Card Carrying Member of the Sour Toe Cocktail Club

Jealous?

You should be.

I drank a shot of whiskey with a severed human toe in it, and I have a card AND a certificate to prove it!

You see, there's this little club in Dawson City, Yukon Territory, Canada, and all you have to do to become a member is drink a shot of Yukon Jack with a preserved severed human toe in it.  The rules require that you touch your lips to the toe.  Apparently, it's quite a tradition.  I'm the 31,400th member of the club.

You can google it to learn more, but I'll give you the skinny.  Basically, this little club started in the 1970's, and the toe is allegedly the amputated toe of miner from the 1920's.  It's been preserved in alcohol and salt, and it is nasty!  Apparently, people will their toes to the Captain to be used in the ceremony.

Anyone with $5 and an iron stomach can join the club.  You simply need to sign your name, buy a shot, and the Captain (who is this creepy pirate-like guy with bad breath and rotting teeth) will drop the toe in your drink.  The rules are simple, "You can drink it fast, you can drink it slow, but your lips must touch touch this gnarly toe."

We were inducted into the club in groups of three.  He would say each line to each person, and on the third person, he would shove the toe in their face and flap a hang nail/skin flap on the toe.  It was pretty disgusting.  I was in the second group to try the toe, and I was the third person, so I had the image of the skin flap burned on my memory.

Once it was my turn, I readied myself for the barrage of photos, and before I knew it, the Captain had dropped the toe in my glass.  I drank it, but the toe didn't slide to my lips, so I, like everyone else, pulled it out of the glass with my fingers and placed it in my mouth.  The Captain jumped in and announced that I didn't qualify because it didn't touch my lips while I was drinking the shot.  Not wanting to be a failure, I put it back in the glass, and knocked it into my mouth.  And then, I joined the club!

It was totally gross.  What's ever worse is that he charges a $500 fine to anyone that swallows the toe.  Who would do that?  Gross!

The best part about being a member of the club is that I can put the toe in my drinks for free from now on!

Lucky, huh?

No Really, It's Not My Jeans. It's Me.

Sixteen days in Oklahoma taught me something. No matter how much better I think I am than everyone else regarding my eating choices, specifically enormously fat people that use butter as dipping sauce, I'm not better than anyone. In fact, I'm just as bad.

Now we all know about me and my poor food choices. We all know that I have no qualms about eating mystery food hidden amongst the cheese in the grocery store. We all know that I single-handedly emptied the 7-11 on Seattle's Stone Way of all of their grape-flavored Laffy Taffy from my daily visits to redeem my "Free Coke" cap. Even when they were trying to hide them from me, I still sifted through the strawberries to get the grape. And, I counted down the number of days I had left of grape-flavored Laffy Taffy. And I also hid a couple under a less-popular candy just in case some other grape fan came through. I have no doubt the guy behind the counter was behind the disappearing grape Laffy Taffy conspiracy. He wasn't pleased at my luck of ALWAYS getting the "Free Coke" cap. He started charging me a nickel for my free coke, and I gave it to him. You can't get away from sales tax, even when redeeming a free coupon. And that daily habit may have been a contributing factor in my weight gain while living there. That and the Cheez-its…and the Broccoli & White Cheddar Pasta Roni…and the pizza (don't even get me started on the pizza)…and my aversion to exercise (Actually, scratch that. It was more like my version of exercise which consisted of sitting around all weekend watching infomercials about exercise (see: The Firm, Windsor Pilates, Total Body Makeover, BeachBody.com, That Creepy Lady That Claims You Can Lose 200 Pounds By Just Sitting, and Billy Blank's Tae-Bo, just to name a few. Oh, and in case you were wondering, I DID purchase one of these. I'll never tell you which one though.)

Given this knowledge, this partial history of my frighteningly bad eating habits, perhaps it shouldn't be a surprise to anyone what I put my body through over the past two weeks. You'd also think that given the fact that I get physically ill from eating crap, I would know better than to revert to my old ways. But, the call of the fried food is a strong one. It's my siren's song.

When I first got into Oklahoma City, I had a plan. I was going to be H-E-A-L-T-H-Y. Sure I was still going to sneak in a few treats, fried okra, a hamburger, some Mexican food, but I was going to be good. I also joined the gym for 2 weeks. Talk about initiative!

How did it all go? You be the judge!

Day 1: Breakfast consisted of a scrambled egg and cheese on a biscuit….and an enormous iced tea ('cause that's how I roll, people!) Lunch, well, that was mediocre Mexican food. And dinner, hmmm…I wasn't hungry, but I decided to eat out of habit. Since my parents were gone and left little food for me, I checked out the pantry and ended up eating a couple spoonfuls of peanut butter and half a bag of Ruffles potato chips.

Day 2: I woke up and went to the gym. This was my first trip to the gym in…well…let's see here…many months. Shameful! After the gym, I planned to go to the grocery store, but I was pretty hungry, so I went to Johnnies—home of my all-time favorite burger, not to mention the best onion rings I've ever eaten. I also got an enormous iced tea. As I ate my delicious 2, I wondered what the possibility of opening my own Johnnie's franchise in San Francisco would be. And where would I put it? Oh Johnnies, how I love thee. In my younger days I always got the frankfurter, mostly because I thought frankfurters were fancier hot dogs (and they are!), but ever since I graduated to the 2, I haven't looked back. I know what you're thinking, and no, I didn't make it to the grocery store, nor did I choose to eat something healthy for dinner, so I wouldn't totally wreck all of that hard work at the gym. Instead, I ate potato chips and peanut butter again. I think that might have been the night that I ate frozen Cool Whip for dessert.

Day 3: The gym didn't happen. I had to go shopping for clothes (because that's what I do in Oklahoma City. You see, San Francisco isn't high fashion enough for my buying needs. I have to go to the heartland for today's hottest trends). After my shopping excursion, I decided I really needed a salad, so I did the only thing I could. I went to the Texas Roadhouse (and called my brother to see if he was game, but he was not available). Once there, I sat at the bar and ordered my salad, which was a delicious concoction of fried chicken, cheese, bacon, egg, oh yeah, and some lettuce. As I awaited my healthy choice, I glanced over at the couple on the other side of the bar. They were sitting silently next to each other, in the way that people who have been married for a long time and have nothing to say to each other anymore do. They were, as you might expect from someone who frequents chain restaurants of this sort, portly. The waitress brought over some rolls and honey-cinnamon butter. I, as a single person, received four rolls. Intellectually, I know this is overkill in the same way that I know how wrong it is for a single person to eat an entire bowl of tortilla chips at Chevy's, but that never stopped me from asking for a refill. Feeling my inner glutton emerge, I witnessed something that made me realize what the 10th bad choice could have been (as in, 9 out of 10 of my eating choices are generally bad). While I knew I would probably consume the entire basket of rolls before my meal was done, I also knew that I could pass using the two tubs of butter since the rolls are already doused in butter. The woman on the other side of the bar had far greater butter needs than me. She proceeded to eat her bowl of rolls and dipped her bread in the butter tubs in between each bite, in much the same way that one might dip a triangle of pita bread in hummus. She also requested extra butter. To say I was appalled would be an understatement. To the best of my knowledge, the FDA's recommended daily allowance of butter is slightly less than a half a cup at lunch. Our food arrived at the same time. Looking at my salad, I just laughed. This healthy eating thing wasn't going to happen for me, especially since my first bite was all cheese. Glancing at the meals the couple across from me ordered made me wonder if that whole Oklahoma-City-going-on-a-diet program was actually working. The husband had a chicken fried steak (which, don't get me wrong, is one of my favorite things to eat despite the days of discomfort that follow such a meal) that covered his platter-sized plate. The wife went with a grilled chicken dish that was equally huge. They also ordered more rolls…and made an order to go. I, on the other hand, couldn't even finish my meal. I hardly touched the lettuce in my salad. Oh, and I did take my iced tea to go (which is this new thing at restaurants in OKC. Every restaurant provides you with a to-go cup for your drink). That night, well, you can just guess what I ate.

Day 4: Not only did I go to the gym, I ALSO went to the grocery store and bought groceries. And, when I got home, I made a salad. It wasn't very good, though. There wasn't any cheese, or bacon, or fried chicken. Just vegetables. How boring. That night, my brother and I went out for pizza. As an after thought to my order, I decided we needed to get the fried cheese and fried mushroom appetizer. My arteries are far too soft.

Day 5: Mexican food. That's all you need to know. I ate Mexican food, and I apparently don't appear to be someone from Oklahoma. The waitress knew I was an outsider. What was it? The fact that I was sitting alone at a restaurant? The fact that I don't have blonde hair and big boobs? Was it the gorilla suit? Was it my average size? People come in either extra small or extra large in this place. Hard to say.

Day 6: No I didn't go to the gym. Yes, I did have a deliciously fried dinner that consisted of fried catfish, fried okra, and a salad (of which I hardly ate because it wasn't that good).

Day 7-16: My parents were back, and that meant I was now eating my dad's menu. Okay, let's be honest here, I had been eating my dad's menu from the second I stepped off the plane (And, in case you were wondering, I made it to the gym only once more. That initiative really paid off). I dined on ham sandwiches, brisket, fried steak, mashed potatoes, fried pork chops, baked potatoes, Mexican food, spaghetti, cheesy chicken and broccoli casserole (that may have been my suggestion to get away from a night of frying), and yesterday we topped off the week with my dad's typical Friday lunch: Fried Catfish, Fried Okra, Hush Puppies, and French Fries. How he hasn't had a heart attack is a total mystery to us all. Also, if he hadn't spent most of his life underweight, we would have break down a wall in the house to get him out with a crane because he's just your average-sized 63-year-old. I think my dad is a medical marvel where metabolism is concerned. I'm not sure I inherited all of those genes.

I feel like I'm going to barf just thinking about it—my diet for the past two weeks, not my genes.

Now, after all of this, you'd think that I'd realize that perhaps I HAVE gained a little weight and may not look my best right now. Well, I have realized that, but not before snooping on Facebook to see how many people from high school became big fat fatties. I was relishing in my smug superiority until this morning when I looked in the mirror and saw that merely touching my hip made everything jiggle…for a long time. I've crossed over into dangerous territory, and karma might be to blame—that, or my total lack of self-control around artery-clogging cuisine.

Financial Crisis Hits the Steak & Catfish Barn! News at 11!

I had no idea that the ramifications of this financial crisis would hit close to home so quickly. Of all the places to be affected, I never dreamed that the Steak and Catifsh Barn would be one of the first to cut back, but they did—or at least, I thought they did.

Yesterday, I joined my parents on a trip to my dad's Friday lunch spot—The Steak and Catfish Barn. Yes, it is as glamorous as you are imagining. No, there isn't actually a barn, unless you count the small portable tool shed in the parking lot as a barn. It is, however, adorned with Elvis memorabilia, and there is a scarecrow at the front entrance. In just two visits, this place may now be my favorite restaurant, proof positive that my dad and I are kindred spirits when it comes to fried food served out of shacks. In fact, I just may have found a replacement for my old "thing" that my dad and I used to do together. For years, I looked forward to going home to share a particular meal with my dad (even though he was unaware of the fact that I considered this our special "thing"). What was it? Chicken Fried Steak, Fried Okra, and Fried Corn-on-the-Cob (my dad got French Fries instead of corn) from The Black-Eyed Pea. No, that down-home chain is no longer in business. I guess people decided they needed to eat healthier food than the fare they offered. (Ed. I stand corrected, on January 1, 2009, I discovered that there is, at least, one BEP restaurant open in the Dallas area.) But, it was delicious, and if you EVER have the chance to eat fried corn-on-the-cob, do it. Anyway, I am very close to adopting S&C Barn as our new place (even though it's technically my dad's place where he takes my mom every Friday even though she can't eat anything on the menu).

So, Friday was my second visit. My brother and I went there a week and a half before (perhaps in honor of my dad since we went there just before picking my parents up from the airport). Apparently Fridays are the "cheap" day; though, after further discussing why my dad believes that Fridays are the "cheap" day, we realized that every day at lunch might be the same as Friday since my dad has only ever gone there on a Friday at lunch. On Friday (and possibly every day at lunch, though this is merely a working theory), there is no table service, and that's what makes it so darn cheap.

We walked in, ordered our food at the counter, filled our cups with iced tea, and found a nice spot with Elvis looking over us. Immediately, I noticed a difference from my first visit. There were no hush puppies on the table. At first I wasn't too bothered since I had been here for dinner, and the prices were higher. It only stands to reason that hush puppies would automatically be brought to your table. But then, I started to think. The list of sides on the menu included hush puppies. For a split second I considered getting them, but then I thought, "Why get hush puppies when you get them anyway?" For that reason, I went with the fries (well, also because I assumed, based on no evidence whatsoever, that their fries were fresh-cut).

As I looked around the restaurant, I noticed that the fries were frozen, crinkle-cut fries, and I immediately regretted my decision to not get hush puppies. So distraught was I, that I voiced my concern.

Me: I'm really starting to regret my decision to get fries.
Mom: Why?
Me: Because they don't have the fries I wanted.
Mom: They have fresh fries.
Me: No they don't.
Mom: Of course they do.
Dad: No, they're frozen.
Mom: They used to fresh.
Dad: No. You're thinking of McGeehy's (ed. Which is THE BEST CATFISH RESTAURANT IN THE WORLD located on the OK/TX border.)
Mom: Oh.
Me: I should have gotten hush puppies.
Mom: You get hush puppies.
Me: I'm not so sure. Last week, they brought a basket of hush puppies.
Mom: Hmm…I always get hush puppies.
Me: I don't know if you will. They were listed as a side on the menu. I think you have to order them.
Mom: I've never done that before.
Me: Things have changed. This place is nothing like it was a week and a half ago.
Mom: It's probably the financial crisis.
Me: Yep, they're already cutting back. What a shame. I can't believe the financial crisis is affecting my complimentary hush puppies.

(The waitress came over with our food. My mom inspected hers and turned to me.)

Mom: I got hush puppies.
Me: You did? (I sorted through my basket of fried delights.) Hey, I got some too. I guess it isn't the financial crisis after all.
Mom: Guess not. But you never know what might happen next week.
Me: True. Now I just want to know who orders hush puppies as a side and how many do you get? Seems like overkill. (ed. As if my fried catfish, fried okra, French fries, and hush puppies (which, in case you are unfamiliar are fried cornbread balls) wasn't already overkill.)

Crisis averted. Well, at least the one surrounding potentially missing hush puppies. The real crisis happened the second I got in the car, making me realize that I have no business incorporating fried food into my daily diet. Oh yeah, and the financial crisis is a mess too, but that kind of goes without saying.

With Reckless Abandon, That's How I Treat My Stomach

What did someone say about me? I'm hopelessly optimistic when it comes to mystery food? I think that was it.

Alright, what the score on the number of times I've (wrongly) chosen to eat mystery food vs. how many times I walked away?

Weird food in unmarked container in cheese section at grocery store? Tried it. Regretted it.

Rancid cranberry juice that looked, smelled, nor tasted like anything that should be imbibed? Drank it. Really regretted it.

Mysterious candy-looking thing hidden beneath tomatoes at grocery store? Walked away…begrudgingly (Suddenly, I have that Boston song, "Don't Look Back" running through my head).

So, up until this Thursday, I was 2-1 on bad ideas (this, or course, does not count any of the concoctions I made as a kid because I was curious what it might taste like to mix milk, grape juice, and Sunkist soda together. I can now tell you that it is totally gross).

One would hope that on Thursday, I leveled the playing field. But that would be very unlike me.

So what happened? Well, gather around for a doozy of a tale!

On Thursday, my mom and I dined at a fancy Mexican place at the mall ('cause that's what fancy people do in Oklahoma City). I ordered a delicious chicken mole enchilada meal. It was quite tasty, but it was also entirely too much food. Even though I knew we were going to the mall immediately after lunch and that it was 90 degrees outside, I asked for a box.

My mom laughed at me, "Uhh, you don't have anywhere to put that. It will ruin."

"I know. Normally, I would just give it to a homeless person, but they don't seem to hang out at the mall here."

"Well," she answered. "I guess you'll put it in the car and toss it out when we get home."

"Yeah, I suppose I can't throw it away in the trash can next to the front door of the restaurant."

As we left the restaurant, I put the leftovers in the car and met my mom inside the mall. We shopped for a couple of hours and returned to the car. Upon opening the door, I immediately smelled my food.

"Oh yeah," I said. "I forgot I had this."

"You're not eating that."

"I know. I'm also not giving it to a homeless person because there aren't any."

"Oh, they are here, but you don't want to give them food that will make them sick." My mom continued. "We do have a big homeless population now. You'd be surprised."

"No, I wouldn't. I live in San Francisco. You don't have a problem here. Trust me."

We drove home, and once we got back into the garage, my mom instructed me to take the leftovers and throw them away. I carried them into the house with my new clothes. Since my hands were full of bags, I decided to go straight to my room instead of stopping off at the trash in the kitchen.

Once in my room, safely hidden from view, I opened the leftovers, and I ate the chicken. It was delicious. And I never got sick.

I should be afraid of food poisoning, especially considering the fact that I know, without a doubt, that I suffered from it a couple of months ago (and it wasn't due to eating mystery food either…I will not reveal the source of the sickness as I promised never to speak of it again, after speaking of it at length on several occasions). But alas, I continue to tempt fate.

It's just the way I am.

The Goldfish Are Gone

That's right.  Once again, I proved that i can NOT be trusted with snack food.  Sure it seemed like a good idea on Sunday night to purchase the big box of goldfish crackers.  You know, I'd save some money, and I'd have a handy snack.

Well, apparently, the handy snack turned into my main meal for a week.  Yes, I did eat goldfish for dinner on Monday and all day long on Tuesday (and nothing else...shy for a couple pieces of fruit).  And yes, I DID feel some kind of terrible the next day.  But that didn't stop me from eating more on Wednesday and making it my dinner on Thursday.

And now they're gone.

And I feel disgusting.

Lesson learned...again.

Maybe I DO Belong on the Short Bus

Okay, so I'm pretty open about all of the bad choices I make in regards to food--especially suspicious food that I find in random places, and you'd think that given all of the experience I have acquired through trial and error, that I wouldn't consider eating something that seemed odd or unusual...but you'd be wrong.

Yesterday I took a quick trip to the grocery store because I decided that I needed to start making my own lunch instead of relying on a diet of bread, cheese, and cake. It's doing nothing for my figure, nor is my lack of exercise, but we'll get to that later. I jumped back on the healthy train and it's full steam ahead!

Or is it?

Okay, on with the show... I went to the grocery store to purchase some sandwich fixings to add to the fruit I purchased the day before. I gathered up the bread, turkey, and lettuce. Then I wandered over to the tomatoes. To be honest, I'm not sure if we can eat tomatoes, but I've always thrown caution to the wind in regard to food poisoning. And, well, I teased some random guy at the store the day before for buying 10 pounds of tomatoes. If he was willing to celebrate the end of an epidemic, I was too.

I sorted through the tomatoes and selected a couple, when something caught my eye. There was a plastic carton with a few "food" items in it. It wasn't even half-full, nor was it marked to indicate what was inside. My first instinct was to assume it was candy. My second instinct was to want to eat it. And my third instinct was to believe that it was a free sample. I quickly looked around the produce section (which was packed), trying to determine whether or not I could partake in this curious free sample that was randomly placed in the middle of the tomatoes, was unmarked, and of mysterious origin.

As I reached for the lid, I suddenly remembered that dreadful day at the QFC in Seattle when I ate something that I determined to be a free sample in the middle of the cheese section, and it turned out to be something rancid. Reluctantly, I put my hand down and quickly walked away so as to avoid any temptation. In all honesty, if the place wasn't so crowded I probably would loitered by the bananas until I saw a clearing, then would have tried a bite, and if history holds, I definitely would have regretted it.

What's wrong with me? And what was it anyway? Maybe I'll drop by today to see if it's still there.

Why Must I Always be Next to the Annoying Guy?

Ah, another day, another chance to eavesdrop on an annoying individual.

Today, I went to my local hamburger joint for lunch.  It's the kind of place that is usually pretty good, though I've been wronged before.  It's also the kind of place where you expect poor service.  Yet, it's the kind of place I still frequent on a very infrequent basis.  As I sat down to read the weekly paper and peruse the menu, I noticed a couple of fellas sitting at a table caddy-cornered from me.  The guy facing me probably wore ToughSkins jeans as a kid, and he was working hard on his ego to overcome whatever social limitations his physical presence might bring.  The conversation revolved around his business and how great he was.

After awhile, I was given the opportunity to order my food by a waitress that seemed less than thrilled to wait on people.  A few minutes later, the food arrived at my neighboring table.  And that's when I had no choice but to stare as Mr. Spectacular exibited poor customer behavior.

Mr. Spectacular surveys his plate, while still talking about his business acumen.  While determining his plan of attack, he notices that something is amiss with his burger.  As soon as he sees the waitress walk by, he attempts to get her attention (in what may be the worst possible way aside from snapping or clapping at her).

Mr. Spectacular: Excuse me.  Uhh..Excuse me.  (The waitress is halfway to the kitchen.) Excuse me.  Hello!  Anyone?  Anyone?  (The waitress turns around to find out the problem.)  Isn't my burger supposed to come with cucumber sauce? (The waitress looks confused, but still doesn't get much closer than 5 feet.)  Yeah, it's supposed to have sauce with it.
Waitress: You need sauce?
MS: Uhh...yeah.
W: It's probably on the inside.
MS: (Lifting the bun.) There's nothing in here.  I need the sauce.  It's on the menu.  This is a GREEEEEEEK burger.  The menu says there is sauce.  I go to your restaurant in the East Bay, and they put sauce on it.  It's on the menu.  They have sauce in the East Bay.
W: (Seeming confused and apathetic all at the same time.)  I'll get some sauce.
MS: (Calling after her.)  The East Bay location has it.  It's on the menu there.  I go to the East Bay all the time.  (Once the waitress is out of sight, he turns to his dining companion.)  I knew they had sauce.  The East Bay location has the sauce.

(After a few minutes, another waiter walks over to the table to inquire about this elusive sauce.  The waitress also walks out and takes the mustard out of my condiment collection while watching the interaction between Waiter 2 and Mr. Spectacular.  As the conversation wears on, she eventually puts the mustard on a vacant table nearby.)

Waiter 2: Sir, I'm not sure what sauce you want on your burger.
MS: It's supposed to have tahini sauce.  It's on the menu.  At least in the East Bay, it comes with tahini sauce.
2: I don't think we have that here.
MS: Of course you have it. It's on the menu.  I get it all the time in the East Bay.
2: I'll check the kitchen to see if we have it.
MS: (To his friend.) See, I know they have it.  I go to the location in the East Bay all the time.

(Waiter 2 emerges from the kitchen again.)

2: I'm sorry, but we don't have that.  It's also not on the menu.
MS: Oh.  Well it's on the menu in the East Bay.  They have a different menu though.

And that was the end of the debate.  Mr. Spectacular ate his sandwich, but was unable to get a refill on his iced tea even though he kept yelling out for "Anyone" to help him and pounded his cup on the table a few times.

My mustard, on the other hand, never made it back to my table.  I thought the waitress was bringing it back, but she ended up putting it on a table even further away.  So, when I got my burger, I had to go to another table to get some mustard.  Why would you take condiments away from someone that is awaiting food?  It's just weird.

So, that's the story of my meal.  Mr. Spectacular may well be the man of my dreams.  I just wish he'd stay in the East Bay.

Hulk Hogan Almost Ruined My Lunch!

Ah, Day 3 of the great California Coastal Adventure! What can I say except...I’d like a little "me" time. So, I guess I’ve got it because right now we’re having an impromptu nap time. It’s 1:30, and we did have our lunch at 11:30. Yeah, my folks are getting old.

Before I regale you with tales of Day 2, let me just tell you all about the glorious lunch we shared. This morning we went to Hearst Castle, which is pretty incredible. As we approached the castle entrance, panic hit. I turned into the entrance labeled "Hearst Castle", and my mom immediately started panicking (out loud), "No. You missed the turn. We have to turn left, not right!"

"But this is the entrance." I responded.

"No, we have to see a movie first, and that’s off the main road."

"But this is the main road. I just passed the entrance."

"No. The directions said you had to go to the other side of the street." She was very distraught and feeling suddenly bullied.

Stopping the car, "Well, you didn’t tell me that." The whole time this is going on, my dad was getting irritated, and it started off as a good morning for him. He got up early, drank some coffee, and wandered around. It was a huge improvement over yesterday’s crankypants behavior.

"Well, fine. Just go where you want. I guess we’ll skip the movie." And now the martyr made an appearance.

"Doesn’t it seem strange that the visitor’s center would be outside of the grounds?"

"I’m just telling you what the directions said. We have to go to the visitor’s center."

Just at this moment, we see a sign that reads "Visitor’s Center". "I think the visitor’s center is over here. How about we try this before turning around?"

Totally exasperated, my mom replied, "Well, I’m just telling you, the visitor’s center is supposed to be off the main road."

Uh-huh, right... "This is the main road. The other road was the highway." I said, knowing that trouble was brewing.

"Just do what you want. What do I know?" Ah, the martyr!

Just then, we happened upon the visitor’s center, and all was forgotten. We went inside. Mom thought she might want some tea. She never got the tea, and then proceeded to whimper about how she wanted tea. But, even though she had plenty of time and ability to get said tea, didn’t. However, it became an issue that I had to hear about...in much the same way that I had to deal with my dad not getting coffee, then refusing to get coffee at the coffee shop, then walking out saying he didn’t want coffee...so I had to go back to the coffee shop and buy him coffee while he wasn’t looking...and he graciously accepted it...and then was much less of a bear. Yeah...a couple of big babies, they are. And, yes, I know...I’m not that much better. Should I ever become old and married, this is what my husband will have to suffer through. I look forward to it.

Anyway...the tour was nice. The guide was far from peppy and quite sarcastic (in a cynical sort of way). The castle is impressive, the view is grand. We finished the tour, and it was time to eat. Oh, eating. My favorite part of traveling with my parents. What to do? Where to go? I took us to downtown Cambria where we dined last night. Having taken fastidious notes in my head, I was able to point out all of the restaurants on the street. We decided upon Mexican, and we ended up at a place that served burgers (which seemed like a genius option for my dad since he’s willing to eat both of those things).

We walked in at the crack of 11:30, and there was a couple sitting in the window, and a man ordering at the kitchen. We stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do. Immediately, I felt impending doom. We weren’t going to stay because my dad got irritated within the first 15 seconds of walking in the door. Actually, he seemed irritated before we walked in because it wasn’t exactly what he wanted (and, to be honest, I don’t think he even knows what he wants when it comes to dining). 

"So, do we just sit anywhere?" he asked me.

"I don’t know. I’ve never been here. I suppose we could."

"Well, I don’t know either. The sign says seat yourself."

Annoyed, I replied, "Then I guess that’s what we do. Where do you want to sit? We’ve got the whole restaurant."

"I don’t know. Can we just sit?"

"Yeah, let’s sit here," I offered, pointing to a booth.

"I don’t want to sit in a booth. I wanna sit a table."

So we sat at a table. The man ordering at the kitchen was very chatty, and he sounded like Hulk Hogan. As we sat there, waiting for the menus, he continued to talk to the server/host/manager/only-non-cooking-worker-in-the-joint, which delayed him (the server) from coming over to us.

The server was being very polite to Hulk, but he wasn’t getting the message. At last, he sat down, announcing, "I’m just gonna sit over here in my regular seat." The server nodded over to him and gave us our menus and asked us for our drink orders. "Yeah, so you know [insert name here]? He just got out."

The server, smiling, said, "Yeah, I know."

"I haven’t seen him though. Have you?"

The server kept trying to avoid the conversation, but wasn’t able to. "No, not too much."

"Isn’t he your cousin?"

"Yeah," said the server. Looking down again to take our order.

"I haven’t seen him. I wonder where he is."

Laughing, the server responded, "He’s probably trying to stay good."

"Yeah, maybe. You know he used to live with me before he went in. He was my roommate."

"Oh," turning to us. "Do you know what you want?"

Hulk wouldn’t let the conversation end there. "So, do you still have two jobs?"

"No, just this one."

"That’s good. I’ve still got my job. Man, it’s tough, ya know?"

Why? Why? Why? I was so sure we were going to walk out because Hulk Hogan wouldn’t shut up about some guy that just got out of prison. This was not a good sign. Finally, he was quiet, and we placed our drink order. My dad then turned to me and said, "Not too many people in here," which was the beginning of his exit strategy.

"Uhh...it’s not even noon. We’re a little early."

"Oh."

We placed our order, and within minutes, the restaurant was full, and Hulk Hogan was eating quietly in the corner. I have no idea if my dad liked his meal, but he didn’t complain, so that’s a good sign.

And now, I’m told that nap time is over. We have to go somewhere--anywhere. And we better enjoy it!

Today I Turned 12!

So, it’s my birthday. Yeah, I’m pretty excited too. I woke up and didn’t go running because I had too much to do before picking up my parents to embark on our California road trip. I was running late because....I was. I was also certain that my dad was going to be all pissy because I was running late. Fortunately for me, he was in a good mood because my breakfast suggestion was a huge success. Thank you, Sears Fine Foods. I’ve never been there myself, but apparently I should go sometime!

So, everything was going pretty well. I managed to squelch their bad passenger habits yesterday when I immediately yelled at my mom for her incessant backseat driving: "That car is changing lanes! OH! OH! That car is rolling back at the stop sign! There’s a man 12 blocks away, crossing the street. You are in the middle lane and there are cars around you! This is a hill! You have to turn! Stop sign! Don’t drive in the dark! Never leave your house after dusk!" Okay, so the last one is actually something she used to tell me in college, apparently without realizing that the sun went down at 3:45 in the winter, so to not leave my dorm room after dusk meant to go without food since dinner didn’t start until 4:45.

As I was saying, everything was going fine. They were doing an excellent job of keeping their traps shut. The only issue was that of food. It’s too expensive, and regardless of what I choose, my dad will not be pleased. He’s a picky eater, but not in that foodie sort of way. He just likes three things, and two of them are fried, and none of them are green. Well, actually he does like a fried green thing (okra, in case you are wondering), but that’s not my point here. What I’m trying to get at is that I stress, STRESS, over picking meals for my parents (my mom has the added issue of only being able to eat steamed vegetables and nuts). To be honest, I hate picking restaurants for anyone. Nine times out of ten, I choose a stinker. I especially hate choosing restaurants for picky people that think they are willing to eat anything...until they get into the restaurant. But I digress... We had fish and chips for lunch. It was good. It was over-priced. It made all of us want to sleep.

Now, when I embarked on this birthday expedition, I was under the impression (which I’m starting to think was a false one) that I wouldn’t do the majority of the driving once we left the city. In case you hadn’t already figured it out, driving with my parents is nothing short of tense. The only thing that saved me with driving in San Francisco was the day five years ago when my dad drove (a very short distance) in the city and decided he never wanted to do that again. After that, he stopped complaining and directing me. Of course, today at lunch he started to make a crack about my driving, and I chose that moment to remind him that I am much more adept at city driving than he is. The conversation ended there.

Okay, so once again, I’m totally off the subject. After lunch, I learned that my dad doesn’t drive after noon. Apparently he gets tired after eating a boatload of fried food. Guess who got to continue? That’s right, birthday girl. Unfortunately, birthday girl was sleepy too because she only got 4 hours of sleep, and she ate her weight in fish and chips. I suffered through it.

Then we got to Santa Cruz, and that’s when the moratorium on backseat driving was lifted. Within minutes, cracks were being made about me being lost (in a town I’ve only been to one time before...and I wasn’t the one driving). In true form, I couldn’t do anything right. And then, just as I turned onto the street to park at the boardwalk, but got a little flustered as a group of kids ran into the crosswalk and another car blocked me in the intersection, my dad started complaining about my driving. I wasn’t having it, so I yelled back...and the games began.

It became clear that we needed some alone time, so I was allowed to walk 10 feet ahead on the boardwalk, the whole while mumbling about my birthday, and not liking to drive, and never getting to do what I want. You know, mostly the same kind of thing I would silently complain about when I was 12 (though the driving part wasn’t there at the time). We made up on the boardwalk by never mentioning the incident again and sharing a Dr. Pepper. Then, my brother called at just the right time, so I could vent my frustration to him.

With that little field trip done, we headed to the hotel (with the help of a GPS since I don’t have any maps of the area and have never been to this part of the world before). All was right with the world, until it was time to eat. Since we didn’t have any books or maps, we needed to buy some. It was the only way to get my dad to stop complaining about how I don’t know my way around cities I’ve never visited. After using my blackberry to locate a bookstore, I decided to hunt down some food choices too. Dad said Chili’s. I looked it up, knowing that it was a definite possibility, birthday or not. When I questioned him on his actual desire to go to Chili’s, he said he was kidding and didn’t care. You might think this was a good sign. Hell, I thought it was a good sign, but the events that unfolded once we got to the main shopping/dining area proved otherwise.

We bought our books and then took a stroll down the street to select a restaurant. We had plenty of options: Italian, Pizza, Mexican (sit-down or taqueria), Irish Pub, Indian, California, Asian. Knowing my dad, the only real options were Italian, Pizza, Mexican, or American--and really, American is the only option. He wanted none of it. I kept trying to come up with anything, and he was getting crankier and crankier because he didn’t want to eat at some California restaurant where they serve sprouts (since that’s what I’m always ordering when I go out). And I was getting irritated. It was my birthday, and I had to drive the whole way down there, and I had to spend all of my non-driving time trying to come up with a restaurant option that would satisfy my father despite the fact that *I* should be the one to choose the restaurant. However, choosing a restaurant that he dislikes makes the whole experience far too frustrating to enjoy, so...

We went to Chili’s. I have to admit that I was a little upset. Tears may have been choked back. Seriously? Chili’s? We all know that I frequent chain restaurants more than I’d like to admit, but we also know that I frequent them alone. It’s a weird not-so-secret secret hobby. But I really didn’t want to go to Chili’s on my birthday. Unfortunately, I didn’t really have a choice. Regardless of the fact that I’ve walked this earth for over 30 years, my dad still rules the roost.

Off we went to Capitola, to eat at Chili’s in the mall. Once we walked in, I decided to just let it go. My dad actually seemed happy, and a happy dad is much less stressful for me. As we waited for a table, I came to the most delightful realization. It was my birthday, AND I was at a chain restaurant. Anybody else know where I’m going here? That’s right, free dessert! I announced my plan to my parents. They laughed, though I could see my dad realize what his picky eating habits had done to my birthday dinner. Once we were seated, the server came by and asked, "Hi, how are all doing tonight?"

"Great," I said. "Today’s my birthday."

"Oh! Happy birthday!" He replied, "We’ll take care of you."

Sweet! I was so totally in. What would I get? I hoped for the molten chocolate cake. Surely they’d give me that! We ordered our food, and I chose a salad (which, to be completely honest was just what the doctor ordered. My diet has gone to s***). Our food came. I enjoyed mine with the minor exception of the mountain of seasoned salt they poured on top of my salad (Why?!). My only other complaint was the lack of refills on my iced tea. If I only had one reason to go to a chain restaurant (especially a Texas-based chain), it’s for the fast and furious refills. I like to get my money’s worth out of the deal, ya know?

Just as I finished up my salad, the cheers of the waitstaff came rumbling down the aisle. It was birthday time! They sang me a song. I was a little embarrassed, especially knowing that I intentionally brought this upon myself, and then, they presented me with my free dessert...

A chocolate milkshake.

My mom and I laughed.

I can’t drink milk.

Chili’s won.

I still had some of it. So far, I think my body is giving me a pass today.

Nicely played, chain restaurant. Bravo!

As we walked to the car, my dad apologized for making me go to Chili’s on my birthday. I felt bad. It was actually pretty fun...and funny, not to mention memorable.

Chevy's: Some go for the Chips, I go for the Conversation

Yes, yes, I know, where have I been?  Why haven’t I written anything in weeks?  Do I not care about the needs of my readers?  Well, of course I do, but I’ve just been very busy.  I hope everyone took a good look at themselves and found something productive to do with their time that would have been spent reading my prose.  Now that I’m back, please stop doing those other things and pay a little attention to me.

So, tonight I went to Chevy’s.  No, you don’t need to tell me what kind of chain-restaurant-adoring loser I am, I already know.  The thing is, as much as I love/hate Chevy’s, I haven’t been there in ages.  In fact, I was only there on a whim.  You see, I had to go to the bookstore to purchase some books on wine.  I have less than a week to become an aficionado (of which I will tell later because I don’t want to jinx anything).  Since Chevy’s was right next to Borders, I thought, "Why not?"  So I did.

It was happy hour, and the place was bumpin’.  No, seriously.  It was totally crowded.  You’d think that a crappy chain restaurant in San Francisco would be last place to be considered a "hot spot", but when you’re at the mall on the edge of the city, just bordering on the ’burbs...that joint is off the hook.  (No, I don’t know when or why I started speaking in faux ebonics)

Since I was a lone diner and really just wanted to dig into "Wine: For Dummies", I figured I’d sit in the bar (and just hope that my usual waiter wasn’t there because even if I haven’t been there in 12 years, he still knows me and still asks me about his job and tells me about his sister...but he is really good about refilling my iced tea in a timely manner...and if I have leftovers, he gives me extra food, so I have a full meal at home...so it’s not all bad I suppose, but sometimes I just want to be incognito).  After waiting for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only 7 minutes, I found my spot in the second to last seat at the bar.  An older Asian lady sat next to me and pointed out the happy hour specials.  Admittedly, I planned on eating fajitas...until I looked at the happy hour specials and determined that $3 fajita nachos would do the trick.  Eventually, I ordered, and I perused the introduction of my book.

After snacking on chips for awhile, my food arrived.  I dug in just in time for the show to start.  We’re talking impromptu dinner theater here.  It was awesome (the food was not...much like in actual dinner theater).

The first character, a biker type, walked up to the server side of the bar and asked if he could make an order to go.  He seemed to be in a bit of a hurry, yet took his sweet time deciding what he wanted as he asked the bartender (who was overloaded with fruity margarita orders) to describe almost everything on the menu.  He wandered away for awhile, then came back and inquired about happy hour because the Asian woman next to me alerted him to its existence.  He then added some flautas onto his order and walked away.  After a few minutes, he was back.  It was at this point that realized he was acting like a total tweaker.  He ordered a shot of tequila and insisted that the bartender fill it to the top.  When he ordered it, he said he needed it quickly.  Once it was in his hands, he downed it and looked around nervously.  Then he ordered a margarita.

Around this time a couple wandered over to order drinks while they waited for a table.  Once again, the Asian lady next to me encouraged them to drink margaritas during happy hour.  In the beginning, they were pretty uninteresting.  He was an older guy in his late 40’s, early 50’s.  She was a Slavic woman in her mid-30’s.  Then, he opened his mouth, and he sounded like Thurston Howell III.  I had no choice but to eavesdrop, and now I will re-enact the conversation for your reading pleasure:

Thurston Howell III: (You have to do the voice in your head, otherwise it’s far too mundane) What are those drinks over there? (pointing at bartender making a strawberry margarita.)
Asian Lady: That’s a margarita.  You should get one.  They are on happy hour special until 7pm.  Order now, so you get it for $3.  The fruity ones are $3.25.
THIII: Really?  Well, then we should get that.  I’ll get that one, what will you have?
Slavic Woman:  I want a regular one like her.
AL: Mine is on the rocks, the strawberry one is frozen.
THIII: Okay, so we want a frozen on the rocks margarita.
AL: No, they are different.  One is frozen, the other is one the rocks.
SW: I want the one she has.
THIII: Okay, we’ll both get that.  Bartender!  We’d like 2 margaritas before 7pm. (at this point, I wondered what time it was...and it was 5:55, so the whole "before 7pm" thing wasn’t exactly necessary)
SW: What is in those anyway?
AL: Tequila.
SW: Oh.  It’s like on vacation.
THIII: Yes, I only get these on vacation in Mexico.  I normally drink nice wine.  I can’t believe we’re having a vacation drink.  This is so fun.
SW: Yes, I get those when I go on vacation...in Mexico.
THIII & SW: (in unison) on the beach.
AL: Don’t go to Mexico on vacation.  They don’t need the money.  The United States needs the money.  You stay here for vacation.  We have a beach too.  Here’s what I do.  When I want to go to Mexico, I come here.  It’s just like Mexico.  If I want to go on a city vacation, I go get Irish Coffee at the Buena Vista Club.  You can go on vacation here.  US needs money.  Don’t spend money in Mexico.  They’re fine.
THIII: That’s a good idea.  I haven’t been to Mexico in awhile.  This is fun with the margarita.  It IS like being on vacation.
SW: I drink these on the beach.  It’s strange to drink them here.
AL: You should drink them here in the US.  They are better.  Mexico doesn’t need money.  We have to save our economy.
(The margaritas arrive.)
THIII: These are delicious.
SW: Yes.  What’s in them?
THIII: I don’t know.  I think there’s tequila. (Turning to Asian Lady)  What’s in these other than tequila?
AL: You can make at home.  Tequila, Triple Sec, Sweet & Sour.  It’s easy.
THIII: It’s delicious.
SW: Yes, very.  It’s like we’re on vacation.

(Time passes.  The Asian Lady asks me to pass the happy hour menu and inquires as to what I’m eating.  Apparently, even though she’s an expert at directing people TO the happy hour menu, she doesn’t actually know what anything is ON the happy hour menu.  I describe all 6 items because I’m a begrudging connoissuer of Chevy’s after living 2 blocks away from one in Manhattan--no, I refuse to explain any further)

SW: Their salsa is the best.
THIII: Yes, it’s spot-on.
SW: Everything here is so fresh.
THIII: Yes, this place is very authentic.
SW: It’s really impressive.

(At this moment, their name is called, so the leave to go to their table.)

THIII: (To Asian Lady) Have a great night.  Good luck saving the economy.
AL: Thanks, I will.
SW: Thanks for the suggestion.
THIII: Yes, I don’t know what we would have done without you.
AL: Okay.  Remember to spend your money in the United States.

Uhhhh....what?  I don’t even know where to begin with this.  The entire time they were talking, the tweaker dude was standing behind them looking paranoid and occasionally ordering more food to go.  But back to the conversation.  Ummm...so that couple was totally pretentious, and yet, they were acting as though Chevy’s was fine dining.  I think they were aware that they were slumming it, but they seemed to believe that they were on the high end of the crappy chain restaurant range.  And what was the deal with them not knowing what was in a margarita?  And what was going on with happy-hour-pusher-turned-savior-of-the-US-economy?  I have to credit her with the fact that my dinner only cost $6, but I’m not so sure ordering off the happy hour menu at Chevy’s is going to pull us out of this slump.

Oh well.  I finished my crappy meal, and headed home...because I had something to write about.

Yes, I Ate It. No, I Don't Know Why.

Sometimes I do really stupid things. I know that seems very unlike me. From everything I've written here, I'm a solid decision-maker. But every now and then I just do things or eat things that are questionable.

For instance, when I lived in Seattle, I found myself at my neighborhood grocery store. Not knowing what I wanted to buy, I wandered around. While in the fancy cheese section, I noticed a small container in the middle of the sea of cheese. Now, it didn't say that it was a sample, but I felt like it surely must have been. To the best of my knowledge, the QFC never gave out samples, but maybe they changed that. Maybe they DO give out samples, and this MUST have been one. Why not? Since I wasn't positive about the actual purpose of this container, I looked around to make sure no one was watching me. Opened it up, and popped a piece of crunchy, black speckled cheese (and yes, the appearance SHOULD have been a red flag, not to mention the smell and texture). As I quickly evacuated the section and rushed down the cereal aisle, the true flavor of the rotten cheese came through. It was nothing short of terrible. I didn't know what to do, so I just swallowed it and suffered through the self-induced nausea. I'm still not sure what it was, and I'm also not sure if it was actually a sample. If it was a sample, it's one that was there for about a decade. Nasty.

Another time I was cat-sitting, and my friends left out quite a bit of food for me. It was just after the holidays, so there was plenty of homemade candy and whatnot. One day I was there, and my co-cat sitter left me a note urging me to try the chocolate covered toffee. Not one to pass up a good treat, I opened the bag and noticed that the toffee was covered in white fuzz. Suspicious, yet still willing, I sniffed it and put it in my mouth. Do I need to tell you that it was totally disgusting? I spit out what I could, but still wanted to believe that the white fuzz was just a special kind of powdered sugar. That taste didn't leave my mouth for hours. The next time I went to check on the cat, I noticed that the toffee was gone and my co-cat sitter left me a note telling me that she tossed it out because it was moldy. Yes, I am that gross.

And the first place trophy goes to.... One year I went to a New Year's Party, and I just didn't know what I wanted to drink. While looking over the bar I noticed a small bottle of cranberry juice, so I decided to mix some sort of concoction with it. The juice was brown, smelled bad, and tasted worse. I mixed my drink, which was awful, and drank it. It took me awhile because it tasted so bad. Thinking that I chose the wrong mix of alcohol and juice, I added more cranberry juice to my next drink. Still disgusting. Other people tried it and agreed. I still drank it. Later on, I moved to something else, and ended the party in the bathroom. The next day I spent on the couch and in the bathroom. That night, I had dinner with the party hosts, and they told me a little story. One of my fellow party-goers opened up the cranberry juice (after I mixed my drinks) and informed the party host that the cranberry juice was rancid. Furthermore, the party host revealed to me that he found the cranberry juice in the back of his refrigerator and didn't remember buying it, so he thought it may have been in there for 3 or more years. And I drank it.

Gross.

Banner Day!

Consider yourselves lucky!  The muse just gave me a solid kick in the behind--THREE blog posts in ONE day!  Speaking of my behind, I was walking down the street, checking out my reflection in the windows (which is something I do regularly because I'm obsessed with my own image even though I'm usually dissatisfied with what I see), and I noticed that my ass is looking A-OK today.  I attribute this newly found "nice ass" to the whopping 3 days I worked out this month.  Maybe there is something to not-so-regular-but-well-intentioned exercise.  Now, I know that writing this is just asking for trouble, and I promise you that I will not turn into my former roommate.  I will not take hundreds of pictures of my own backside and hang them up around the house as "art", nor will I make a plaster cast of my posterior (along with 30 other people's derrieres) that will be used to make silicone butt blobs that I will stack or hang around different art galleries (or my living room).  I also will not use a Christmas card holder/wall decoration as a year-round condom dispenser next to my couch.  I just wanted to note that I think I may be doing my body a little good.  If only my middle would whittle a little, I'd be in business.

What won't help me do my body good is my insistence on visiting the bakery.  Yesterday I really wanted a "most-est" cupcake from my local bakery.  This little piece of heaven is modeled after a hostess cupcake, except it's gourmet and stuff:  yummy chocolate cake, Bavarian cream filling, topped with chocolate ganache--and for Valentine's, they are covered in sprinkles around the edges with a tasty cherry-flavored candy heart in the middle.  YUM!

I ran out of time yesterday, so I decided that today was the day.  I marched over to the bakery only to discover a line that stretched outside the door!  This is unheard of!  Rather than take this as a sign that I had no business in there, I found my place in line and patiently awaited my turn.  As I stood there, a couple came up to the bakery.  The woman was in her mid-40's wearing a hideous furry sweater, enormous rose-tinted glasses, with her hair in a pony tail (not unlike mine), and the man was non-descript.  I couldn't decipher their exact relationship, but I think they were co-workers of some sort.  As she walked up, I could tell she was annoying.  Here's how it all went down.

Annoying Lady: This is the place.  Here's where we want to be. (She attempts to walk inside the bakery despite the fact that there is an obvious line reaching outside the door.)  Where do you stand?  Do you think this is a line? (She and her companion then line up behind me.)  Will this work?  This is the place.  I bet they're fast.  They must be fast.  Do you think they're fast?  Wow.  They must be good.  I wonder why all of these people are here.  Do you know why so many people are here?  Why would all these people be here?  Is it that good?  What do they have in there?  Is this place good?  Why is there a line?  Why are all these people here?  I bet it's good.
Me: Valentine's Day is tomorrow.  That's why there's a line.
AL: (Looking baffled and somewhat unconvinced) Oh.  What's good here?
Me: Everything.  I like the cupcakes, the cheesecake, the tortes, and some of the cookies.
Friendly Fellow in Front of Me: It's true.  Everything's good.  However, there is one thing that's not all that great.  The more standard cookies tend to be too dense.
Me: Yeah.  I don't like their sugar cookies, but those Quake cookies are my favorite.  (For the record, the quake cookies are chewy chocolate hazelnut cookies covered in powdered sugar that used to be a bargain at 85 cents, but now cost $1.15)
FF: Have you tried their newest thing?  They have something called a Love Bun.  It's so delicious--croissant-like bread with pastry filling.
AL: (Turning to her grumpy companion) I just heard they have something called a Love Bun.  I'm going to get that.  My decision is made.  I'm getting a love bun.  What else do they have in there?
Grumpy Companion: This is gonna take too long.  I need to eat something.
AL: Well there are all these people here.  It must be good.  People wouldn't come here if it wasn't good.  I'm sure we can get something for you.
GC: Well, I'm hungry now.
AL: I'm getting a Love Bun.  Doesn't that sound good.  I think it'll be great.

(We finally make it into the shop, and AL starts bobbing around people trying to find what she wants, chattering about nothing in particular.)

AL: (To GC) It looks like they have Tuna Salad and Egg Salad sandwiches.  I wonder why they don't have more sandwiches.
Me: (Thinking to myself) Because it's 4 o'clock, you dumbass.  Lunch is far from over.  They close in three hours.
AL: I can't see everything.  I wonder what they have.  I want a Love Bun.  Oh no.  The Love Buns are gone.  I bet those guys took the last one. (For the record, FF and his friend did not take the last Love Bun.  The bakery didn't have any today.)  What are you going to get?
GC: I guess I'm getting a tuna salad.  That's all they have here.
AL: I wonder why they don't have more sandwiches.  Doesn't it seem strange?  Why would they just make tuna and egg salad. (Obviously she didn't notice the 5 other signs for sandwiches that WERE there before they were sold to lunch customers prior to 4pm.)

(After waiting for the millions of bakery-goers to get their sweets, I ordered my cupcake and was almost on my way.)

AL: Do you have any Love Buns?  I want a Love Bun. I heard their good.  So do you have any?
Bakery Dude: (confused) No.  Not today.
AL: Are you sold out?  Did that guy get the last one?
BD: We don't have any.
AL: Oh.  What's good?

(And that's when I left.)

- scene -

I NEVER want to be in a line with that woman again.  Should she become a regular at my local bakery, it may be the deterrent I need to NOT go there (and, quite honestly, I don't go there THAT much).  So annoying!

After that excursion, I stopped by my favorite coffee shop (since there are 3 to choose from on my street).  All I wanted was a large mango iced tea, and it took ten thousand years to get it.  Why?  Because a couple that was older than dirt was ahead of me.  Old people are slow.  One day I'll be a slow, old person (with no cats, but with a few too many quirks to go out into public on a regular basis), but until that day, I'll be the speedy young nipper who stands there slightly annoyed at the oldsters because she just wants her iced tea in less than 15 minutes.  And then, as I'm thinking about how silly it is for me to be annoyed, I'll start thinking about my grandparents and how I used to think they were unbelievably slow (and got slower as they got older).  Then, I'll start to feel bad about the way I acted like a spoiled brat (because I was 20 and full of piss and vinegar for no reason in particular) the last time I saw my grandma and wish that I could apologize for my behavior (since I didn't know it would be the last time I'd ever see her) and tell her I how much I love her and wish that I knew her recipe for chicken and dumplings that she created just for me.  But I guess that's just the cross I have to bear.

Anyway...I did get my iced tea, and I did eat the cupcake.  Both were divine, and now I'm good on the most-est cupcake for another year or so (I don't want to overdo it and make it less than a treat, ya know...besides, I gotta work on improving my reflection).

SEVEN?!

*I wrote a beautiful story of love and loss, but it got lost in the internet vacuum yesterday morning.  After spending my day mourning the loss of my masterpiece, I'm back to see if I can recreate the brilliance.**

The scene: Neighborhood Chinese Restaurant

The back-story: On Saturday night, I made plans with some friends to go out to dinner.  Since there were too many chefs in the kitchen (and more kept walking in the door), I bowed out of the decision-making process.  Once they agreed upon a favorite Chinese place, they called me and told me to be there at 7:45.  This is where the scene begins.

Time: 7:45

(I walk up to the brightly lit restaurant and peer inside to see if my dinner companions have arrived.  Since the place is so small, I can see that I am, in fact, the first to arrive.  So, I open the door and walk in.  The restaurant is very crowded, and a waiter approaches me.)

Waiter 1: Hello, how many?
Me: I'm meeting some friends here.  We have a reservation for 7 people.
W1: You're friends were here earlier.  They left already.
Me: No, the reservation is for 7:45.
W1: Oh.  One minute. (He then turns to help one of his many customers and walks away.)

(Another waiter approaches me from the back of the restaurant.)

Waiter 2: Hello, table for 1?
Me: Actually, I have a reservation for 7:45.
W2: Under what name?
Me: (Quickly trying to figure out whose name it might be under) Billy, Joe, or Bob*?  I'm not sure.

* The names were changed to protect the innocent.
(The waiter walks to the back and returns with a couple menus.)

W2: Table for 2.  Right this way.
Me: No, the reservation is for 7.
W2: SEVEN?! (He shrieked, quickly turning his head to either side to survey the impossible situation I'd just thrown at him.  Then, he gave me another panicked look, and ran to the back of the restaurant.)

(At that moment, 4 more of my dining companions arrived, just in time to witness the flurry of activity as two women and a baby were evicted from their newly acquired seats at a 4-person table and were ushered over to a soon-to-be vacated 2-person table.  The only other empty table in the place was moved over to accommodate us, and we were seated.  Dinner was delicious, the conversation was sparkling, and the freaked-out waiter turned out to be quite a spitfire.)

And that brings me to the live sex show...

We were seated directly in front of the door, so I had prime seating for people watching.  Since we were such space hogs, several people had to wait for tables.  As we finished up our meal (of which I ate far too much), a group of four women (I may regret saying this, but I'd like to state that they were four very unattractive women...and they were lesbians, but let it be known that the two facts (even though one is admittedly subjective) are not inter-dependent on one another...I'm just creating a visual for you, my readers) entered the restaurant.  They waited a few minutes to be seated, and just as the waiter motioned them over to a table, one of the women turned around (as if she were on a mission), grabbed her girlfriend's face, licked her cheek and started making out in a very unsettling way.  Now when I say "making out", I don't mean they were kissing in an innocent way like you probably should when in public at a family restaurant; I mean they were "making out" in that I've-got-to-f***-you-now-and-i-think-we-should-do-it-on-this-plate-of-moogoogaipan-because-this-couple-and-their-baby-don't-really-want-this-table sort of way.

Tongues were flying, hands were creeping, and I wouldn't be surprised if indecent exposure was risked.  All the while, I couldn't stop staring (and, I should also state that my assessment of their level attractiveness doesn't make the scene any more or less gross).  Apparently, I was the only person at my table that was privy to the sex show before us (mostly because of where I was positioned), so I didn't have anyone to commiserate with, and I didn't want to draw more attention to them than they were already doing.  I mean, come on!  We were in a brightly lit restaurant that was inexplicably filled with teenage boys.  Who does that?  Seriously.  There is a time and place.  And yes, I know that I am becoming more like my mother every day, but gay, straight, or animal-loving, you shouldn't subject the public to your lovemaking.  And yes, I DID use the term "lovemaking".  Crap.  I AM my mother.

So, just a quick word on my mom...  Whenever she sees people kissing in public (I'm not talking dry-humping next to a plate of chicken chow mein...just kissing), she gets all disgusted, and says, "There are better places for lovemaking."  Not only does my skin crawl at the mere sound of that term (especially when it comes out of my mom's mouth), but I get totally annoyed with her for being such a prude.  Now I'm starting to turn around on the issue, and I see her point.  Maybe it's that I'm quickly becoming the crazy cat lady on the corner (who doesn't have cats because she's allergic and too lazy and irresponsible to care for a living thing other than herself), or maybe I'm just making the natural transition to being more like my parents (which hopefully does not entail watching Fox News every night).  Whatever the case, I'd rather just eat my fortune cookie and laugh about my fortune "in bed", than suddenly discover that I'm eating in someone else's bedroom.

Despite being horrified (and somewhat entertained, since it was pretty funny in a very inappropriate way), I had a great time.  I mean, come on, I scared the waiter (he really did scream, "SEVEN?!") and I witnessed impromptu hot lesbian action.  It's all good fodder for storytelling.  What more do you need?

Did I Mention That I'm Available?

Alright, gentlemen, start lining up to the right, 'cuz I'm AVAILABLE!

Today was a shining example of what kind of sweet catch I truly am.  It all started when I called my friendly IT guy to set up my blackberry with the company network.  After wrestling (or wrastlin', as we like to say in my homeland) with Phonies, I was feeling pretty confident about the final phase of my set-up.  What could possibly go wrong?  If you're thinking "everything", then you are close to right.  I think I may be a cell phone foster parent because I may be sending this puppy back to the shelter for adoption.

So, IT guy and I chatted (and I definitely need to bake him some cookies now), and we started the set-up process.  Of course, being in my house there is no signal (as previously discussed), so I had to wander outside (which is now where I will hold all of my important phone conversations,so for anyone that might want to call me, be aware that the world is my stage--also be aware that I may be sending my phone to IT guy, so he'll be answering my phone for a few days).  I walked about five blocks away until I found a full signal, then I stood in the middle of the sidewalk, facing the sun for 45 minutes.  I held my phone an arm's length away from me (because if it got closer, the signal was lost).  IT guy and I tried to make it work, but alas, it didn't.  The whole time I stood there, people passed me giving me odd looks.  I also noticed someone staring at me from their window.  They probably thought I was casing the joint.  Little do they know, I'm just an idiot with a piece of technology that I'll never fully master.

After an uncomfortably warm 45 minutes (because I was wearing a wool sweater and it was 65 degrees outside), I was starving.  Standing in one place with your arm outstretched is hard work.  Did I mention I was halfway up a hill?  Yeah.  Because my belly was doing the talking, I went to the first available restaurant (luckily it was located one storefront ahead of the terrible taqueria, otherwise we all know what would have happened--nothing but regret).

My hostess seated me outside at a table that was next to the window.  A group of people were sitting inside the restaurant on the other side of the window.  If the window weren't there, I'd be dining with them.  Knowing that we were far too close for comfort, I felt the pressure to be on my best behavior.  That means no excessive nose-blowing.

Everything was going smoothly in the beginning.  I selected my meal, I read the paper, I didn't clean out my ears.  I was an upstanding citizen.  Hell, I'd want to dine with me.  Then, my iced tea came.  What could go wrong with that?  Well, let me tell you.  The waiter (who is a delightful bear that loves to call me sweetie and always seems genuinely pleased to see me) put an enormous lemon slice in my tea that was conveniently cut down the middle for my squeezing pleasure.  Unfortunately, it was almost completely sliced, so when I squeezed it, half of it flew out of my hand and hit the window.  Had the window not been there, it would have hit the guy sitting caddy-cornered across from me in the face.  Nice.

I laughed that one off, and as far as I could tell, the window diners (who appeared to be having a business meeting) didn't notice (despite the fact that one of them barely escaped peril).  Still confident that I could pull off civilized, I continued reading the paper until my sandwich arrived.  Being famished, I knew I risked shoving too much in my mouth all at once.  Some people don't outgrow bad behavior, okay?  I really did my best to be a lady, but the universe was not on my side today (which says to me that I missed my window of opportunity to buy a lottery ticket).

I bit into my sandwich, and discovered that I'd gotten some gross gristle/bony/hard piece in my mouth, and I had no choice but to spit it out.  And here's where it gets complicated.  Had I been banished to a corner, where most restaurants like to seat solo diners, I could have gotten away with it.  But being that I was inches away from a business meeting that I couldn't hear, I was in a bind.  I tried to politely put my napkin to my mouth and spit it out.  Unfortunately, there is no graceful way to make that exit.  I did the best I could, but I know it was gross.  I also tried to discard the evidence by shoving the napkin under my plate, but as I looked up, I noticed that everyone on the other side of the table was looking at me.  CAUGHT!

I can't take myself anywhere!  No wonder I go to the terrible taqueria all the time.  They don't care, especially when I order take-out.

So that's the story.  Who wants to have dinner?