Mini-Me loves Rosewood Cafe's  picnic plate. I love everything else on their menu. It's the perfect neighborhood cafe¬" perfect food with perfect hospitality. Unfortunately, it does not have the secret booth in the corner where you can sit anonymously and hide your butt crack. Ladies, you know what I'm talking about¬" the ever popular low-rise jeans. As flattering as they are when you are standing up, bend over to pick up a quarter and¬" crack! After lunch and a $5 glass of wine, I head to the bathroom to evaluate my pants situation.

Crack.

I'm readjusting my jeans, ill that I've been putting my friend Jason through a sick display of my backside during lunch yesterday. Every time I got up to get something, or do something, my pants ended up below my ass crack.

And then I remembered: Pants, ass crack¬" oh, Lord.

Last December I took Mini-Me to Florida to see some family that included my grandparents. It's a given that my grandparents are old, right? My grandmother is practically helpless in a wheelchair. My granddad is in the late stages of dementia. I thought it would be fun to take them to lunch and shopping. And I wasn't even high when I made this decision. What was I thinking?

On that particular day, granddad chooses to wear his actual navy jacket from Pearl Harbor 1941. For some really weird reason, it kinda fits. It's tight, the buttons are getting ready to pop, but he has that sucker on. Oh, and did I mention it was December 7? That's right, the day of Pearl Harbor remembrance.

Not that I didn't have enough attention with the lady in the wheelchair who orders an Douls, can't lift the bottle, so I have to feed it to her through a straw. People are walking up left and right to meet him, shake his hand, and thank him for being a part of American history. The drunken secretaries next to us are around our table sipping on their strawberry daiquiris, and cooing over the memory-deprived veteran.

Fine, fine, let's eat and get out of here.

We're leaving the restaurant. Here I am, pushing a lady in a wheelchair, holding a 3-year-old, and escorting a 200-pound shuffling Pearl Harbor Vet. We're going to the car, crossing the parking lot¬" ever so gingerly¬" secretaries waving through the windows, men still running out to shake granddad's hand¬" and then it happens. His pants fall down. My grandad's. All the way. Around his ankles. Oh, and even better¬" he's wearing diapers. Oh! And even better! They're ON
THE OUTSIDE OF HIS BOXERS.

I was mortified.

I kicked on that wheelchair parking break, let go of my kid, got down on my damn hands and knees and pulled up his PANTS in the MIDDLE of the parking lot. With an audience.

I'm not kidding when I tell you that I put every bit of elbow grease while I was on my hands and knees to get those damn pants buttoned.

I hated life at that moment. I have no idea how much and for how long people watched me struggle. I'm sure they pointed and laughed, then went back to the people back at work and told them the story. The story I'll never forget.

While dining at the rosewood in itself, you already feel you are in grandma's kitchen. Not a cutesy grandma kitchen either, but a warm, comforting kitchen. So as you head to the bathroom, you feel at home with warm colors and original wood.

The bathroom swallows you with deep red paint. The main focus is the retro blue sink. By far my favorite part. A small window to the side lets in a little glimpse of what sunlight tacoma has to offer and makes you feel cozy

I wash my hands, fix my hair, and promptly decide to go buy some new pants.

And call my grandparents.¬" Steph DeRosa