If you know me, you know my favorite decorating esthetic is the way they do it at Cracker Barrel. While you're chowing down on your chicken-fried steak or pancakes, you're surrounded by old kitchen and farm implements and ancient soda-pop calendars.
We were there the other night, and our friend who serves there told us that earlier that day, a customer pried a framed picture off the wall next to her table, secreted it under her raincoat, and ankled right on out of there, presumably to hop on I-95 and make good her escape.
Now, I mean really. I understand that people think that whatever is not Super-Glued and triple‐bolted down is available for taking home, along with their indigestion. Restaurants go through salt and pepper shakers and napkin dispensers and Sweet 'N Low packets like Netflix goes through old reruns. I mean, at that very Barrel, when I told another server how much I liked the Cholula hot sauce, she said, "No one's looking. Go ahead, take it."
I didn't. Possession of purloined pepper sauce is a felony in several states.
Someone has to help me understand this sense of entitlement that directs some of us to steal what isn't ours.
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