Hedda And Lunch

I'm a little late getting to this; Susan and I already walked.  I spent some of yesterday writing a bio of my character, Juliana Tesman, and sent it to Desi.
On a different topic, Grey wrote that he thinks we should cut out some of act one in Hedda.  I heartily agree, and wrote my colleagues to that effect.  Neil disagrees, holding that what a great writer writes is sacrosanct--silly on the face of it when you consider that most had editors and more to the point, many plays are altered, some drastically, by people other than the playwright.
Picked up Naomi at 1:00 and we went to Cuisine on the Green.  Now I've been there five times and I'm falling out of love with it.  The service was pretty perfunctory yesterday, it seems to me, and I was incensed at the sneaky extra charges that aren't evident until you get the bill.  To wit: I ordered a hamburger and was asked if I wanted French fries or potato chips with it.  I order fries, assuming they were covered under the charge of seven bucks.
They weren't.  I found that out when I questioned the bill of $9.50 for the hamburger--nope, fries are an extra buck fifty.  Of course, the Blue Moon was five, more than I pay at any other place I've been lately, (guess I don't frequent fancy restaurants), but I knew that when I ordered.
In addition, the blonde floating around whom I assume is the shift manager, seemed rather sullen when Naomi asked for a spoon for her tea.  She brought it over without a word or a smile.  When I asked her to lower the blind, as the sun was in my eyes, she did, but again without a "Sure" or "I'll be glad to," or "drop dead," or any other response.
After, I accompanied Naomi back to her condo and we chatted for an hour or so. She told me she's often visited by her husband's ex-wife.  True, the ex died years ago, but she comes around anyway.  Naomi smells cigarette smoke and neither she nor Wayne ever smoked, so it must be the ex, right?  There are also mysterious bangings and thumpings and doors closing on their own, and a little girl with curly hair who fades into the wall...
Preserve me from these crazies!  There are just too many of them, from Lillian whose niece's deceased mother-in-law has a tendency to blow out candles to Elaine, who gets advice ("should I buy that car?") from her grandson, dead these twenty years.  It isn't that I don't respect those honestly searching and seeking, but these apparitions seem to have no rhyme or reason.  Frankly, I find it tedious to express interest, as if I take them seriously.  Sorry, but I don't.