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Everyone’s Foaming At The Mouth Over This

, , , , , , , , | Related Working | July 2, 2022

After a traumatic event when I was nine or ten, my parents were too stingy to get therapy for me, but thankfully, they were “gracious” enough to let me order something other than water with dinner.

Me: “—and a hot chocolate, please. No topping, no cream, only hot chocolate in the cup.”

Waitress: “You got it, kiddo.”

She brought me a cup with a gross textured foam on top. It looked awful and smelled terrible. I decided not to complain, since even valid complaints often got me in trouble. I tasted it and immediately had to spit it out because it tasted worse than it smelled — like rotten milk and vomit!

I tried to just scrape it off… and kept digging and scraping until I discovered that the cup was literally 60% foam, 40% hot chocolate. My mom had been watching me do this and she was irked about it, because the prices were kind of expensive.

When the waitress came back…

Me: “Miss, I’m sorry, but I can’t drink this. Can you please get me a new one? Without this foam stuff?”

Waitress: *Scoffs* “You didn’t say, ‘No foam’!”

Me: “But I did say, ‘No toppings.’”

She raised her voice.

Waitress: You didn’t say no foam! So I don’t have to listen! Your parents will have to pay for a second glass, so it’ll be your fault you wasted it!”

My mom is ever quick to go to full rage mode.

Mom: Who do you think you are to talk to my child like this?!”

The raised voices attracted a manager.

Manager: “Hey, there’s no need to shout. What’s the problem?”

At the extra unwanted attention, I cried hard enough to throw up on the table.

Mom: “My kid said, ‘no toppings,’ and only wanted hot chocolate. What the f*** is this rotten bulls***?! Are you letting this b**** poison my kid?”

Several tables were staring. One family who hadn’t been served their food yet left.

Manager: *Exasperated* “[Waitress], take this back right now!”

The manager grabbed the cup of hot chocolate and shoved it at her.

Manager: *To me, in baby talk* “I’ll get you a fresh one. No toppings.”

Me: “I don’t even want it anymore. I threw up. Leave me alone.”

I couldn’t eat my dinner, either, and they had to take back all our dishes to be remade because of the vomit, move our table, and comp several nearby meals.

And that’s the story of the one time my parents allowed me to have something nice and how it only made me wish I had never asked.

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