The Marinara Massacre and The Great White

I’ve been an atrocious blogger. Ugh, nothing since March 19! You all might start thinking I actually have a life or something. HA! Don’t be fooled.

(Just kidding, I do have a life. It’s rather nice, well, no it’s actually awesome.)

Anyhoo, here’s the big story that has finally ended today…

So, for Nick’s birthday weekend, we went home to Russia. Always a great time to just hang out in the ROOSH and eat foods that I would never buy but always love to dip into (chips, cake, ice cream). Friday night (3/20) we decide to celebrate Nick’s 30th by going to La Piazza in Troy.

It’s supposed to be good Italian. SWEET.

So we all get dressed up and head to Troy, a little piece of Ohio I’ve never seen. Lo and behold, it’s cute. Nick, Ron, Kay, and I met Keith at the restaurant. We sit down and I wonder where to hang my coat. I’ve been a little protective of my coat. It’s pretty much brand new and it was the last thing I bought in Boston before my move here to Ohio. It’s a white coat with pretty silver buttons and satin yellow daisies on the interior. In a nutshell (especially for men who read this blog), it’s a great white coat.

Reluctantly, because I didn’t see any hangers or coat racks, I hang it behind my seat and sit down. Not too long later, our server greets us and tells us the specials. As I am immersed in the menu, trying to find a non-cheese item at an Italian restaurant (I gave up cheese for Lent), I heard a terrible crash behind me. In my peripheral vision, I see scatterings of plates, food, and our waitress on her hands and knees apologizing to the table behind us.

I turn around and decide not to look so to not contribute to her clear humiliation.

Then, I look up and Nick is staring at me like I have a lobster sitting on my head waiting to clip off my nose.

“What?”

“Did you, uh, check your coat?”

MY GREAT WHITE.

I take a mini look down at the ground and see a small edge of my coat. It looks like a marinara massacre took place behind me and my coat is the only bloody survivor.

Oh dear…

The waitress goes running and that’s when Keith decides to arrive.

So, the whole family gets up to hug him, greet him. I’m wondering what the hell is going to happen to MY GREAT WHITE and whether I should be nice (I’m with my in-laws, you know) or whether I should surrender to my east coast side where ever verbal exchange is a war of the worlds.

I decide the former.

So, a manager comes running out and proceeds to apologize profusely, offer dry cleaning, and “anything to make it right.”

Damn. If it weren’t a Friday, I would have asked for a filet mignon on the house, but I just smiled and said, “Accidents happen. It’s a coat. I’ll live.”

She points out the obvious, “And it’s white!”

You know when someone points out something really dumb but you don’t want to make them feel bad by making a face? That’s what I felt like the whole time. She was very sweet and Nick kept eyeing my face to see if I was going to explode, but it really was ok.

The rest of dinner was not nearly as entertaining except for the fact our server was beyond humiliated and wanted to make up for it by being an Olympic speed walker to fetch us pitchers of water, more bread, extra this, extra that…

After the marinara massacre was over and we headed out into the chilly evening, I, obviously, asked Nick to hand over his coat because I was wearing short sleeves and freezing.

I made a point to walk up to our server and tell her to not worry about it. She was more than relieved, “Thanks so much.”

My parting words, “Look, I was a server once too. I lasted for 3.5 weeks and 2 of those weeks were training. On my last day, I burst into tears and quit. That was at Chi-Chi’s. It’s just a coat.”

And then began the process of getting my coat back.

The manager took The Great White to a Great Dry Cleaners somewhere in Troy. I was supposed to hear back from them the next day, but I got nothing.

I waited three days and then emailed both the owner and the manager (again, that east coast bitchy side was coming out to play) with a message that was polite but was really saying, “DUDE, YOUR RESTAURANT KILLED MY COAT. FIX IT.”

More email exchanges promising to send word once The Great Dry Cleaners contacted La Piazza. What drama.

And today, finally today, I have a package at my door and inside is my sparkling white coat with satin yellow daisies.

It’s ironic now to think back right before Nick and I first left for Russia, I looked at The Great White and thought I should have it dry cleaned sometime, but it’s probably too expensive.

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