Whose Turn Is it?

With my hip replacement surgery scheduled on the heels of his shoulder surgery later this summer, my husband and I are on a week-long mini-vacation in Rhinebeck, NY and are trying to have a good time, goddammit. To that end, we went out to dinner at a fairly upscale Italian restaurant the other evening, the kind with candles and tablecloths and opera playing in the background. Except for the opera it seemed quite pleasant, but almost immediately after we were seated it became apparent that the entire establishment was being held hostage by a screaming little blond girl about the age of Caylee Anthony, who as you may recall was killed by her own mother, no doubt for carrying on in a similar manner.

After several ear-piercing screams from the child, I became exasperated and Mitch became pissed off. We debated leaving the restaurant. Having already ordered wine, we opted to stay, at which point the adorable Caylee-clone started running around our table, again with the screaming. Mitch threw down his menu and said in a loud stage whisper, "That's it, we're leaving!" One of the adults in the offending party said, "No no, we are leaving!" I replied, not in a stage whisper but instead projecting to the balcony, "That's great!"

As they gathered up their things, muttering about what bad people we were, the lone man in the group shouted out to the child, who was still running and screaming but at least was now headed for the door, "Sorry they ruined your birthday, Sasha!" The rest of them concurred, quite audibly, that we indeed sucked.

Call me madcap, but it seems to me that they should have apologized to us, or at the very least quieted little Sasha. As for ruining her birthday, oh please--it was already 8 pm and the child had surely been feted all day long. Besides, her party was over and ours was just starting, if only in the restaurant that night, so the whole episode smacked of the "Medicare-Social Security-young people, old people" thing. Sometimes I wonder, just whose turn is it?