pepperoni pizza

There's a growing part of my psyche that longs to be a regular. Not so much one of the bejacketed happy hour alkadelics strewn among Seattle's more comfortable bar stools, but someone who walks into the neighborhood diner on Saturday morning and doesn't bother to order because his Spanish omelette and potato pancakes (a winning combination if I do say so myself) are already on their way. I want the waitstaff to know my name and ask me lovingly eye-rolled questions about my perpetually unfinished novel. I want my own table in the corner.

By the same token, I'd be happy stepping into a new restaurant every day, ordering at random from an unfamiliar menu, and charting my progress on a battered U.S. map that I taped to the ceiling of my camper van.

One more contradictory life goal tossed on the heap.

Oh, right, lunch: Today marked my weekly Meal With Mother, which--since we meet about 95% of the time at Rockbottom, a brewpub roughly equidistant from each of us--is about as close to dining regularity as I come. The hostess who knows us best, and who calls me "sweetie" despite being all of five years my elder, is just about the perkiest thing you'd ever hope to see. In a good way.

-rrr