"Oh, good! Three open tables with a view of the gardens. But please seat us where we will have the best view of the restroom doors instead. If it's a table that rocks on uneven legs, even better! Some screaming children jumping around nearby? A bonus. Oh, and a side of Arctic air blowing over our meal would absolutely delight!"

That's the long inscription in the word bubble that floats over my husband and me when we go out to eat. It doesn't matter if we're wearing power suits or jeans, whether we're at the finest gourmet establishment or a hole-in-the-wall sandwich shop — when it comes to dining out, we just seem to have "cartoon schmucks" stamped all over us.

The problem, I think, is sparked by the niceties: smiling at the hosts and hostesses when we enter, asking them how they're doing. Maybe that is interpreted as: "These two won't whine if I put them 'over there.' " And they are right; too often we don't complain. So maybe we need to change that.

Oh, don't get me wrong; we'll still be nice. It's only right. But, from now on, we might ratchet it down, if necessary.

Tim and I have decided we will decline to accept an unsatisfactory dining station anymore. The going-out-to-eat experience starts with the setting; and we will have a nice setting.

That's our New Year's resolution.

It didn't start out to be a New Year's resolution, but a hostess tested our mettle at the beginning of the month and ... well, here's the scenario:

She led us past a slew of good spots to a table beside the kitchen's swinging doors; you know what I mean — an area that suffers the strobe-light effect that comes from servers passing from a darker dining room to a fluorescent-lit work area; a place where diners' conversation is interrupted by the clank of dishes and the occasional exchange of "!*&#^%*!!" among cooks and servers.

Our hostess dropped the menus on the table and scampered away. "Excuse me," my husband called to her. Interestingly, she continued walking. "Excuse me," he said a little louder. She ignored him. So we did something we've never done before. We walked away. We walked out of that restaurant and into another.

Maybe that reaction popped our schmuck bubble. At the alternate choice, we were led to a great spot near a window; the heat was just-right; if there were kids around, they were well-behaved; I didn't have to wonder if my mojito would slide off if I (accidentally, of course!) touched my elbows to the tabletop; and I didn't flinch at anyone's potty-mouth. And, speaking of potties: I couldn't tell you how to get to them.