Dinero Stupido -or- Chimichangas de la Casanova

I have a Public Service Announcement to make to you good folks. But I must do it in the form of a flashback.

When my friend Debbie and I were at Epcot for a conference-- and yes, this was the same day I totally, publicly freaked out on the family of Butt Scoochers at Epcot's Test Track-- we decided to have dinner at the Mexican Pavilion. We figured we could do a little shopping in the bazaar, go have a margarita or two... eat... and watch people come out of the ride shouting, "Mio Dios, please make that song stop!"

(The song, at the end of the Mexico ride, really IS one step away from the "It's a Small World" theme. We got stuck in that ride once, right at the end. After ten minutes of that singing loop of Mexican puppet children, it's a wonder we didn't leap out of that boat and run for the border ourselves.)

Anyway. So Deb and I were having our margaritas, and the waiter started chatting with us. Initially, we figured he was just friendly, because, you know, it's Disney. It's not the DMV or the gas company. No, these people were PAID to be friendly there. Everyone's really wonderful. They're genetically designed to be.

So our waiter asked us what brought us there, how we were enjoying our stay, and what we planned to see later.

Now after a day of walking around, we really just wanted to get down to business and order. But hey, it had been so long since either of us had seen good customer service outside of Mouseville, Deb and I figured it was very possible that we just didn't know what that looked like anymore.

So we talked a bit, and Deb told him we'd probably head over to the nightclubs at "Pleasure Island." Then we promptly forgot all about it.

Soon, the waiter came back to check on us. Judging by the level of my margarita, it really hadn't been more than five minutes or so. This round of conversation involved asking more questions about our conference, when we were going back home, and where home was. It would have been okay, only the questions were fairly detailed, and this guy had a lot of other tables to wait on.

Deb and I exchanged raised eyebrows.

Eighth of a margarita later, why, here was our waiter friend again! And Deb and I started to get the sense that our middle-aged waiter was either just a little too into his work or he was using his role at the Mexican pavilion to pick up chicas. This theory was further reinforced when he asked us our names.

Now while I have the utmost respect for servers and the pains they go through to deal with the grimy public, I also don't really think I need to be on... oh... their Christmas card list. Not, at least, for just one evening of seafood chimichangas (no matter how yummy they were-- and, actually, they were really yummy).

So in a blatant, wholly-unconvincing lie, I looked at my waiter and said, "My name's Rachel."

Rachel was the name of my first mystery story's heroine. It is the only name I can ever think of quickly. I am a truly terrible liar, so on those few rare occasions fake names are called for, I am Rachel. It's best to keep it simple, I think.

Our waiter then turned to Debbie and Debbie said, "I'm Debbie." Because, you know, Debbie isn't my friend's real name, anyway.

So we, Rachel and Debbie finished our margaritas and enjoyed a lovely meal, including the aforementioned yummy chimichangas.

As we were winding up dinner, our waiter came back once again. Was there anything else he could get us? Were we sure? Fine, great and...

Oh, so what time would we be stopping over at Pleasure Island? How long would we be there? Was there any particular club we were going to? Because you know, HE was thinking of popping by there himself after work and...

It was Rachel, wasn't it?... And Debbie?

I have to admit, in my plans for my one evening in The Happiest Place on Earth, hanging out with the waiter from the Mexican Pavilion hadn't really crossed my mind. Though, perhaps, this is why I'm still single.

Anyway, Debbie mumbled something vaguely about not being sure when we'd be where, about how she'd be meeting her husband first-- her husband who was, in fact, thousands of miles away settling down to the Steelers game.

The waiter said, well, maybe he'd bump into us over there, and he gave us the check.

That's when we realized neither of us had much cash.

Nope, Debbie and Rachel were going to have to use the ol' credit cards, oh yes!

And so, the moral of the story, my friends, is: if you're going to lie about your name to someone, make sure they are also not the person who has to run your credit card through with your name emblazoned all over it.

Don't be like Debbie and Rachel.

Hasta luego, amigos.


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