Unfortunate fortunes

Whenever somebody executes a marriage proposal in a restaurant in which I am laboring, I die a little inside, and lose just a little more faith in humanity. And love. And romance.

If real romance still exists, I am pretty sure it doesn't involve a gigantic, ham sized fortune cookie with a hastily scrawled "will you marry me?" note nestled inside. Or Carrabbas' Italian Grill in the University Mall parking lot in Orem.

I was preparing to leave Carrabbas' after a delightful lunch shift. Enter guy with the aforementioned huge-assed fortune cookie. He said, "Hey. I want to propose to my girlfriend here tonight." He then laid out his ever so clever, oh so original plan, which simply seethed romanticism and creativity.

The server was to deliver the BFFC to the table. Why a fortune cookie in an Italian restaurant, I shall never understand. I guess that falls under the creativity problem. Her mind, at that point, would certainly be inundated with a flood of bewilderment and childlike wonder, as she would lift the 7 pound, puppy sized fortune cookie above her head, and with a resounding cry, crack it against the table with all of her might. People all around would be dodging cookie shrapnel.

With trembling hand, she would reach for the note. At which point our romantic hero would inform her that she was to consume the entire fortune cookie antecedent to discovering the mystery contained upon the paper. I imagine this part of the program to be an awkward affair, as this female has probably already consumed a solid 2 pounds of raviolis, and must therefore struggle with the subsequent consumption of 7 pounds of fortune cookie.
"Carl, can I just read it..."
"No! This is part of it! Just keep trying."
"But really Carl, I'm about to..."
"You always do this! Everything is about you. Just for once, can you eat just one damn fortune cookie? Just once? Theeerrre ya go, just keep pilin' it in. There's a big girl."

That task finished, and a majority of the cookie/raviolis/bread/diet cokes refunded in the lady's room, she would then be allowed to read the note. "Will you marry me?"

Were she to then agree to the proposition, the server would say, "now you can have your desert." Which makes so much sense. The server would then proffer the little black box, complete with internally build light to the poor, bloated female, puke remnants stuck in her teeth, most of her dignity racing through the pipes beneath the restaurant on a journey to the local sewage treatment plant.

I'd like to think she will say, "try again." But she won't. This is Utah Valley. She will simply be thrilled that she was able to avoid dwindling in years of despair, in the unbearable stage of being a 23+ year old, unmarried crone.

I understand that not everyone's body is utterly bursting with creative juices. I get it. But for goodness sakes, there has to be SOMETHING in their 3 month courtship that was significant, SOME PLACE that would have been more meaningful. If 3 months ago, he was walking out of Carrabbas, bumped into her diet coke with lime, spilled it all over her new, white, BYU "Honor, Tradition, Khakis" tee, got her number so he could buy her a new one, and they consequentially dated and decided upon a hasty marriage, FINE. Do it at Carrabbas'. I'm okay with that scenario. But if one is simply uncreative enough that a giant fortune cookie at Carrabbas' seems like the only viable option, at LEAST go to a nice restaurant. La Caille. The Roof. Anywhere but a medium grade chain restaurant.

If I was a girl and that happened to me, I'd be pist. One will only likely be proposed to 1-4 times in this life. It should be something meaningful. No girl wants to tell her girlfriends that her fiance proposed over a refillable Italian soda, surrounded by fake grapes and ivy.

Have some dignity gentlemen.