Saturday Silliness: Dancing at the Waffle House...again.

by Angela K. Durden
Technology inventor protecting creator's copyrights. Business writer, novelist, songwriter, and Citizen Journalist.

Regular readers of this blog know me well. If music is on, my body's moving. I can't help it. It just happens. So there I was this morning, again dancing at the Waffle House, turning it into a disco. This is how it happened.

My fave Waffle House is on Lawrenceville Highway at 285 on the Tucker-Decatur line.

I woke up and was hungry and felt in need of a decent walk. I wasn't of a mind to cook toast and eggs and the Waffle House is just 1.5 miles from me, so naturally I put on my trainers, packed a couple of books, some money, and other necessities in my sling bag, and off I went.

Coffee, two eggs over medium, raisin toast, and hash browns — scattered well, smothered, covered, and diced.

Folks, it don't get no better than that.

A gentle read at the counter ensued as I waited for my food to be prepared. Sipping on coffee I quickly became aware of two dramas playing out next to me. 

There was this woman on a stool to my right tightly clutching her purse with one hand and quickly eating with the other. She looked neither right nor left and seemed as if this was the first time she'd ever been to Waffle House. 

You may rest assured: I didn't stare. She went to pay with a credit card. It was declined. She looked angry and upset and worried all at the same time and dug around in her purse looking for cash which, thankfully, she finally found enough to pay. I bet she was newly divorced and he was a sumbitch who left her broke. 

The next thing I saw were two people huddling around the waffle irons. The man opened it and tried to peel the waffle out, couldn't, and put it back. The woman shook her head. They both shrugged. Seems a breaker had tripped that directly controlled the waffle irons. With the breaker reset and at least ten minutes to wait for the irons to reheat properly, much whispered discussion amongst the workers ensued.

"What do we tell them?"

"Do we give people refunds?"

"No waffles at the Waffle House? Peoples gonna be mad. Ooo-wee."

By this time I cleaned my plate and emptied my cup and took my bill to the cash register. Obviously a song was playing that had a good dance groove and just as obviously to the people around me, though I was oblivious, I started dancing.

I know this because a woman sitting at the end stool placing a to-go order said, and I quote verbatim, "Oooooo! You GO, girl!" And lots of people smiled and laughed at which time I got into the spirit more and started saying funny things and doing a couple of disco moves with pointy fingers and shoulder rolls and such as that. 

I said to the woman, "Hey, I hope they are filming this and will put it on the Disco Waffle House YouTube channel. Whatcha say? Why don't we get out in the middle of the aisle and boogie?"

Big laughs all around but no takers. But I bet if I'd kept at it, that woman would've soon joined me and we would've had the whole place doing the Waffle House Jive. 

But I'm not the only one who dances at the Waffle House. See these.

From the Case Files of Three Sheets to the Wind, or How to Dance with a Socialist.

by Angela K. Durden
Technology inventor protecting creator's copyrights. Business writer, novelist, songwriter, and Citizen Journalist.

Picture taken by my good friend and singer and piano player extraordinaire, Amy Alice Wilson.

So there I am. Found myself dancing with this fella who I quickly found out was more than a little drunk. To make matters worse, he had no rhythm whatsoever. So my feelings were already hurt because he was wasting my time. But you know what? Fine. The Chamblee Tuckers Band was good and what's the harm, so I kept on dancing.

His feet kept getting tangled up in mine and acting like it was all a goof and such fun. But then he really proceeded to make me mad. He tried to snatch my hat and swap it with his cap. Oh, hell to the nah! We wrestled for it for a few seconds because that was my hat and he had not asked permission. When I said no, that's when I knew he was a Socialist because he proceeded to say —

"Hey! It's the RULE! Yagottaswap."

By this time, we aren't dancing anymore. Onlookers might have thought we were having an intimate moment as I polished his belt buckle on the dance floor. Onlookers would've been wrong.

Trying to avoid his staggering feet, I leaned in real close, squeezed hard on fingers still gripping my hat, and I explained the wrongness of the concept of imminent domain — 

"You best let go of my hat or you will find yourself on the floor after I give you a beat down."

Still staring hard at him, he blinked a couple of times indicating he was processing the truthfulness and severity of my negotiating position concerning property rights. He let go and backed away. Nodding and, using big gestures, he drew a line between us and said, "Okay. I now know the line. I won't cross it." 

I acknowledged his understanding with a "Ya better!" and then he grabbed my hands and we were off to the races again. That is when my friend Amy took the picture above. But the fella was drunk and as he swung me around in a fashion I did not like, I tried to remove myself from his grip. But he said words that made me realize just how much of a Socialist he really was. He said — 

"Please don't let go. If you do, Immagonnafall."

I got one hand free, his eyes went big and scared, and he started to tilt backward at an alarming rate. I grabbed him and held him steady. He bobbed his head in a huge "Thankee kindly, Mum" that was fit for the Queen of England.

Later he wanted a picture with me and my two friends and him, but he kept missing the button to make his camera click until finally, with smiles plastered on our faces, I said — let's be more accurate, shall I? — I commanded — 

"Hit the damn button, fergodssake!"

Geez, I hate dancing with Socialists, but I am grateful for the stories they provide.