Titillating Tales of Terrible Tourists, v.4: The Case of the Delinquent Driver

The scene: Morning, the day of the SF Marathon.  Also, the day after those wretched girls from Dallas wreaked havoc on my self-esteem.

7:25a – Get in car and leave house, making sure to give myself enough time to get to the Ferry Building knowing that many roads would be closed along the way.

7:45a – Arrive at the Ferry Building.  As it happens, the drive wasn’t so bad after all.

7:50a – Witness the start of the 10K fun run.

7:55a – Cheer on the marathon runners as they pass by on their way to the finish line.

8:00a – Loiter around the Ferry Building awaiting the check-in person for my tour.

8:05a – Start the meet & greet process of my day and get briefed on the altered boarding procedure

8:07a – Meet my soul mate.  Who is my soul mate? A tall, handsome, debonair, 50-ish London-dwelling doctor with a full head of salt and pepper hair, good teeth, and piercing blue eyes.  How did I know he was my soul mate?  Because every time he spoke to me, his eyes looked deep into my soul, and I couldn’t look away.  Hell, I was ready to just ditch everything and run away with him—and based on what would soon transpire, I probably should have done just that.

8:12a – My soul mate realized that he was hogging all of my attention, so he stepped aside to allow me to mingle with others and gather the group.

8:15a – My fellow tour guide took his group across the street and boarded their bus.

8:25a – I gathered my group together and walked them across the Embarcadero to Market street where we were to board our bus.

8:29a – The bus wasn’t there.

8:33a – The bus still wasn’t there.

8:34a – My passengers were complaining that I made them walk across the street and there wasn’t a bus.

8:35a – I called the driver, and the conversation went something like this:

Me: Where are you?

Delinquent Driver: All the roads are closed.  I can’t get to the Embarcadero.

Me: I know.  It’s the marathon.  You should be getting on the Embarcadero.  We’re on Market.

DD: I can’t get there.  All the roads are closed.

Me: No they’re not.  I drove here.

DD: Well, Market’s closed.

Me: No it’s not.  Where are you?

DD: I’m at the ball park.  I’ll be there in 5 minutes.

I hung up the phone, and looked at the 40 increasingly irritated tourists trying to think of what to say.  “Well, the driver is on his way.  He’ll be here shortly.”  I then tried to make small talk with them, but they weren’t really having it.  My soul mate was by my side.  He knew it wasn’t my fault.

8:42a – My group was getting restless.  They complained that they should get refunds.  They thought I should take them all to a bathroom.  One man blathered on about how we were going to cut out a winery (which wasn’t going to happen).  Others complained that we would get back to the city an hour late (which also wasn’t going to happen).

8:45a – I called the check-in person across the street to tell her that my driver still hadn’t arrived.  Her answer, “I know.  He said he’s on the way.”

8:47a – I called the driver looking for an ETA.

Me: Where are you?

DD: Five minutes.

Me: I’m not looking for a time.  I want to know exactly where you are.

DD: Almost there.

Me: What intersection?

DD: Three minutes.

Me: You and I both know that’s not true.  Where are you?

DD: I’ll be there. (Click.)

8:49a – I called the driver again.  He didn’t answer.

8:51a – I called the check-in person.  The lead tour guide (my immediate supervisor) answered.  He was of absolutely no help.

8:54a – I called the driver again.

Me: So?

DD: Almost there.

Me: Be more specific.

DD: Two minutes.

Me: What street are you on?

DD: Market.

Me: Where on Market.

DD: One mile away.

Me: I’ll walk the people to the corner.  We’ll meet you there.

8:57a –I announce to the group that we are going to walk one block away to meet the bus.  As we start walking, I see one of our buses driving toward us.  I assumed it was my driver.  I halted the group.  The bus drove past us, and I was enraged for two reasons. First, why would he drive past us?  Second, why was he driving a bus that only fit 27 passengers instead of 40?  I ran over to the bus, and my group of 39 lemmings followed me (despite the fact that I made no command to do so), and the answers to both of my questions were immediately revealed when the people from the 9 o’clock city tour started boarding.  It wasn’t our bus.

9:01a – I apologized to the group and called the driver again.

Me: Where are you?  We were supposed to leave a half an hour ago.

DD: A mile away.

Me: How is that possible?  Traffic isn’t stopped.

DD: I’m on my way.

Me: Where are you?

DD: I’m at First.

Me: No you’re not.  I’m looking at First Street.  You aren’t there.

DD: Well, I just left the ball park. They made me turn around.

Me: I thought you were on Market.

DD: I’ll be there in five minutes.

Me: You need to be here now.

DD:  (Click.)

9:04a – My group is planning a mutiny.  I don’t blame them.

9:05a – I apologize profusely, while my soul mate stands by my side.

9:07a – I walk out into Market Street to see if I can spot the bus.  My group follows me into traffic.  For their safety, I yelled at them to get back on the sidewalk.

9:12a – The bus finally shows up.

9:14a – I board the bus and discover that my driver decided to bring a date to work, and she was napping in my seat.  I’m not sure where they met, but it wouldn’t surprise me if she worked at the Hi-Tide or the Tunnel Top (for those that aren’t aware, these particular bars are…well…thinly veiled Asian prostitution fronts).  Why do I think that?  Well, it mostly had to do with fact that she was wearing a belly-bearing tube top and jeans that came dangerously close to her hoo-haa…that and the make-up.  But I’m not one to judge another’s fashion choices, especially when it’s drizzly and 55 degrees outside.

9:15a – Wanting nothing more than to rip the driver a new asshole, I simply say hello and instruct him to drive over the Bay Bridge.

9:18a – I get on the microphone, apologize again to the group, and try to appease them with some sub-par commentary.  Needless to say, I was way off my game.

9:34a – The driver was speeding recklessly down the highway, and I was having trouble standing (since, as you may recall, I had no seat).  Also, since his lady friend was napping in my seat, I had nothing to hold.  I noticed that there was one empty seat, and it just so happened to be next to my soul mate.

9:35a – I started passing out water to the group, and when I finished, I sat next to my soul mate.

9:48a – I see that we are almost at our first winery (on time), so I resume my place at the front of the bus and give the passengers their instructions.

10:01a – We pull up to the winery, and I make an effort to let the passengers know that we arrived on time, so the schedule would run as planned.

10:02a – I shot the driver a dirty look and left with my group.

From this point forward, the day ran fairly smoothly.  My driver and his lady hung out on or near the bus.  I never acknowledged her presence though there were a few passengers that knew she was a stowaway and wanted to add that into their case for getting a refund.

While we dined at the second winery, I befriended two hilarious British men from Northern England. They were celebrating their 50^th birthdays, and I could tell that we would be fast friends.  As it happens, we were.

On the ferry ride back to San Francisco, I hung out with my northern solidarity friends for quite some time, and then I noticed my soul mate sitting by himself.  I took a seat and was immediately drawn into his gaze.  We talked and laughed.  He told me how wonderful I was.  I secretly hoped he’d invite me to dinner.  And then, I had to run away like Cinderella.  The boat docked and I had to be the first one out.  I was.  My hilarious, yet bumbling, English friends hung out near me as I bid adieu to my passengers.  Then, my soul mate (whose name I never learned) walked off the boat, fixed his gaze on me, and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.  And that was the last time we’d see each other.

Not so for my birthday boys!  They invited me out for drinks, and we went on an all-night odyssey of dining and drinking through San Francisco. 

So, while the day started off terribly, it did end quite well.

And, in case you were wondering, that driver was fired months later when he attempted to rob all of the company’s buses on his day off.  It was then revealed that he had a long criminal history and was raging drug addict.  Awesome!

Who Wants a Tip?

I do!  I do!

Well, I’ve been a tour guide for 8 months now, and I’ve learned a thing or two.  I’ve picked up some new skills—good and bad.  One of the good ones is that I have no problem talking to random strangers (though I still appreciate my privacy, so don’t think I WANT to talk to every crazy on MUNI…I just can without feeling totally awkward).  One of the bad ones…well, I profile.  I know.  I never thought I’d fall into the trap that so many police stations across the country have, but I did…and I do.  I can look at a group of people, and within a couple minutes (sometimes less), I can tell you who will tip and who won’t.  In case you’re wondering, young people (say, 27 and under) rarely tip…and middle-aged Americans are the best.

Now, this is the first time in my storied work career where I’ve worked for tips, and I have to admit that it’s a little strange.  In the beginning, I was very uncomfortable with it.  Mostly, I was uncomfortable asking for money.  I still am to a certain extent, but I’m getting better—this is my livelihood after all.  More and more, I realize that the tips you get often have nothing to do with you or your level of service.  It has more to do with the people giving the tips.

I’ve had good days, and I’ve had bad ones.  But, I discovered that, apparently, my good days are never as good as those of my male counterparts, and my bad days are FAR worst.  People are much more willing to believe that verbal praise is worth more to me than money.  Unfortunately for me, my landlord doesn’t accept rave reviews of the apartment as payment.  They just want rent money.

Don’t get me wrong here, I’m not hurting, and I do see the tips as being an added bonus to my work.  It’s just a little discouraging to see others who are on the same level as me making more money.  So why?  Why do men get more?  Is it because people have some sort of ingrained sexism that makes them think that guys are providing for a family?  Do they command more respect?  I just don’t get it.  I’m supporting myself, and I am not shy about letting people know.  Hell, I can’t count how many times people (rudely, I might add) ask me how much my rent is.  I’m a little uncomfortable saying, but they usually are pretty insistent.  When they are, I usually give them an idea of San Francisco rents and tell them about where mine falls…which ain’t cheap.  That conversation usually turns into, “Wow.  How do you do it?  You must make good money doing this.”  The answer—no.  I’ve never made “good” money, and I’ve always chosen to live in expensive places.  So how do I do it?  I know how much money I have.  I accept that most of it goes to rent, and I don’t spend frivolously (all the time anyway).  Nine times out of ten, those people that are so interested in how much rent I pay versus my income don’t tip me.

What is even more amazing to me is the people that only tip a dollar or two.  I’m not asking for much, but I think that $5 per person is a pretty respectable amount to tip your tour guide when you’ve spent 9 hours with them and they have gone out of their way to do things NOT in their job description like help you find restaurants and directions (sometimes even helping make reservations at said places).  Furthermore, when you pay $100 for a tour, giving the tour guide five bucks is ONLY 5%.  I’m not asking for 15-20% like a waiter.  The people that give me a dollar two (or worst, an unruly group of 10 people that give me a single dollar as their collective tip) are probably the same people that throw a dollar in the tip jar at Starbucks.  Why is that person more deserving of a higher percentage tip-wise than I am?  They spent a total of 1.5 minutes with you and on your drink.  I spent 9 long hours with you.  Being funny and helpful.  It’s maddening.

Of course, the best tip story I have involves a very rude IT professional.  It was a relatively small tour, and this guy, we’ll call him “Cool Guy” felt that there was nothing wrong whatsoever with taking phone calls on his cell phone while I was giving commentary…even though I ask that people refrain from the use of their cell phones.  It’s not so much for me, but for all of the people on the bus onto whom they are thrusting their personal conversations.  Once there was a girl who loudly did her banking over the phone while on the bus.  People are idiots.

Back to the story…  The day went on. Nothing that spectacular happened.  Occasionally Cool Guy would flirt with me, despite the fact that it was obvious that another fella on the bus had a little crush on me (and happened to be hanging out with Cool Guy all day).  (ed. I was interested in neither, but still…it seems as though Cool Guy was only flirting with me to be an ass to the other guy).  Toward the end of the tour, Cool Guy pulled me aside.

 

Cool Guy: You’re going to have to call the office for your tip.

Me: What?

CG: They have your tip at the office.

Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

CG: Just tell them my name, and they’ll know to give it to you.

Me: Uhhh…you need to start over.  I don’t understand.

CG: I took your company’s airport shuttle to my hotel.

Me: Okay.  I didn’t know we did that.

CG: Yeah.  You do.

Me: And what does that have to do with my tip?

CG: I booked this tour before I took the airport shuttle, but then I saw that if you book the tour and the shuttle, you get $10 cash back.

Me: Okay…

CG: Well, I was told to ask the driver for my $10 back.  So, I asked your driver, and he said he didn’t know what I was talking about.

Me: I’m not surprised.  I don’t know what you’re talking about.  The driver for the tour doesn’t carry around company money.

CG: Well, he was supposed to give me $10.  That’s the money I was using for your tip.

Me: I think you were misinformed.  Perhaps you were supposed to ask the airport shuttle driver for the cash back?

CG: It doesn’t matter.  The point is, you need to call the office to get my tip.

Me: And what do I say to them?

CG: Just give them my name.

Me: And what is that?

CG: CoolGuy69

Me: Yeah, I’ll get right on that.

After this conversation, he insisted that I listen to his iPod with him.  I never got that $10 because I know that the people in the office don’t give a rat’s ass about my tips or giving people their cash back.  Jerk wad.  I would have preferred to not have that ridiculous conversation at all.  All it did was make me mad.

And that’s pretty much how it goes.  Yay, tips!

At The Airport

I was at the airport today, and as I walked by the gift shop, I was struck with a burning question. Who buys new luggage at the airport just before boarding the plane? Seriously, who?

The gift shop had a section (as many do) with luggage, all of the carry-on variety. Now, if they were just selling little handbags, I wouldn't question it, but you can purchase regular suitcases. Do they really sell them?

I'd understand how this would be a good business idea if the luggage was being sold BEFORE security, but with all of the rules regarding how many carry-on bags you can have, who is buying a whole new suitcase after they've gone through security?

Are they people who buy tons of souvenirs from the gift shop?

Is it an impulse buy for people who didn't bring any carry-on luggage?

Who are these people and why are they buying their luggage there?

I just don't get it.

My other question was regarding girls with fake boobs and tiny bodies, but I'll save that for later. I was more annoyed by them for no reason other than the fact that they had fake tans and made me feel like a dorky loser in the 7th grade. I did, however, derive much glee from seeing the look another girl gave them as they walked by. I'm not the only one that thinks it's excessive.

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.

So That's Where the Classy, Affluent, and Attractive People Meet

All this time I thought classy people met at upscale hotel bars. Or perhaps I thought they met at fundraising events. I would have even thought they met through matchmaking services that advertise in airline magazines. But after all this time, I found out I was wrong.

According to the commercial I just watched, Sugardaddie.com is where classy, affluent, and attractive people meet.

I wish this commercial was on YouTube, so I could share it with the masses. Unfortunately, it isn't. And I'm afraid to go onto the website for fear that someone might see my search list one day and think I'm looking for an older, wealthy man to care for me. Or just see all the people that I google when I'm bored....not to mention how often I google myself.

So, this commercial, which is nothing short of awesome, features some of the most unattractive people imaginable. It's a little piece of heaven.

I am definitely not a cable advocate, but this commercial may well be worth watching the WE network.