Your Waffle, Madame

There's something about room service meals that taste 10 to 15 times better than any food made by me (well, clearly) or even food from a get-there-yourself restaurant. It feels almost dirty to sit there in your bathrobe, surrounded by copious amounts of pillows, panning the menu, when you know you could be using this time to put on clothes and procure food like a normal human being, hunting or fishing or gathering or Carl's Jr-ing. But I just can't do it. If the menu's there, it's gonna get used.

My shame deepens when the room service dude arrives, The View
blaring in the background, and me tripping over my bathrobe strings to kick my stuff out of the way so he can place my tray down, theatrically removing the silver cover to reveal a waffle, a huge bowl of whipped cream, and orange juice in a delicate little glass. "Your waffle and orange juice, ma'am." Um. Please don't announce my food choices. I'd rather we just pretend this didn't happen. I'd rather not be reminded that I just spent $28 on a waffle and will soon leave my underwear on the ground for others to pick up while I drive away and read Nickle and Dimed during my lunch break. But wait - shhh - Rosie's making fun of Elisabeth and my whipped cream is losing those little peaks. Gotta jet.