The short drive to Daytona Beach was typically quiet, except for my mother's occasional recital of road signs only when she noted my father's violation of them: "Hmm speed limit - 55 miles per hour. Lane ends, merge left." This technique allowed her to proclaim innocence should she be accused of nagging: "What ever do you mean, hon'? I was just reading the signs!"
Atypically, my father offered up no defensive reaction, and I began to feel hopeful that the day would go smoothly - a Meldahl family first. As we pulled into a beach parking area, I was confident I would finally have my time to be at one with the ocean (which was the very purpose of our trip). Mom, however, opted to wait in the car, and Dad followed me impatiently down the shore muttering incessantly, "Had enough yet?"
Confronted with the knowledge that they obviously don't understand the depth of my soul, I gave in after about ten minutes, and we headed for lunch (we were already off their meal schedule by an hour!). With my vote logged for a meal at a unique and locally owned restaurant, we stopped at the Olive Garden.
Salads were part of both my mom's and my meal, and of course, they aren't individually served there. (This is a detail I feel compelled to explain since the Olive Garden is such a unique, little bistro.) My mother, however, insisted upon Bleu Cheese dressing, so our accommodating, glassy-eyed waitress said she'd make a separate salad for Mom and try to scrounge up a 0.01-ounce packet of dressing for her. Well, the poor little thing - her head obviously clouded with Nietzchean philosophy - forgot, and my mom, assuming her classic martyr stance, insisted on partaking of the big bowl of oil-coated salad served us.
Then, assuming her classic I-don't-really-want-to-be-a-martyr-I-just-want-to-appear-as-one-to-the-unknowing-public stance, she began to softly (yet not so softly as to keep her table-mates from hearing) grumble about her fondness for Bleu Cheese, her intense craving for it even, and her dislike for well-oiled leaves of lettuce.
"Yeesh!" I said kindly and with great compassion (though I admit my perception of my tone may not be entirely objective), "Why don't you just take our charming and accommodating waitress up on her offer to bring you another salad and a 0.01-ounce packet of Bleu Cheese dressing from that quaint, little cafe called Hardee's next door?" (Perhaps I am embellishing what I may have exactly said. I am wont to do that .)
Dramatically shoving her salad plate toward the center of the table (yet being very careful not to disturb any of the other plates or glasses that could have tumbled and alerted the public - this scene was a private performance for her table-mates, you see), she threw her head into her hands and sobbed, "I guess I don't do anything right! I ruin everything!"
In his traditionally and well-practiced sympathetic manner, my father responded, "Oh great! I knew this would happen," as he turned away to watch his soul silently and effortlessly escape to the 16th hole at Pebble Beach.
I struggled momentarily, trying to decide my course of action. Shall I confront this dysfunctional behavior, enlighten the unenlightened, and make everyone's lives the better for it? Shall I chase away these demons of childishness and return all of us to a state of adult grace and calm?
"Mom?" I said, "Look - I saved you a big, black olive that's hardly been touched by oil. You like black olives, don't you? C'mon, I know you do. Yum, yum, yum! Here comes the choo-choo ."