heals all wounds.what her problem was.”  My mother puffed up and offered her words angrily.  (Keep in mind, my mother is five-foot-three and has hands that muss hair and cuddle grandchildren – she is hardly a bruiser.)

The waitress refilled a coffee cup.

“I know!”  She pointed at my mother and I.  “You, me, and you – we would have taken her outside and,”  She dropped her voice for the sake of the kids (who could hear her anyway but it sounded badass and dramatic regardless).  “Kicked her ass.”

The waitress topped off the table’s coffees.

“Yeah! We would have!”  My mother added cream to her coffee and stirred it in.

“That’s right, Ma.  We would have handled her!”  I wanted to add my voice to this chorus.  I’m tough, too, right?

I leaned in to sip my fresh coffee.  In my fervor, I forgot to add cream and Equal, so it tasted bitter and lava-hot.

“Oooh!  That’s yucky.”

So much for badass.