Here is an intro prior to the intro because, well, you shall see. Here's the thing: My regular readers are totally used to how I digress right and left. I just went back through this, after starting it a while ago, and had a brainstorm. Yes, even I, Lisa Houserman, have been known to have hurricanes of gray matter from time-to-time. I said to myself, “Lisa, why not just forget about having one theme and just let loose about everything that comes to mind?” I then answered myself and am now giving you the results of the discussion. So, I'm just going to blather. Yes, I shall do so incessantly until you are ready to pitch your newspaper from your lap, table or any other surface. Here goes:

“Grammy Roads” & other non-related subject matter

Since my last few columns have been, for lack of a better description, downers, I thought I might engage in some time-travel and bring to light some restaurant observations. (For new readers I used to be in the food service industry—for most of my life, actually.)

Before doing so, I must set the stage, as I oft' do.

This weekend finds me penning this piece, once again, from my tree abode, aka my hammock. This is located in the backwoods of a PA State Park, 138 miles from home. There are actually two reasons for my being here right now.

The first of which is the same that ushered us to the area two times prior, and that would be boy meets girl, girl lives 3 plus hours away, mom volunteers to make the voyage.

The second reason will be brought to light a bit later in this tale of epic proportions. So, bear with me, as usual.

While I have your undivided attention—excuse me dear, I said undivided, so put down the remote and continue reading, I must say that this territory is nothing short of breathtaking.

In fact, as I kid, when I was about the same age as mine is currently, Jackie Holland Elliott and I leaped into her car, blasted the 8 track to the sounds of ABBA, and headed in this direction to see her “Gram.”

Gram lived to be 97 and drew her last breath while in the arms of Jackie, which was fitting because she was always more than attentive to her grandmother.

At any rate, Gram lived literally two miles from my kid's little lady friend and yes, I digress—but, I don't care because I lived for that trip and wanted to share.

Plus, as was stated earlier, I'm not tied down by ONE topic and feel liberated since I can digress wildly without really digressing due to the no theme element. Confused yet? Well, I am.

I just find it to be rather ironic and plain-old neat, that, after all these years, here I am again in Gram's domain traveling on, as Jackie calls them, “Grammy Roads.”

Grammy Roads are best described as mountainous winding, twisting, spiraling, swirling, curving and any other word that ends in “ing.” The word “road” is debatable too as “lane” is oft a more suitable definition.

Mind you, I drive my hippie camp van, with six cylinders, and tug a little cargo trailer along behind. The whole deal is quite terrifying at times but, it is so worth it to behold the old mining towns and to take in the serene beauty of Mother Nature's autumn patchwork quilt, along the way.

As yet another side note, (might as well, as this column is filled to the rim with side notes at this point), the child is NOT camping with me this time. I'm truly devastated, as you can well imagine.

His gal's aunt was gracious enough to provide shelter for the poor waif this weekend. Since Aunt Kim, lives directly next door to the darling chick with whom my son is smitten, it worked out fabulously.

This is the part where I impart my second rationale for schlepping my camping supplies this distance.

Due to the recent death of my darling Fred DeWalt, and the cyclone of activity, (including the sibling visit), that took place during that week, I found that I needed to skip town.

I simply had the need to be totally alone for mourning and relaxation purposes. It is working, by the by, as I sometimes just burst into tears, and then skip along merrily gathering firewood as I go. Fred would have approved of such—especially the skipping part.

OK, I'm done with that section and the stage has been adequately prepped for the remaining space, in which the original theme will appear. (If you can remember that far back, in my intro before the intro, I mentioned how I decided to alter my method.)

Let me see here, I have to scan up the page to see what I'm supposed to talk about next, so hold on for a moment....I'm back and am ready to continue.

I took part in the zany restaurant business for too many years but, I picked up on some, let's just call them idiosyncrasies, (I've written about some in the past), that occur when a crew goes out for dinner.

During the 'Stupendous Sibling Social of 2011,' a whole gang of us went out to to dine in public. This, in itself, is major since we are all such goobers that staying home is best for the community in general.

I'm going to plug the restaurant, Mary O's, because the employees deserve accolades, to the max, for tolerating our unruly herd.

I don't go out to eat too much anymore, unlike Mother whose life pretty much revolves around where dinner will be had, to use bizarre language, when out-of- town visitors come a calling.

I'm fooling no one here who knows Mother because she, in all actuality, is perpetually planning the next move in terms of shoveling food into her mouth—and yet, she weighs five pounds.

Because, unlike Mother, I'm content with some granola bars and soup, served at home, I've forgotten some of the silly things that unfold when people dine out.

First, I shall disclose, how shall I say this, a quirk, on the part of the patron that drove me to the brink of insanity when I waited tables—stop that thought right now. I am abundantly aware that the “brink” exited stage left, eons ago.

The scenario of which I speak, is when a waitress/waiter attempts, in total, not partial, vain, to speak to the gathered ones about the specials. He/she might even try to seize a drink order and/or engage the table in some way.

Well, more oft' than not, the gang is simply too busy bull &%$#@* to perhaps loan her/him and ear for just one small moment. (OK—enough with the him/her, he/she jazz. I'm saying she, hence forth, so there.)

This generally happens as 17 other people have simultaneously entered the building. The waitress could use gestures, in the same manner as a police officer directing traffic, and it still wouldn't make a difference.

There is always one hold-out who won't shut up long enough for the poor server to speak.

It is socially unacceptable and, I'm ashamed to admit, this particular crime was committed during the course of our dining experience.

That used to drive me buggy when I was a waitron unit. Mind you, they are in the establishment for a reason—uh, does eating ring a bell? Yet, they cannot squeeze it into their schedules to, perhaps, listen and then order?

I used to fantasize about shouting out, in Archie Bunker style, “stifle yourselves and tell me what in the *%$@ you want to drink!” Unfortunately, telling it like it is can influence tips. Can you believe such a thing?

I've calmed myself enough to mention something else that doesn't make me fly into a rage or anything, however, it is just odd, in my opinion. Lord knows I'm extraordinarily stable so I am in the position to judge oddities.

This would be the “What Are You Having Virus” that appears to escape from the test tubes in the lab anytime two or more are assembled in a locale that serves food. The What Are You Having bug can hit at any time and sometimes even does so while the waitress is standing, faking patience, pen in hand and ready to rip.

Who gives a *&^#$ what Person X is eating? Was Person B planning to share with Person X or why is B so darned worried about what is consumed by X?

I just don't get it. This appears to be a stalling tactic, from the view of the server, and is simple insanity on behalf of the diners.

I never understood why anyone gave a diddly squat about what anyone else was having, unless, of course, they planned to share.

Now, the virus also fills in as small talk after the order has finally made it to the kitchen, just in case prior to placing said order, someone missed asking another what she was going to eat.

“So Gladys, what did you end up ordering?” Gladys answers and then hears how delicious that sounds and how Person C maybe should have tried that instead and blah, blah, blah.

Once vaccinated for this ailment, we have the follow-up that happens when the food arrives.

At this point, Person A turns to Person D, clear at the other end of the table, to ask what his dish is called and to comment on how wonderful it looks compared to his own food.

What is it with this? I want a full report on my desk, which would be the couch in my sun room/office/part-time art studio, by next Monday, if you would be so kind.

I think that covers it for the week. Time's up as I must tend to this fire. The next time you go out for dinner, just observe those around you and I bet you a dime, something very similar will happen.

Signing off from the absolutely glorious Prince Gallitzin State Park, right here in good old “Gram Territory.”

THE END