Stop. Please honk.

Among the lot, I like V the best. She borders on insanity and that by itself, scores her my brownie points. Plus, she shares her cinnamon rolls with me and if there is only one left and she is equally craving for it, she will 'accidentally' cut it unequally and offer me the bigger 'half'.

And today was her birthday. Which we knew atleast a month ago. As is the norm on birthdays, the girls will get together, pick a place for lunch and another place for 'deserts only' and crawl back to our office space after two hours of official lunch break. But V, being V, proclaimed that she wanted her 54th birthday to be special. I asked her if she is dying and if so, what her last wish would be. Not her last wish, but one of her wishes, she said, is to visit India. With me. I told her that is not happening, she can go to India, sans my company. We left that conversation at that, to proceed to the details for her self-proclaimed special birthday. This time, she wants to take us all, to a surprise location. She will drive and we will haul ourselves into her wagon to be driven to this rendezvous lunch place.

No post on V will leave the box without the mention of her husband, Kev. An established lawyer, pots of money. Mentioned his obsessiveness with Indian food. Oh really?, I asked. And then offered onion-methi bajji's, that I prepared. Used crushed red chillies and fresh green chillies. After a good greedy bite into one bajji, his whole face turned beet red. Mango laasi was then hurriedly offered, which he gulped in two seconds. Spoonfuls of sugar, and lamaze breathing. He forgave me. A sweetheart of a man.

V mentioned that she is also inviting Kev, his law partner Stacey and her new boy friend, Ryan for the birthday luncheon. So there I was, thinking she is taking us to an expensive sushi joint or maybe a high end cho-co-lat factory....some place, where I was sure I will be billed half my monthly salary. That evening, I casually mentioned to Mr. Upsi that, 'oh btw, I will be going out for V's birthday lunch tomorrow", dripped in pomp and splendour.

I chose my attire for the day carefully. Don't want to look too Average Jane, do I? A little blush and heels would help me blend in to the crowd she will be taking us.

It was noon already and we were jam packed in her car, cooing 'oh where are you taking us?, pray tell!". I noticed that the rest of the girls were also dressed up for the occasion. Ha. I am smart, afterall.

The car screeched halt. "We are here, ladies". I look around, and see trucks all around. Dusty road. Viola! She took us to a truck stop. Truck stop - where the truck drivers, the truckers, stop by for rest and relaxation. Of course.The food, I was later told, was invarialy good at truck stops. V and Kev come here often, it seems.

We walk in to the front door, and is greeted by smoke. And men, middle aged men with pot bellies, beard and a cigar. Another few with one foot already on their graves. Couple of cowboy boots and hats. Most probably took a shower when the Halley's comet was last spotted. A whistle or two, as we walk past these gentlemen. "Sit wherever you feel like, y'all", I turn back to find the waitress. A well endowed woman (front and rear) in her forties, wearing a super tight Tee, five sizes too small, exposing most of her mid section, juggling mass of flesh and oh, the Tee bursting with her buxom, says "wish you were here". Which I am sure, most of the patrons did. I might have had that deer-in the-headlights look, when V shook me and asked me to place the order. The other waitress was better toned, and kept calling me 'honey' and 'chica'. The only thing, I think, the place lacked,
was a good defeaning dose of 'choli ke peeche'.

And I tell you, y'all, what a boost of cofidence you acquire, after having a couple of these real tough truck men call you, hot. Just what a mother of a 2 y old with sagging unmentionables should hear. They might be a little over the hill, so what, so is George Clooney.

C'est la vie.