Adventures in Dining

It was Valentine's Day this week, an excuse to go out for a nice meal and overindulge.  WH and I attempted to do just that, but ended up having a less-than-stellar meal at a certain celebrity chef's D.C. eatery that shall remain nameless. The service was exceedingly slow, the food too salty, and overall it was just generally a mediocre meal. We could have let that put a damper on our evening, but instead we let it lead us down memory lane.  We reminisced about various memorable meals.

For instance, we talked about amazing dim sum we had in London, eating at the top of the Dancing Building in Prague, three feet of sausage in Germany, dinner at Central the night we were married, our first anniversary at Les Halles (Anthony Bourdain's restaurant) in New York, and on and on.  There were so many wonderful meals, it was no big deal that this year's Valentine's dinner was a bust. 

Of course, not every meal was amazing.  We also remembered dining with a friend who declared his meal disgusting and insisted the waiter remove it from his sight.  Or there was the time we were on our honeymoon in St. John and I ordered a pasta and seafood dish.  When it came to the table, it was so laden with salt that it was inedible.  I cannot stress enough that I almost never send food back, but this dish was so bad that I had to tell the waitress.  She took it back to the kitchen and then came back to give me a message from the chef.  According to the waitress (or the chef, whichever), some people (read: me) are not used to "fine cheese" which can make some dishes a little saltier than usual.  As someone who never met a cheese she didn't like, I was pretty sure it wasn't the cheese that ruined the dish, but the 14 tablespoons of salt that had been added to it. 

But the absolute best worst meal we ever had was in Chinatown in San Francisco.  It was the first trip we had taken together and we were looking forward to enjoying some really good Chinese food.  We had a recommendation for a restaurant that was supposed to be the best in Chinatown.  After wandering the streets for about 20 minutes, we gave up and figured, what the hell . . . we're in Chinatown in San Francisco, it's probably all good Chinese.  Little did we know.  The dumplings arrived and were served with -- wait for it -- A-1 mixed with soy sauce.  It was straight downhill from there.  We ate what we could stomach and quickly paid the check.

Image by fab4chiky via Flickr

As we were leaving, a little cat was pacing on the sidwalk in front of the restaurant. WH, always devilish, opened the door for me on the way out and held it open maybe a smidge too long.  Just long enough for the cat to run into the restaurant and across the dining room.  We watched as the diners gave the cat the side-eye and the waiters looked alarmed.  I'm sure the cat and the terrible food did nothing to dispell the old myth about Chinese restaurants . . . but it was hilarious to us!  Plus, it just goes to show, that no matter how bad the meal, with the right dining companion, any meal can be memorable!

What memorable meals have you had dining out?

Baby Love

Our friends the Gay Lawyer (more on him here and here) and his partner the Gay Historian recently adopted -- after having to wait for way too many years -- what is, without any doubt or argument, the cutest baby boy on the planet.  I know this because as his surrogate aunt, I feel what I can only imagine is what those in the business call "maternal" when I see him.  And I don't even really like babies all that much (need I remind you of this?).  Though this is no ordinary baby . . . but I digress. 

Last weekend, after spending some time with my Darling Nephew, it occurred to me that when people talk about babies and what they want to do to them, the talk is often actually quite gruesome.  My exposure to babies is fairly limited, so it may just be that the cutest baby in the world induces this kind of behavior in otherwise sane adults, but somehow I suspect that all babies induce hysteria in someone.

Image by deanj via Flickr

When I was talking with some friends who have also fallen under the spell of my favorite infant, the comments ranged from [tame] "I want to put his whole foot in my mouth," to [creepy] "I could just squeeze him to death," to [grotesque] "I want to eat him alive."  Much as I love the kid, I'm not sure I could resort to baby cannibalism.

This got me thinking . . . what is it about babies that make regularly sane people go batshit crazy?  Their little tiny hands and toes are cute, who can argue with that?  There's that soft little baby skin, people spend their entire adulthoods trying to re-achieve that.  And that punch-drunk way that their heads are too big for their bodies, what's not to like about that?    But when do we make the leap from toes, skin, and heads to the desire to squeeze, pinch, and devour a tiny human?  I don't get it.  Then again, those little bitty toes do look kind of like corn nibblets. 

To Infinity and Beyond . . .

I'll go ahead and say it, I don't like space.  As in, outerspace, the Moon, Mars, etc.  It makes me feel panicky.  There's just so much of it.  Not to mention that whole "no gravity" thing.  What is that about? I read somewhere once that $52/year from each American goes to support NASA.  I want my $52 back.  Seriously.  If it were up to me, we'd all just stay put right here on Earth.  (And don't bother to go all off on me about how backward-thinking that is and how if Christopher Columbus had thought that way, we'd all still be believing the world was flat and the moon was made of green cheese. I don't care.)

So you can imagine my surprise and dismay when earlier this week, Republican Presidential Candidate Newt Gingrich declared that, were he President, he would colonize the Moon.  And that's when he permanently lost my vote (not that he actually ever had it to begin with, but that's neither here nor there).  Not only would he colonize the Moon, but once it had 13,000 residents, he would give the Moon statehood.  Statehood!  As a resident of D.C., this particularly cheesed me off (see what I did there, Moon, cheese, get it?), considering that D.C. residents don't have statehood or even representation in Congress.  (FYI, this is not meant to be a political commentary, but a mini-dissertation on my space-hatred.)  

The whole thing blows my mind on several levels.  First of all, does the U.S. even own the Moon?  Do we have the right to declare ownership (and thus colonize it)?  I'm not an expert in space law, or anything (or any law for that matter), but it certainly seems like we can't just call dibs on it because it might be fun to try.  Secondly, the mere thought that 13,000 people (or more) would want to go to the Moon . . . not just for a visit like that kid from NSYNC, but to live, really floors me.  Can you imagine having to walk around with that space suit and helmet on everyday?  Talk about bad hair. And imagine what it would do to the fashion industry, "This year from Kenneth Cole, the latest in space-travel chic." No thanks.

Now, if Newt wants to colonize the Moon, so be it, but not with my $52 a year.  My only caveat is that, should the Moon become a state, D.C. get to be one first. 

The Nose Knows

To add to the list of things you might not believe about me, I used to play rugby.  My sophomore year in college, with nothing else to do (besides classes, I suppose), I decided what the hell, I'd join the rugby team.  At 5'6" and 110 pounds, I was a natural for the hard hitting, tooth spitting sport.  Not.  But I didn't care.  I figured if I acted tough enough, I'd be alright.

I faithfully attended practice each afternoon in preparation for our first game.  Never mind that I didn't really understand the rules.  Never mind that I couldn't catch the ball.  Never mind that I was probably the smallest person on the team by about 30 pounds and had to roll up the sleeves on my rugby shirt because it was too big.  I was determined to be the next big thing in rugby.

The day of our first game was a grey, cloudy Saturday afternoon.  I was ready. I even got myself a black mouthguard for the occasion -- it was extra badass.  My friends, including my fairly skeptical roommate, had come out to cheer me on.  I was slated to start that day (don't even ask me what position I was supposed to be playing), and I was pumped.

We warmed up, ran a few laps, did some grunting, and started the game.  It was fast.  The next thing I knew there was a ball coming towards me.  The next thing I knew after that, I was heaving my head up from the muddy grass.  I was gagging on something, so I spit . . . a mouthful of blood.  I was seeing stars and could barely sit up.  It was my nose.  Broken by another player's elbow.

Any other sport, and a man down would be cause for stoppage of play.  But not in rugby.  A player may lose a limb, and the other players will simply step around the body and the severed appendage and keep playing.  Rugby is no joke.  So I lay there, slumped in the near fetal position, waving my arm in the air.  I don't remember much of how I got off the field or what happened during the game.  I sort of remember sitting on the sidelines with ice in a rubber glove shoved up against my nose.  There was a lot of blood on my shirt (which, I must admit, did make me look pretty badass).

Photo by Dominic's pics via Flickr

Eventually my roommate took me to the hospital to get an Xray and make sure I wasn't too badly injured.  Fortunately it was just a hairline crack across the bridge of my nose.  The next morning I woke up with two black eyes and Karl Malden's nose.  It had swelled up to the size of a Polish kielbasa.  Just in time for sorority rush.  At least I looked tough.  And I had something to talk about during those boring sorority parties. Just picture it:

Sorority Girl 1: Hi, I'm Jenny.  What's your name?

WashingTina: WashingTina.

SG #1:  Nice to meet you.  (polite smile) So, tell me, what happened to your face?

WashingTina:  I ran into a door.

SG #1:  Really?  (feigned concern) Oh my gosh!

WT:  No, actually I fell down an elevator shaft.

SG #1:  No way! (stunned disbelief) Are you okay?

WT:  Just kidding.  I'm in an underground kangaroo boxing league, and I didn't fare so well in last night's bout.

SG #1:  (nervous giggles) I'm beginning to think you're fooling with me.

WT:  You're right . . . I broke it playing rugby.

SG #1:  Come on, seriously, what happened? (frustrated consternation)

WT:  Seriously, I broke it playing rugby. Really.

SG #1:  (big sigh) Fine. Don't tell me.  I guess I'll take you to meet some of the other girls.

WT:  Okay.

SG #1:  Hi Kimberly, have you met WashingTina?

Sorority Girl #2:  Hi WashingTina!  So, what happened to your face?

WT:  Well . . . 

And so it went.  And surprisingly enough, I actually did get into a sorority even though I looked like the loser of the Thrilla in Manila.  Say what you want about sorority girls, but at least some of them were able to see my inner beauty.

As far as rugby goes, that was my first and last match.  I decided to listen to my nose, and preserve the better features of my face for future bad decisions. Besides, sorority life was much more my speed.

Chronicles of a Brain Trust (Part 2)

The Brain Trust was always a cause for entertainment (more here).  Whether she was dressing inappropriately, crying at her desk, or making grand pronouncements about how smart the women in her family were (no kidding!), she never failed to get attention.  Take for instance the time she got caught for skipping out on Metro without paying.  Really.

Apparently days (or weeks, who knows?) prior, Brain Trust had lost her SmarTriip card, but did that stop her from riding?  Not a chance.  She would sidle up behind someone and walk quickly through the fare gate without paying.  It's a dirty little trick, but it happens.  One day, after sneaking through the gate, she was nabbed by a transit cop.  And according to her, this is how the conversation went:

Cop:  Can I see your SmarTrip card?

Brain Trust:  I lost it.

Cop:  It's illegal to go through the turnstile without paying.  I'm going to need to see some identification.

BT:  I don't have any.

Cop:  Then I'm going to have to arrest you.

BT:  Well, I might have a student ID. 

Cop:  I need something that shows who you are.

BT:  Well, I might have my Social Security card. 

I'm going to have to to interject here and say, a) who on earth carries her Social Security card in their wallet and b) who doesn't carry any identification with them on a regular basis?  Oh, right, Brain Trust.

Cop:  I need identification.

At this point, BT was digging through her purse under the cop's watchful eye.  In her bag she had a pill bottle full of niacin (she had recently watched a documentary about vitamins and swore that niacin was going to save her life--and that we should all take it too, because it would probably save ours).  The cop asked her what was in the bottle, because, as she put it, "apparently niacin looks like drugs. What-ever."  It was around this point that she started to get an attitude with the cop.  She told him he had no right to ask for her ID.  I'm not sure what Law & Order episode she learned that from, but I'm pretty sure he did have the right (then again, I'm no attorney).

Finally she produced either her Social Security card or student ID, I forget which, and the cop issued her a citation.  But the story doesn't end here, dear reader.  So indignant was she that she refused to pay the ticket.  She waited and waited and waited, regaling nearly everyone in our office with the story of the cop, the turnstile, and the niacin.  And then, with a giggle, she would say, "So if I don't pay the fine, they're going to swear out a warrant for my arrest."  On the last day she had to pay it, she asked my coworker about where the nearest police station was to go pay it.  He told her and she said, "That's too far.  I don't have time," and then heaved the put-upon sigh of a huffy 13-year-old. Guess what?  She didn't pay the ticket in time.  A point she enjoyed sharing with us all, repeatedly, including in meetings with outside clients.  I think she eventually did pay the ticket, but somewhere she's got a police record.  You know, because she's awesome.

The real kicker, though, and the event that sealed her fate, was a meeting two weeks prior to our annual conference.  We were preparing for an all-staff meeting that included our meeting planning contractors.  As we were assembling in the conference room before the meeting, a roach skittered across the floor.  Anyone else would've hit it with a shoe (girlish squeal, optional), but not Brain Trust.  Her response was much more . . . drastic.  She shrieked a shriek rivaled by the best horror movie vixens in Hollywood.  She yelled deep from her soul, as if she had been thrown from a plane.  She screamed is if she were being assaulted in a dark alley.  And then she ran, like Flo-Jo, out of the conference room and down the hall, leaving the rest of the staff open-mouthed and staring after her.  (In case you were wondering, I think someone did eventually hit the roach with a shoe.)

Not two days later, the staff, sans BT, was summoned to the conference room again to be informed that Brain Trust had been relieved of her duties and sent packing.  And thus the entertainment ended.  I was almost sad to see her go. Almost.  But then I remembered all of her antics and realized that despite my desire for more opportunities to roll my eyes, working with such a loose cannon wasn't really something that was desireable.  Still, every time I see a roach, I think of her.

Chronicles of a Brain Trust (Part 1)

Have you ever met someone so stupid you can't believe they made it adulthood without getting hit by a car, falling down a flight of stairs, or drowning in the bathtub?  This is the story of just such a person.  She was a short-lived coworker of mine not too long ago.

We should have known what we were getting into when she showed up to her interview with the nightclub stamp from the night before still on the back of her hand.  Her outfit was also covered in cat hair.  A young woman in her mid-twenties, the Brain Trust, as she came to be called, seemed personable enough, but it was pretty early on that I realized she was fall-down stupid.  She sat in a cubicle just outside my office, so it was easy for me to hear her phone calls and the various sniveling fits she had during her short tenure in my office.  Another coworker, who was lucky enough to be seated in the cubicle next to hers, and I got hours of entertainment from her antics.

Our office is fairly relaxed, and we don't have a dress code, per se, but the Brain Trust would often show up inappropriately attired for work.  The first sign was the day she showed up in a sequined mini-dress paired with a long sweater-coat and Ugg boots.  I really thought, had she sneezed, we might've seen her moneymaker.  But this was the least of her offenses.  Take for instance the time we had an all-staff interview.  The conference room was exceedingly warm that day.  Brain Trust had clearly dressed for the occasion in yoga pants, sneakers, a t-shirt, and a fleece.  As luck would have it, I got the lucky spot next to her during this meeting (that's the last time I show up a minute late for anything).  The interview concluded and I sat there fanning myself with my note pad.  BT leaned over to me and said, "It's so hot in here," to which I agreed.  She went on, "and I can't take my fleece off because I forgot to wear a bra today."  Cue jaw drop.   What does one say to a comment like that?  First of all, why did she feel the need to share that information with me?  Secondly, how on earth do you forget a bra?  I'd like to take a moment to poll my fellow bra-wearers out there: has there ever been a day, from the time you were, say, 13, when you forgot to put on a bra?  You simply don't forget to put on a bra.  Not possible. 

Another time there was a several-day-long computer training class that some of us had to take at a remote office in Bethesday.  Brain Trust, as one of the main administrative assistants, had a particular reason to attend the training.  Computer training is boring.  Let's make no bones about that.  And three days of it straight can be downright excruciating.  But if it's an aspect of your work that you need in order to succeed at your job, you suck it up, pay attention, and get the most out of it that you can.  Then you go home and drink heavily until the next day. Unless you are Brain Trust.  In that case, you minimize the training window, open up your browser, and start talking to your sleezy boyfriend on G-Chat.  This is how she spent three days.  On the fourth day, after getting caught, she just minimized the window and sat there staring at the screen.  I may have seen drool spilling down her chin.

Brain Trust regularly ended up crying at her desk.  The littlest thing could set her off.  One day she was asked to call for a refill prescription for her boss.  When the pharmacy informed her that there were no longer any refills left, BT lost it.  She dissolved into hysteria, sobbing into the phone that she had to have it.  That the world might end if she couldn't get the scrip filled.  My coworker and I just looked at each other and shook our heads.  We were getting used to her crying jags.  There had been another time when her mother, who looked like a Real Housewife of Tampa (I know this because once she came to visit and BT brought her to the office), was scheduled to go on a blind date with someone who may or may not have been a registered sex offender.  I learned know this because she was constantly talking with her mother on the phone about her mother's dates.  One conversation (which I only heard one side of) went something like this, "So, did you get the restraining order?" [pause--insert imagined Mama-Drama here] "Well, he was stalking you." [pause--more Mama-Drama] "But, that's not fair. He's dangerous. He should be in jail." [pause--more Mama-Drama] And then she began to snivel and cry.  Her words became unitelligible.  

Another day she was trying to print a spreadsheet from Excel.  Since she neglected to set the print area, her printer continued to spit out plain sheets of paper, much to her confusion and chagrin.  Coworker and I could hear her huffing and puffing, lost in her own befuddlement.  My coworker, who is a much nicer person than I, finally took pity on her (after about the 35th muttering of "what the hell!?"), and went to see what was wrong.  "This spreadsheet just keeps printing out blank pages, so I keep taking the paper out and putting it back in the printer."  Coworker stopped the print job and got her set up to print properly.  He then walked back to his desk, shaking his head.  There was a lot of head-shaking that went on during her short tenure . . . [To Be Continued . . .]

There She Is . . .

A friend recently sent me a video of this weirdly crazy child from the trainwreck TV show Toddlers and Tiaras.  For the unintiated, this show is about (what else) toddlers who are making their way through the beauty pageant circuit.  I've never actually seen the show, but based on snippets from news stories and viral videos, the nearest I can tell is that these little kids are dressed up like washed up 35-year-old divorcees on a two-for-one whiskey sour night at the local watering hole or Dolly Parton (I can't really tell which), and set on stage to perform karoake to "Stand By Your Man" or some such.  Evidence below:



They're just little kids, right?  They can't help it, right?  But their mothers (and in few cases, fathers) can, right?  First of all, these parents have named their children things like Eden, Kylie, Kayleigh, Ayzia, and Kinnadie, and "encourage" them to compete in pageants such as "America's Trezured Dollz" (it's real, I swear, Google it).  Apparently nobody can spell quite right and an extra "z," "y," or "eigh" is to be desired -- bonus points if you change any other letter to a "k".  While little Payriz is on stage doing her "beauty," momma is in the audience giving her cues.  And by cues, I mean she's full-on doing the dance moves and acting out the entire routine (often while yelling something along the lines of "Git it girl!") for her babygirl who has been hairsprayed, spraytanned, false-teethed, and lipsticked within an inch of her life. 



It's easy to laugh at the spectacle and be appalled by the behavior of the mothers, but it scares me most because I could totally see myself standing in the back of the room, hopped up on RedBull acting out a Lady Gaga number in my a-little-too-tight Juicy Couture velour track suit with the faux fur collar and permanently surprised face, while I cheer on my "dazzling babygirl."  I mean, who doesn't want their babygirl to nail her beauty?  Who doesn't want their babygirl to sparkle in her Vegas-wear?  I can feel my adrenaline surging just thinking about it.  Sadly, WH and I don't have any kids, but I promise not to get spraytan in its eyes and I will always yell "Git it girl!" louder than anyone else, if you just let me borrow her for the afternoon.