... And this is why five year olds don't make dinner plans...

          Uncle GQ is my uncle, but he is a year younger than me. If you don't know us personally, this will make no sense to you, and you will assume I am from West Virginia; however in reality, this makes perfect sense. Uncle GQ is my father's much, much younger brother. We grew up just like brother and sister, and I love him more than I have the emotional capacity to express in words. (I avoid having feelings whenever possible.) He is the kind of person who congratulated me on the success of my blog, then will text me weekly to see when I will write an article about him. He will like this article, but will want to know when the next article will be that is completely about him. There is something charming about that kind of blind narcissism, and I don't think there is another person in the world quite like him. (The world can't possibly handle two of him) 

            Uncle GQ, being the youngest (by 17 years) of seven children, has been a little spoiled over the years, and in turn, lives the lifestyle of a GQ cover model. He lives each day as though it's his last, he doesn't believe credit cards are real money, and he truly can do anything he sets his mind to.There are many amazing things that Uncle GQ has taught me, and one I take to heart is the fact that he rarely eats at chain restaurants. With a few exceptions, chain restaurants don't have scratch kitchens where dishes are put together each day completely from scratch, and they pump entrees out like a factory. There are many delicious restaurants in and around my town, and Mr. Wonderful and I love to try new kinds of cuisine any chance we get.
                  
                When you allow your five year old to choose a restaurant, however, you sometimes end up at Friday's. Mr. Wonderful and I decided to be good sports, and honor the dinner choice of Princess Particular; how bad could it really be? Just as bad as you might expect.
                               

....and how many pieces of flair do you have?

          We walked in, and someone who was way too happy to be working there greeted us and got our table; Mr. Wonderful and I wistfully looked at the happy hour that was taking place at the bar, and watched as we were put in the furthest possible corner from happy hour; can't have our children upsetting the adults' fun, you see. For a split second we consider setting Princess Particular up with some mozzarella sticks, Squeakers up with some cereal puffs, and making a beeline for the bar. But alas, we chose the high road and started in on the menu. 

          Our waiter was average, aside from the fact that he ignored us for most of the time we were there. I completely preferred this to the waiter at the table next to us, who walked up to the table and asked to sit down with them. Yes, sir, I would love for you to awkwardly sit at our table and make polite conversation while you suggest the freaking potato skins and a Berri Acai Sour. (Sick). Our appetizers came, but no appetizer plates. No problem, I enjoy acting like a Neanderthal and just eating right off the serving plate. No refills on drinks either; Mr. Wonderful has a funny little trick in restaurants when we are being ignored to accidentally drop his glass to the floor. He says that it's amazing how much attention he gets after that happens. Fortunately, he didn't follow through on this occasion. The food was salty, mediocre, and everything you would expect from a bunch of people who most likely do not want to spend their nights singing Happy Birthday and serving a bunch of high school students, families, and early birds. We high-tailed it out of there, after waiting 15 minutes for our check, and vowed that we  will choose the restaurant next time. We miss you, happy hours everywhere; see you in about 20 years.