Thanks to Houston's

To continue with the post brain surgery theme...
After several days in the hospital and a couple at home, things are looking up. Granted, I still can't feel the entire right side of my face, but nobody can see that when they look at me now can they? As long as I don't try to to raise an inquisitive eyebrow or make any communicative facial gesture with the operating, left side of my face, no one will notice that the right side is a hanging, boneless, skinless, unseasoned chicken breast.

A dinner out with family is proposed, discussed, and considered to be at least mildly prudent. You know, so the patient can feel a bit more normal. For the first time in days, non-pajama pants are slid up legs. Buttons are followed by buttons. A shirt is delicately pulled over and down, sliding past an unfazed chicken-breast-of-a-cheek. We're going out! Someone bring the Percocet.

In order to feel somewhat normal, I would have to cover the line of staples down my head, of course. This leaves, however, few options. The undeniable truth is that white gauze and white tape tend to stand out against, well, most things, the human head being no exception. But, they are necessary and clean and so my sister artfully applies a new bandage to the side of my head, which I then attempt to cover with a classy little English checkered brown cap. Wearing clothes is normal. I'm on a roll. And so we roll out the door and to the Century City Shopping Center and the Houston's restaurant just off Santa Monica Boulevard.

We walk in and are shown to our table. The noise is amazing. TVs on in the bar. People talking. Women and men looking at each other. Ice clinking. Cooks shakin' and bakin' in the open kitchen. I'm back in the real world! The beautiful real...

"Excuse me, sir, but hats are not allowed in the dining area. I'm going to have to ask you to take that off."

I'm sorry, what? Caught completely off guard, my face reacts as it normally would. Well almost normally. My left eye opens wide in shock. Left eyebrow rises. Mouth hangs open. Right side of face sits on its haunches, cold and flabby. So much for normal.

"It's the restaurant policy that men cannot wear hats inside. I 'm just your waitress but I wanted to tell you because any minute a manager will come over and tell you the same thing."

Three of my four family members at the table say it at the same time.

"He just had brain surgery."

Then someone lets a "it's kind of holding a bandage onto his head" slip.

"Oh, OK," says the waitress. "I'll just go tell the manager about the special circumstances." But she hasn't taken four steps away from the table before restaurant-policy-pusher number two has rushed over to make us feel relaxed, at home, normal. "I'm sorry, sir, but you can't wear a hat in the restaurant."

Again, from three directions, "brain surgery," "needs it for the bandage," "we just talked to the waitress about it."

"Oh, OK. I'll talk to the manager for you," she says.

She walks away. And then...wait for it...another one comes up. "Sir, we have a policy here at Houston's that gentlemen cannot wear hats in the dining area."

No joke. Three times in literally less than two minutes. My face tried to smile and its failure was complete. So much for normal.