Our polite Red Lobster waitress, Grace, was taking the last of our dishes away. All evening, she had tried to coax a few words from the randomly quiet Max to no avail. All Max was interested in was getting back home as quickly as possible to play with her tool truck toy.
Grace gave it one final try: “Can I get you ladies any desert?”
Max was uncharacteristically unenthusiastic. “Um, no, we are not ‘ladies,’” she says flatly.
Grace, trying not to let her amusement show, says, “Well, then, what would you like to be called?”
“I am a kid and she (pointing to me) is a mom. We are not ladies.”
As we walked out the door, Max spots Grace at the hostess podium and tosses over her shoulder: “Bye, Lady.” Well, at least one of us is a lady.