Fighting for equal whipped cream rights: Not all heroes wear crepes

"I think they like you better than us," I whispered at Savannah in the brightly-lit crêperie that was tucked delicately into a nook in Austin's prime pedestrian shopping center. And by "shopping," I don't mean Target's fun bargain bins. "Does this say fifty-five dollars?" I asked, squinting at the bottom of the small, birthday-cake-sized, candle I'd just sniffed. I set it down like an undetonated bomb and carefully walked away. "Can we go back to the long-horned cattle-shaped slide?" I asked. "That was just the one time," Savannah reminded me gently, "The sign said it was for ages 4 to 11." She promised to let me sit on the giant armadillo again before suggesting crepes.

"Why do you think they like Savannah better?" Joan said frowning. "Look at her little accent leaf-y thing perched magnificently atop her whipped cream cloud like the proud flag of a conquering nation," I explained. "Yeah?" Savannah murmured, mystified. "And her cream is crafted to resemble the crisp slopes of the frickin' Swiss Alps," I pointed out, "while our's resembles a glob of starchy mashed 'tatoes slapped onto a metal cafeteria tray at a medium security prison in Indiana.  And our accent-y leaf-y thing looks like it was ripped off a low-rent mall bush three days ago."

"You're just imagining things," Joan scolded me, surreptitiously tucking her leaf with the brown, curling edges out of sight, under her napkin. "She gets like this whenever her eyes are bigger than her tummy," Savannah declared, embarrassed as our table groaned beneath the weight of our sweet and savory crepe orders. "You told me earlier that she gets cranky when she's hungry," Joan said. "That, too." Savannah agreed, "We walk a fine line of emotional balance with my mother."  She watched as, despite my indignation of being unfairly represented, vis-à-vis, whipped cream disbursement and accent leaf placement, I valiantly attempted to summit all three sweet peaks. Savannah, calmly and patiently, talked me down from the edge. We bid "adieu" to our crepe cafe so I could return to the armadillo where, as she promised, Savannah and I perched majestically like accent-y leafs atop a whipped cream cloud.