restaurant slip 'n slide

Ever spent so much time on something that you commit yourself to see it through, even if you realize partway in that you could bow out and try something else? That was me last Friday night. I committed myself to 90 more minutes at an attempt to get a good meal, rather than spend the ten minutes it would have taken to drive back to my house and pick up Taco Bell on the way.

You may have been missing Friday Night Dinner blog posts, as there were none during the summer. I missed them to. Thankfully, Friday Night Dinner, or FND, made it's fall debut on the 14th. This time I traded out cousins and exchanged Jason and Heidi for Kristi and her friend Sallie. Kristi and Sallie were crashing at my house for the night because of a speech language pathologist conference at the convention center. That's what people do when they get out of college. They don't sleep on your couch because a massive party has just occurred and they are too drunk to go home, they stay on your couch because they've got to wake up at 6:15 to get to an educational conference.

Jess, Travis, Kristi, Sallie and I settled on Willamette Burger Company, though IHOP was in discussion because of our french toast love. Getting to the WBC restaurant was not quick. When we first gathered to depart for dinner, I suggested Red Robin because 1) I was starving , 2) It was five minutes away, and 3) Jess insisted on having a burger and I refused to go to Rockin' Rodgers.

When we got to the restaurant, we saw that the lights were off, indicating that no scrumptious food was hot and ready inside. A sign instructed us that Willamette Burger Company had moved. I was driving, and my passengers thought about other places to go, but since we had already driven down town, I figured we might as well go the extra mile, literally.

Searching for the new location proved a bit tricky, but I eventually spotted the glowing sign through the dark city smog and pouring rain. Actually, that is kind of false. Salem doesn't have smog, I don't think. But "dark city smog" sounded right.

When we got inside the building, it was apparent that it had lived a previous life as a Mexican restaurant. The stucco style walls and open arcs screamed Los Dos Amigos and were nothing like the tattered old walls of the former WBC, where crayoned masterpieces used to be pinned to the walls. This was a bit saddening, as I wanted Kristi to get the full WBC effect, but not having to sit on your neighbor's lap to eat your meal was a plus. The place could now seat more than twelve total customers.

The Willamette Burger Company is delicious, but they are in no way fast. You should probably plan on bringing something to do while you wait 20 minutes to be seated, 10 minutes for your order to be taken, and 30 minutes to wait for your food. Once you get to the table, you can probably entertain yourself with the crayons and brown butcher paper that covers the table.

The five of us started drawing immediately, since we had spent our 20 minute seating wait looking at the menu and choosing our meals. I began drawing my rabbit, Roo, Travis sketched out a dirt bike, and while our server came by to take our drink order, Kristi looked at the table and said "I think I just drew Harry Potter."

Sure enough, what had started out as a head, ears, and glasses had morphed into the famous young wizard. Kristi added a lightning bolt for authenticity.

 We ordered our food right then, and I asked for the veggie burger, as it had been recommended to me by the man who thinks he knows me but doesn't really, who I mentioned in one of my summer posts. Tots were ordered as well, because they are like nothing you have ever seen or tasted. In fact, it took quite a while for us to see them, and even longer for us to taste them, on account of the delay that occurred.

We were sitting near the kitchen, which taunted us with tantalizing smells. Not only could we smell everything, but we could hear everything. For example, the giant crash, the sound of ice and slush hitting the floor, the lament of a young man who had just gotten covered with soda. Meanwhile, we were all staring at the crayon drawings of food we had sketched, wishing we had something to eat.

The five of us listened intently to the kitchen noises, hoping for a quick recovery. A woman emerged, carrying a tray of drinks. I watched as she fell in slow motion. First she slipped on the wetness that had leaked out of the kitchen, then one knee tucked in behind her. She came down to a squat, still holding the drinks safely. But then she lost her balance and fell backward, pouring the drinks all over herself and the floor. Clean up time, round two.

We began discussing at our table how many times the servers might slip and fall before actually bringing us food. I heard a voice in the kitchen say "I just want to get this Sprite to table nine." Me too, friend, me too.

My sister encouraged the lady who had fallen in front of us to fake a back injury for workman's comp. She had a good sense of humor for someone who had just spilled diet soda down her front, and played along, groaning as her supervisor came back to check on things.

During all of the confusion, we managed to get our huge, fluffy, potato tots delivered to our table, sans the sauce. Thus, we could not eat them. Asking a women who has just slipped in water and spilled over 64 ounces of drink on the floor for a dish of tater tot sauce seemed a bit inconsequential, so we kept our mouths shut for a while.

Then those tots started to make eyes at us, so we covered the basket with a napkin to keep them warm, much like you might do with a baby. Only you probably never dip your baby in aioli sauce and devour them in two bites. Though you might, if your infant smelled like potatoes and not baby powder.

During our wait for aioli sauce, I'd like to tell you more about Sallie. She and my cousin Kristi work at OHSU doing speech rehab type stuff, mostly with kids. Sallie is from North Carolina and says "Ya'll" quite often, which is endearing.

I asked Sallie if she had ever been in a pageant, or went to high school with a bunch of girls who did, because everything I know about the south I learned from watching MTV's True Life: I'm a Pageant Queen. True to stereo-type, Sallie was blonde, though she looked much more intelligent than anyone I had seen on MTV. This is probably because she is a speech therapist and works at a hospital. Plus, here hair wasn't big like Dolly Parton's.

Sallie debunked my belief that everyone in the south does pageants, but I did learn that Sallie was in a debutante ball. "Like Amanda Bynes in She's The Man*," as Kristi referenced. Only apparently that movie was all wrong, because your coming out party is always after your freshman year of college, and Amanda Bynes had hers while she was in high school.

"So, you don't like, have your ball when you turn 15 or anything?"
"Right," Sallie confirmed. "It's not like a Quinceañera."
Which remind me of a conversation I had (with Sallie and Kristi I think) about how in Europe or some foreign place, they make turning 21 a really big deal and give you tons of presents like you're getting married. Because turning 21 means you're an adult, and hello, you need your own steak knives. I totally needed this when I was 21. Because I have fully had to purchase my own knives, shower curtains, and bedsheets.

Oh look, the aioli sauce has not yet arrived, but I am going to eat a tater tot anyway.**

Sometime during our wait, Sallie goes outside to stand in the rain and talk to her boyfriend who lives in North Carolina, then Kristi gets on the phone to talk to Peter who is in Afghanistan, and then I get up to call Roo who is at home in his hutch to see if he wants baby carrots or grated carrots for lunch tomorrow.

Twelve conversations later, our delicious food arrives. And no one else has slipped on the floor.

Kristi finally gets to eat.

 Nothing very interesting happened after that, because we were all too busy feeding our faces. Though Travis did forget his credit card, and the waitress came running out the back after us to return it to him.

According to this weeks schedule, it appears that a Friday Night Dinner may happen, if the rest of the family is available. Heidi was very sad that she missed FND and wants to be featured again with her own label. Where do ya'll think we should eat at next?


*I recommend watching She's The Man, regardless of your gender or age. This movie is freaking hilarious. It's a modern day twist on Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. But maybe I just like watching Channing Tatum with his shirt off.

**I am fully aware that I switched from past tense to present tense, which is inconsistent, but whatever. I do what I want. I'm sure a book publisher would make me change it. But I don't have a book publisher yet, so the rebellion continues.

Ritual Sacrifice

So this one time Heidi and I had Friday Night Dinner together without my sister, brother-in-law, or cousin (Heidi's boyfriend). Every one else was busy but we were still hungry and up for an adventure.

What we did was go to Figaro's and order a 12 topping pizza using the coupon I had so conscientiously clipped from the mail inserts earlier that month. Only I am a vegetarian and don't eat sausage, pepperoni, salami, or whatever else was on there, so when Heidi ordered the pizza over the phone, she was all "I would like to order one large 12 topping pizza. Only on half of it I don't want any meat. Actually, will you please use all the regular amount of meat, and just put it on one side?" Heidi is extremely carnivorous. When I overheard the Figaro's employee ask when we wanted to pick it up, Heidi says, "What's the absolute fastest it can be ready?" She basically made it sound like we were desperate.

After picking up the pizza, we drove to the Riverfront Park. Finding a parking spot proved a bit challenging, but I finally spotted one. "Right there! Next to the dumpsters." And okay, so it might smell a little. It's not like we were going to eat our dinner right there on the curb.

Heidi did not like our parking spot for other reasons. "You know we could come back and teenagers could be having sex right behind those dumpsters in the bushes?" I thought this was very unlikely. "Wouldn't they do it inside the recycling dumpster? Because after all, paper and cardboard is clean. And it's padded." But Heidi insisted that teenagers are like wild rabbits and will do it anywhere, any time, even if it is in a public place on the pavement. She speaks from traumatic witnessing.

We parked next to the dumpsters regardless, got out our picnic blanket, and found a nice sunny spot on the grass overlooking the Greek style amphitheater (if you could call it that). Before long we discovered an ancient culture about to embark on a tribal ritual sacrifice.

There were about six or seven people--mostly men--who had wrapped brightly colored fabric strips around their heads and arms and waists. They also had these really sweet acorn leg-warmers that made noise when they danced. The tribal people set up a drum and in the center of the stage they put some bananas and a shell and then lit something on fire because there was smoke billowing in the air. They started chanting and blowing a conch shell. We were too far away to hear what they were saying. I wanted to get closer to see if they were speaking Spanish or not, because to be honest, their ethnicity was a bit elusive for both Heidi and I. They may have been from some Pacific Island community. It was difficult to tell, and I say this with experience, as I have had many multi-cultural students and I just laugh when someone thinks my Marshallese student is actually Hispanic, or when someone thinks my Laotian student is from China. I've become really good at telling the difference.

Heidi and I sit there, eating like our third slice of pizza or whatever, watching this tribal ritual take place. One guy blows the conch shell North, East, South, and West, and another one of the dudes waves the smoke stick around. Plus there's that whole beating of the drum thing to add suspense. After all directions of the compass were covered, the people started dancing around in their acorn leg-warmers. Smoke was emitting from the center of their dancing circle, and Heidi and I both thought they were about to perform a human sacrifice. BECAUSE THERE WAS A TODDLER RESTRAINED IN A STROLLER RIGHT NEXT TO THE SMOKE. The gray puffs of smoke were headed straight for his face. I'm pretty sure they did that to blind him so that when it came time to throw him down the pyramid or whatever, he wouldn't see it coming.

Heidi asked just about every person walking by us if they knew what was going on. Nobody did. So of course we had to make up stories in our heads. The tribal dancers attracted quite an audience, as everyone else heard the drum and wanted to know what was going on. I'm pretty sure this is how cults get started.

It was at this point that I told Heidi that maybe I should get a drum and a costume and just come to the Riverfront whenever I felt like it and trick people into thinking I was actually a scheduled performer. Then I could take up a collection at the end. Or maybe they'd just pay me to stop hurting their ears.

We finished eating, took the blanket back to the car, then decided to walk around. Mostly we wanted to get closer to the stage and the people so we could discover what culture it was and see exactly what they were burning. Because maybe they were burning Bibles or the American flag or copies of Twilight.

After a quick walk-by, we were still unsure of anything. By the second and a half walk-by, Heidi finally found the audacity to say to one of the young guys "Hey. Hey you. Were you just doing that? Dancing?" He says yeah and walks over, like maybe this is Heidi's standard pick-up line. We ask them what culture this is. He says Aztec. We ask what the smoke and the shell blowing represent. He says he doesn't know.

I'm sorry, but if you are about to dance around in a circle at the beat of a drum with a fiery smoke pit and ritualistic blowing of the conch shell in every direction, I think you should know what it means. But then again, my dad's side of the family is Swiss and I have no idea what the blowing of the alpenhorn represents. I just eat cheese and listen to the accordion and my yodeling aunt.

After talking to the guy and his wing man for about two minutes, we are still left with many questions, such as, where do I purchase a pair of acorn leg-warmers? Plus, I'm still concerned about that toddler who is suffering from smoke inhalation.

Unsatisfied, Heidi and I continue to walk down the path of the riverfront. We spot a picnic table, pink birthday cake, party hats, and a group of smiling people. Heidi is overly friendly towards strangers and yells "Happy Birthday!" One of the people says "The birthday girl isn't here," at which point I think twice about going back and stealing some cake before running.

We continue our walk and come across about ten people reading scripts on the sidewalk. Heidi doesn't want to interrupt, so we go out of our way to walk around the rehearsal. I spot a box of donuts and a copy of A Midsummer Night's Dream. I have never actually watched a live performance of this play, but I pretty much guarantee that it will be acted out every single summer by some theater troupe in town, so if I ever want to see it I probably won't have any trouble. We continue walking.

I will sum up the end of our adventure by saying that we walked a mile across the bridge to get to the other park on the other side of the river, only it's not so much a park as a place where homeless people dig through the garbage cans. I felt really bad at that point and wished that we would have carried our pizza box with us the whole way, because we still had at least three slices left.

Heidi really had to pee so she went in the public restroom that is made of cinder blocks and has no doors on the stalls. It's not even like there were doors and they fell off. They were made without doors intentionally. Heidi said this was to keep teenagers from having sex in the bathrooms. I guarded the door then we scrammed. On our way back we saw a police officer questioning/frisking a guy. I wanted to go up to him and tell him that maybe he should check on toddlers who suffer from smoke damage to their lungs, or who are potentially at risk of being sacrificed in a ritualistic tribal dance, but I didn't think it was the right time for that sort of thing. So we walked back to the car.

The dentist who won't date me

It was Friday night dinner the other week, and my cousin's girlfriend Heidi was determined to make me a Yahoo personals ad, because that's how you find love. She kept snapping unflattering photos of me during dinner. I am really not into searching for relationships on the internet. I have a hard enough time trying to act not awkward in real life; I don't think I could handle trying to act outgoing to complete strangers on-line. Plus, I totally judge people on their spelling and punctuation. It's one of my many faults.

Anyway, so when our dinner crew got back to my sister's house, Heidi pulled out Jess' laptop and started typing away. She asked me for my stats. I tried to humor her. "Well, how about...250 pound woman seeks rich bazillionaire to dote on her hand and foot." Heidi laughed but continued to pester me for real information. After about ten minutes I discovered she was actually on Match.com making me a profile. This made me really mad, because like I want my face plastered on a site where forty-five year old bearded and divorced men try to win over twenty-somethings with the promise of a stable life. As Mercedes from Glee would say, "hell to the no." Heidi asked me what I wanted my username to be.

Choosing a username for an internet dating website is a lot like selecting a name for your first born child. You have to think of the vibe that name is going to give off. She suggested I use my nickname of Jojo, but then I told her I would prefer my username to be Heidi. Since you know, she was the one making the profile, not me. Again, she asked what I wanted to be called. "Jessamy," I said. My sister opened her mouth to protest.

Then Heidi made me go through all these really lame questions, like what type of animals do you want your date to have? Like I care. You can like any animal you want, just don't expect me to clean its cage. When Heidi asked me what "my sign" was, I replied that it was hexagonal, red, and said STOP. I mean, do the stars really have to align in order for things to work out?

"Can't we just stop?" I whined. "Can't we just search for hot guys without making a profile?" Heidi was pushing for profile completion, but she finally entered some search criteria so we could pull up some faces. Search results showed zero findings. "What?" I said. "There are no guys ages 21 to 30 who do not smoke, aren't divorced, and don't have kids?" Because I mean really, welcome to my life. Then I noticed Heidi had the search radius on ten miles. Like you are going to find anybody within ten miles of my zip code who I haven't already seen at Winco buying Doritos and beer on a Friday night.

After a bit of revising, we found some faces. Heidi kept clicking on all these guys that I was not attracted to whatsoever. "Look, this one's so cute," she'd say. But the guy in the photo would more or less look like Jason, who is Heidi's boyfriend and my cousin. The only difference was the nose and a different colored flannel shirt. And I mean, that's fine. I'm glad Heidi thinks her boyfriend is hot stuff. But I don't want to go on a date with anyone who looks like my cousin. Then Heidi would pull up these really skinny guys who wore glasses. And glasses can be hot, they really can be. But they can also be really nerdy. "This guy looks like someone you would like," she'd say. "WHAT?" I'd reply. And she'd say "Yeah, he's kind of nerdy. You like the nerdy type." I got even more riled up and said, "I do not. Just because I got straight As in high school does not mean I want to date a geek." I'm sorry if you are offended. Nerds can be cute, and they usually end up making big bucks, if you care about that sort of thing. And they can be really, really useful. Everyone should have a couple of nerd friends. I just don't want to go on a date with a guy who weighs less than me and has no athletic ability. I mean, think of our poor kids. I'm already not coordinated. We don't need to create a whole nother generation of children who can't dribble a basketball and get picked last in gym class.

After much pleading, Heidi finally clicked on the photo of a guy that I actually thought was hot. She had much disdain for him. "Him? Are you serious?" And it was because he was a pretty boy with a tan, white v-neck tee, and trendy hair. I wasn't drawn to him because of his beautifulness, I just really liked his teeth. They were all paper white and straight like a picket fence, and he had dimples when he smiled. Heidi clicked on him and was like "he's totally gay," which is not the first time this has happened to me. I have had crushes on at least four guys who I later became unsure of their sexual preference. One of them turned out to actually be gay. Oh man, this reminds me of another good story I wrote called "He's Not Gay After All."

And okay, I guess I have terrible luck. So what if I like guys who wear something other than plaid shirts and Levi's and own more than two pairs of shoes? Maybe I like it when a man doesn't just have army cut hair. I still want a guy who can open jars and fix things. I want him to like sports and know more about cars than me, and not shave his legs. But if he writes poetry or plays the violin or reads classical literature, I'm fully going to embrace it.

Anyway, Heidi and I click on this hot man's profile, I skim quickly, then yell "SEE HEIDI, SEE!!! He's a complete winner." And he was. He had just graduated from dental school, did not smoke, had no kids, had not ever been married, played the guitar, and wrote about how he loved Jesus and his relationship with God was very important to him. He was a total ten. Heidi started to get all giddy and excited for me, like maybe this guy was actually planning on asking me out tomorrow, right after he got done pulling some teeth or putting on a crown.

And I mean, I have never even had a cavity in my life, I floss everyday, plus I have a very good relationship with my current dentist. No fear here. I just knew my zest for healthy gums would win over this man.

Only, wait a minute. I am so not paying thirty bucks or whatever so that I can message people on Match.com. Why buy the account when you can poke on Facebook for free? Mwhaha. I kid you though. This is not going anywhere. Heidi, I didn't tell you this because I was fearful of your wrath, but Saturday morning I deleted that account you made of me. I don't want my face plastered on Match.com. Maybe I'm too idealistic, but I don't want my love story to be "We met on a dating website." I think that I have waited long enough that I deserve to meet someone in person.

Or you know, if he wanted to fall in love with me through my writing and contact me to say something along the lines of "I check your blog everyday. I don't want you to think I am a stalker, but I've actually printed out some of your stories. I think you are amazing, can I take you on a date?" I wouldn't say no. I'd do some preliminary detective work first, of course, to make sure he's not a creeper. But hey, if you want to fall in love with me because you can see who I am through my words, go ahead. I'll try not to break your heart.

So Heidi? You want my stats? You want my info for an on-line dating profile? Here ya go. Twenty-five year old woman writer seeks man who does not smoke, is not divorced, loves God, and has no children (unless you have a really pathetically sad story like your wife died of cancer and left you with a one year old baby, in which case Nicholas Sparks has probably already written a book about you). I don't want you to propose tomorrow. I might not even want to talk to you every day. I want you to keep it in your pants. Sorry if that's a problem, but your problem is not going to become my problem. I don't want you to try to impress me with the things that you can buy. Instead, impress me with how much of your life you give up. Contact me whenever. I'm good at waiting--but someone else may beat you to me. I like orchids, milk chocolate, and coded notes.

Burger Shack Shock

I'm sitting in the back seat of the car, fearing for my life, feeling like I might throw up the Portebello stuffed mushroom I just ate. My cousin flips a U-ie in front of the train tracks, and I think to myself  "how on earth did this kid make it back alive from California?"

3.5  hours earlier
 After being absent from Friday Night Dinners for a whole month, I re-joined the gang the other night. I got picked up at my house at seven by my cousin Jason and his girlfriend Heidi. Then we went over two blocks to my sister's house and picked her and The Trav up. While Heidi and I waited in the driveway for Jason to collect the rest of the family, I was informed by Heidi that my sister and fake brother were ripping out their shower and toilet. News to me.

"Wait, wait. You are telling me that my sister and Travis are ripping out their shower right now?"
"Um, I think they're doing it tomorrow. But it's happening."
"Alright, so tomorrow. I'm just wondering if she's gonna ask if she can come over and take a shower. I know she will. Shower replacements are not exactly a one day thing. Home improvement always takes longer than you think it will."

Next Jess, Jason, and Travis get into the car. We start chatting and then Jess says to me, "Are you going to be home tomorrow?" I wait before responding.
I yell up to the front seat,"Hey, Heidi, will you listen to this question that my sister is asking me?"
Heidi turns and looks back at me and Jess.
"Yes, Jess? What was your question?" I say.
"Are you going to be home tomorrow?" She asks again.
"Hmmm, for part of the day. Why do you ask?" Like I don't already know.
"Because maybe I'll have to come over and use the bathroom."
"Ha! I knew it!" I scream. Heidi and I high-five each other.
My sister is so predictable. I don't have a problem with her coming over to use my bathroom, except that I will have to leave a key somewhere since I might be gone. But I know how to play my cards.
"Well, Jess. I do need my mailbox to be fixed."
Side note: I got a message in my mailbox from the carrier that my mailbox needs to be moved forward on the board because apparently the door won't open all the way. It's the second notice I've gotten. I'm afraid he'll stop delivering all my fatty checks bills. I was tempted to leave a note for him that said "Sorry, don't have husband, not good with hammer. Will get to this as soon as I find a handy man." I mean, I probably could figure the stupid thing out if I really tried, but I'd also probably end up flattened on the road considering the proximity of the mailbox to a frequently traveled street.

"If you or Travis help me fix my mailbox by 9 pm on Sunday, then I will leave you a key to my house and you can use the bathroom. I'll even make you a nice bubble bath and leave you a fluffy white towel, just like a swanky hotel. Plus I'll light the vanilla candles. It'll be real nice. Wadja say?"

It's 8 pm on Sunday and she hasn't called me to use the potty/shower yet, but there could still be a chance. Today is day two of the re-model and they still don't have it in working order yet. See progress below.

Anyway, so we finally get to the restaurant, which is this really tiny burger shack down town. It's incredibly popular, and as I eye it up, I realize there is no way the five of us are gonna fit in there. And it's not even like I take up a lot of space.

Travis is really determined to get a burger from this place because he wanted to go for his birthday dinner last week but the combined family of 12 couldn't fit then either. We wait around for 25 minutes (outside in the cold because there is no standing space) and look at the menu. Once we are seated, we know exactly what to order.

We start to draw on the table with crayons because that's what you do at this place. They place a giant sheet of brown paper on your table and you doodle. If you are a really good artist or draw an image depicting how much you love their burgers, then they keep your doodle and hang it up on the wall.

As we are eating, the boys start to talk about finances. Jess and Travis tell Jason about how they keep their money separate even though they are married, an intriguing idea that I wrote more about here. I tell Jason and Heidi that I think that is weird, and if they ever marry each other, they should not have separate accounts. But what do I know? I'm not the married person who has to mesh finances with another person. I know it causes headaches for many people. So Jason is kinda getting riled up about the issue, because he does manage his money well, but Heidi wants him to become more educated on the matter.
Jason says in an upset tone, "She wants me to go to some dumb Davey Crockett class."

I burst out laughing even before Heidi corrects him and says, "Dave Ramsey."
I find it incredibly hilarious that Jason has made this error. Unfortunately, this joke is only funny to people who know who Dave Ramsey is. Thus, no one else at my table is laughing with me. In case you didn't know, Dave Ramsey is a financial guru that gives pretty good advice and goes around giving seminars. He also has written books. Learn more about him here.

We talk a bit more and Heidi says, "the first order of business is to get a nice, sparkling diamond on this finger." She holds up her left hand. "Then we'll discuss the rest of it."
This leads to the subject of college debt, whereupon Jason says, "My deal is we can't get married till she has college paid off." (Heidi is 19 and about half way through college).
Heidi scoffs and says, "Yeah right, you can't keep it in your pants that long."
At which point I double over laughing.
Those kids. They crack me up. Here, this part is for the two of you: finish college before you get married, spend carefully, and keep it in your pants.

Here is Heidi loving her burger. Notice the bare finger. All in good time.

We love to eat and talk smack.

Pretty soon we are about the last table still in the joint, so we pay and leave. We all pile into the car again and Jason starts to drive us home to our deaths. We're waiting at a red light for about forever, so Travis gets out of the car and hits the walk signal so that our light will turn green. His plan doesn't work quickly enough though, and Jason gets annoyed and turns right instead. Right into a one way street, which has another car coming up it. 
"Oh shit!" he yells, and does an erratic turn to go straight (through the red light). Only just as he goes straight, the signal turns green, making it legal. The car makes it down about two streets and then Jason sees a train ahead of us and the crossing rails down. We watch and the train slows to a practical stop. It's not going anywhere for a long time. Patience is a virtue. Some people don't have it. Just as another car is about to pull up behind us, Jason floors the gas then hits the breaks and makes a U-turn right in front of the train tracks. He starts driving in the other direction looking for a street that the train hasn't blocked.

His passengers comment on his driving skills.
"What're you talking about? I just got back from driving in California. This is what they do all the time," Jason reasons.
"Well, you are back in Oregon now," we tell him.

We manage to drive quite far in the opposite direction of our collective homes when we find a place where we can cross. It's then that someone points out that we could have gone up the street instead and gone the other way, resulting in a faster and more direct route. But whatever. Jason makes up for lost time.

I tell him he better not pull any more funny business because I am sitting right behind him and will puke on his head if he does.

I make it home alive. I will also probably drive myself next week.

Neon Signs Lie

I don't know about you, but if something is advertised in a glowing pink neon sign, then I think that establishment better have what they say they have. It's incredibly annoying when they don't. Let me explain. 

I once again participated in Friday Night Dinner with my sister, fake brother, cousin, and cousin's girlfriend. The designated restaurant of choice was Rockin' Rogers on Commercial Street. Heidi and Jess were both a bit concerned that I wouldn't be able to find anything to eat on the menu, what with me being an herbivore and all. I assured them I would be fine, because I was remembering back to the one previous time I had been at Rockin' Rogers, and how I ordered off of the breakfast menu.

I really love waffles and french toast for dinner, because usually I am much too apathetic to make them for either dinner or breakfast on a regular day. Which, you know, is probably a good thing, considering they are not exactly the star item on the food pyramid.

On the way to Rockin' Rogers I begin to plan everything I want to eat. It's already two hours past my regular meal time, I've just got out of the gym, and I am starving. I think about how I am going to order a whipped cream covered waffle and a side of fries and a milkshake, even though I fully had eaten a piece of cake at lunch. I was in the "Who cares if I gain three pounds over the weekend?" sort of mood. So we get to Rockin' Rogers and sit down. I thumb through the menu looking for greasy, fatty goodness.

I finally see what I want: a Belgian waffle with whipped cream and fresh strawberries. I ask my sister and Travis if they are planning on ordering any fries, and if so, did they think I could eat a few? Maybe, eleven? They are like hungry wolves, so they growl at me and tell me no. So I thumb through the menu to see if I can get a side of fries on the cheap...just like, a toddler sized portion. I've gotten over my milkshake craving by this point.

Our waitress, Amber, comes over and greets us. She's wearing the typical 50s diner outfit: white shirt, black skirt, pony-tail, and a bubbly smile. She asks everyone what they want. When she gets to me, I tell her I want the Belgian waffle (I've gotten over my fry craving by this point). She tells me that the cook actually stops making waffles after two. I look at her with an expression someone might have if you've just told them that the Federal Reserve is out of one dollar bills. Amber asks me if maybe I want a burger instead, because everyone else at the table has ordered a burger. I tell her I am a vegetarian and thus do not eat beef. I begin to go into a panic over the menu. Amber's standing there, waiting for me to make up my mind, and I've got four pairs of hungry eyes staring at me, urging me to hurry up so we can get our order in. I half think about getting the veggie omelet, but I reflect on how I really wanted that deluxe carb-loaded waffle.

"Can I get french toast with whipped cream and strawberries?" I ask. Amber says yes. Because they make french toast after two, what a concept. Then she asks me if I want just the french toast, or the french toast combo. I ask what the difference is. Apparently the combo comes with eggs and a side of bacon or sausage. I state once again that I am a vegetarian, and thus do not eat pig. My fry craving starts to return. "Can I get eggs and a side of hashbrowns instead?" I ask. You'd think I was asking her to peel the potatoes herself, because then she tells me "I could, but I'd have to charge you extra." I would just like to note that meat fully costs more than potatoes do. Come on. I decline and stick just with the french toast.

Next, Amber asks us if this is all on one check. Everyone at the table is quick to point out who's together. "Us two are on one check, and they're on another, and she--," they point to me "--is by herself." You know, like last time at Applebee's. But then things start to get funny.

"Do you think you could find a table of cute guys to buy her meal for her?" somebody asks Amber. My sister then points out the table of four guys who are sitting about eight feet away. Then Heidi and Jason are like "yeah, ask one of them, please, Amber? I'll give you a dollar if you just ask."

"I'll also give you a dollar to ask one of them."

"Hey, wait a minute, if you do that, you could pay for about half my meal," I say. But then my sister says, "If you get all of them to buy her dinner, then they each would only have to pay like two bucks."

Our server is starting to laugh at this point. I'm pretty sure she's fresh out of high school, and all of this is really entertaining for her. She's up for a bit of mischief.

"No, don't ask. Just tell the guy in the hat that he's buying her meal," my cousin Jason says.

Our waitress is in on the conspiracy, because she goes over and talks to the table of guys. I'm 99 percent sure they already know what's happening, on account of how we were all really loud and they probably overheard everything we just said. I try not to look at the other table, but the rest of my family is gaping at them.

"Now look over there and smile," my sister says. It's a good thing I was more amused than I was mortified, because I actually turned to look at them and gave a cheesy smile. If I could get someone else to pay for my dinner, what the heck? After I smiled at the guys, we all started laughing. By we all, I mean the people sitting at my table only.

After Amber was out of earshot, I lowered my voice, because I was still peeved about the whole no-waffle-after-two thing. "You should not have a pink neon sign glowing in the front window stating that you serve breakfast all day, when, in fact, you do not. Unless they added another neon sign that says in parentheses 'except for waffles after 2pm.' I mean, is making a waffle really all that difficult?"

Later, after Jason's appetizer has arrived and I've mooched a mozzarella stick and an onion ring off of him, I notice that the table of guys has left. I point this out to my compadres. "Wait, is one of them going to buy my dinner or not?" I joke. Amber hasn't come by since, and we never actually overheard what the guys' response was.

When our waitress refills our water glasses, we ask. She says, "Well, they did say that the two on the end were single, and one of them left this."

I added that mustache so you wouldn't be able to see his number and call him to tell him about this blog. Notice the reflection of the lying neon pink sign?

Thanks, Keith, but I didn't want your number. I wanted my meal paid for. Travis, Jess, Jason, and Heidi all start to analyze the receipt, and they're like "Look, he only tipped one buck! No wonder he didn't pay, he's cheap!"

I cut my losses and consumed every slice of french toast and every spoonful of whipped cream. I would also like to point out at this time that Rockin' Rogers' advertisement of "fresh strawberries" literally means a load of strawberry flavored sauce with two actual strawberry halves in it. This was an additional disappointment.

As the meal was winding down, Jason gave me his plate with leftover fries on it. I ate some of  them and was glad I had not ordered any. They were the super skinny type fries saturated in grease. I prefer the fatty sized fries. You know, the ones that are 1/8th of a potato? I ate a few more, nonetheless, just to show you the sort of self-control I have.

Jess/Travis and Jason/Heidi apparently go to Rockin' Rogers a lot, and I told them that this just wasn't going to work for me, due to the restaurant's lack of good food. I really appreciated Heidi's enthusiasm to have me keep coming to Friday night dinners, because she started to brainstorm with me a list of better places we could go to eat. We'll just have to wait and see what happens next time.

Applebee's Invasion

So I finally attended Friday night dinner last evening. Friday night dinner always occurs at 7pm and it consists of my sister Jess, her husband Travis, my cousin Jason, and his girlfriend Heidi. I finally found out about it two or three weeks ago and was like "why have you never invited me?" And okay, I get it, sometimes fifth wheels can be awkward, but not with your sister, brother in law, and cousin. So I weaseled my way into an invite. Then I was unable to attend due to prior obligations and sickness. But I went yesterday.

The chosen location was Applebee's. We show up at 7:02 and the place is packed. Like I'm talking packed. You know those Styrofoam peanuts that come in UPS boxes? Well, there were more people in that restaurant than there were packing peanuts in the box your Great Aunt Marge sent you for Christmas. We think about turning around, but we ask the guy at the front how long of a wait will it be? He says something, and then I am all "Oh, just two hours?" But he actually said twenty minutes, which is a long time if you are hungry and didn't eat your 3:30 after school snack. We stand in the door for a while contemplating our stomachs, and then Brenden (I'm a name tag reader) says, "Actually, it's only ten." To which I'm kind of like "are you just saying that because you want us to stay?" So I check the time on my phone and tell Brenden it is 7:04. Then Heidi says, "so we expect a table by 7:14." She's pretty demanding. I would like to fully note that we waited for 18.5 minutes until we were seated, which rounded up is closer to twenty, not ten. But whatever, maybe Brenden failed math class. Most of my fourth grade students can't round either.

After we were seated, we decided to give our server hell. By hell, I mostly mean we talked a lot and asked a zillion questions, like how much the beverages cost because we're all tightwads. That's the thing I hate about restaurants. Why can't you just say how much your margarita costs? Is it a secret? I mean, it's not like the margarita is a woman who will be offended if you ask her how much she weighs. Though I was fully asked by Heidi at dinner how much I weigh. I told her if she were a more observant reader, she'd know, because I fully revealed it in my vegetarian diet post. Apparently every Friday night dinner begins with disclosure of everyone's weight, though this is anything but Weight Watchers.

I really struggled over the menu because I don't eat meat, and Applebee's took away the spinach pizza they used to have like four years ago. Which sort of leaves me with salad. I don't really go out to eat a salad. I prefer to purchase food that I am too lazy to make at home. I ended up getting mozzarella sticks and a salad, because every Friday night sort of requires greasy goodness. I would just like to fully note that Applebee's does not do half order mozzarella sticks, but Red Robin does. This is because Applebee's knows I have no self-control and can't order a full plate of mozzarella sticks and only eat half. They're trying to fatten me up so I want to return every Friday night.

Heidi ordered raspberry lemonade or ice tea or whatever. Really, she wanted pomegranate lemonade, but our server, Robert, was honest with her and told her that pomegranate tastes like used berry mouthwash. Actually, he didn't say that at all, but I could tell he was thinking it. So Heidi got raspberry. On her third glass, she promptly complained that she could not taste the raspberry flavoring. This glass was brought by the general manager. I should back up.

Partway through our meal, the general manager (Corey...not that I'm naming names) and some woman came to check on us and bring us refills and whatnot. I am fairly certain that the only reason they did this was because Robert told them how completely needy and annoying we were being. So the manager had to check and see just how bad these customers were. Our group pretended to be pleasant, and Heidi even put in the good word for Robert so maybe he could get a raise or something and finally buy that dream car he's always been wanting.

Later in the meal, my brother in law Travis spilled his Coke all down his pants because he was trying to flick a chip at Heidi and his plan went horribly wrong. So then we all had to scoot down the circular booth so that Travis could sit in a dry spot. I passed him the plastic barf bag that Applebee's provided us with prior to our meal, so he could use it as a bib. It may have actually been a bag to put your take out food in, but it was likely in case anyone ordered the pomegranate lemonade.

Early into the meal, I made a puzzled expression. My sister asked "What are you looking at?" I had that look of confusion that you get when you realize you've seen someone before, and they look familiar, but you have no idea where you've seen them. I noticed another one of the male servers working in the area, and I knew that I had seen him on several occasions, but I couldn't place it. I knew it wasn't at Applebee's, because I rarely go to Applebee's on account of how all I can order is dessert, salad, or fatty mozzarella sticks. He also didn't get close enough for me to read his name tag, so that was of no help. More on him later. But it drives me crazy when I recognize people and don't know where I've seen them before.

Part of the entertainment of the night was provided by some people Heidi knew. This couple sat at a booth that was positioned for optimal viewing. We were fascinated by this couple, because mostly the date could also qualify as a felony. The girl, whom I will refer to as "Minor", and the guy, whom I will refer to as "Old Fart" (even though he was actually my age), spent time gazing into each others eyes. I am sorry, but if you are 9 years younger than your date, and you are still in high school, that is wrong. I am a mandatory reporter, so I sort of feel like I should have called DHS or something. Part of my fascination was with their conversation. I really wish I could have eavesdropped on it. I mean, what do you talk about if you are still in high school?

I asked Heidi where Minor and Old Fart had met each other, and I found out they met at church. So like, maybe Old Fart was teaching Sunday School and Minor fell in love with him because of his flannelgraph presentation. But this whole mentioning of church totally jogged my memory and I remembered where I had seen familiar-server-guy. He goes to my church. I have seen him at church. So mystery solved. Though the name tag thing is still bugging me. I think it was like, E--ooy---w--or you know, Edwardo. But not Eduardo, which would make more sense spelling wise. My eyesight wasn't that good though, and I didn't even have on my fake glasses to give me a vision boost.

When Robert came by later to listen to our complaining, he revealed to us that his manager is a pretentious jerk...er, I mean...I could totally tell that his manager was a pretentious jerk without even asking Robert. The manager totally did not pay attention to detail. For example, when he brought Travis a new Coke to replace the one he spilled down his pants, he forgot to bring a straw. Obviously, Travis really needs a straw, or like, a sippy cup. Plus, he failed to give Heidi the shot of raspberry flavored high fructose corn syrup that she so desperately wanted.

Eventually we had to leave, because my sister had ODed on penne pasta. In fact, she named her food baby Penny. Plus, you know, Travis needed to change his diaper. We apologized for our behavior, paid, and then left the premises, at which point our server Robert said "Oh thank you Jesus." Only I left my blog card on the table, so that way he could read this post and relive everything all over again, from our perspective.

So Robert, if you're reading this, I apologize again. We had a fun time even though we were bothersome and you had a zillion other people to take care of. Also, I am totally still going to fill out that manager complaint on-line. Do they give you coupons? Because Panda Express totally gives you a coupon code every time you answer a survey about your visit.