The Minimal Existence of a Nova Girl

Another day in paradise, or at least Plymouth, Minnesota. Apparently it is the number one place to live according to money magazine, and if they were evaluating based on amount of wealth then they must have accidentally been re-routed to Wayzata and then lied in their reviews. The sun is shining, or at least I think it is, I can’t really see out the darkened windows of the restaurant. I have just unlocked the front doors and flipped on the neon OPEN sign, and now I get to sit and anticipate the first customers.

Much to my expectation, they arrive. A minivan rolls up and to my horror, a definite soccer mom steps out. She is not alone. Lurking in the back seat are three ankle biters, all with runny noses and whiny dispositions. I watch from the inside; seeing this mom struggle to free the brats from their car seats is more action packed and violent than watching UFC on Comcast. They proceed into the restaurant, the kids break from their mothers restraints and run about as if the booth seats and soda fountain were a jungle gym. They spread their bacteria everywhere and cling to the counter, and stick their hands in my tip jar, which is fortunately empty at this point so I do not have to worry about wrestling hard earned dollars from pint-sized hands. The mother ignores their misbehavior and explores the menu, asking questions along the way.

“Does your Garden Pizza have vegetables on it?” Uhm. Yes. They finally order and once their food comes up, take it and leave. Now I get to examine the damage that has been done to my restaurant.

Looks like I can add “mopping parmesan cheese off the floor,” and “reassembling the soda machine” to my resume.