Want To Make Everyone Jealous And Get Treated Like A VIP? There’s An App For That.
So. You know how I’m pretty much a spur-of-the-moment, Read the rest of this gem…
Inappropriate.
On Saturday night I went to a surprise party.
Surprise parties are the best, as long as everyone is awesome and no one ruins it.
There’s just something about making someone feel so unexpectedly loved.
But first, (and if we’re going to be honest, then this is the best part), you have to make the guest of honor — the “surprisee,” if you will — feel like total crap.
“Oh, it’s your birthday this week? Huh. I think I already have plans on Saturday, but maybe we can get together Sunday? Hmm… but I have to get up really early on Monday, so let’s get lunch instead of dinner. I have to pick up my dry cleaning by 1:00, so can we go at like 11:00? That cute little cafe downtown is a little far for me to drive, but they have a Chili’s near the mall. Hey, I’ll buy you a birthday margarita! It will be great! As long as I can get to the dry cleaner’s by 1:00.”
And the fantastic part is you don’t really care that your friend looks like she wants to punch you in the face because you know, deep down, that she will feel terrible for thinking these unsavory thoughts about you when she sees you at her surprise party.
And that’s why surprise parties are the best — because they make your friends feel terrible for doubting your commitment to the friendship. Which makes you feel great, because you can be like, “See? I really do love you! I love you so much that I will lie to your face and make you feel unloved, just so I can make you feel terrible later. Which, in the end, will really make you — and especially me — feel awesome.”
See how that works?
We surprised my friend Danielle for her birthday, after each of us in turn told her — subtly — that we had more important things to do. (By the way, of course I forgot my nice camera, so all you get is fuzzy, semi-inebriated photos of the evening’s festivities.)
It was just a small group of friends — that’s me in the gray dress in the middle, Danielle in the gray dress crouched down on the right, and the looker standing on the far right is her boyfriend Matt.
Matt planned the surprise (because he’s not just a looker — he’s a thinker, too).
(And sorry, ladies — he’s very much taken.)
It was probably the most fantastic food at any surprise party in the history of ever because Danielle’s friend Morgan (far left in the top photo) works as a catering manager for a really fantastic restaurant called Elliott’s on Linden in Pinehurst.
We may have taken advantage of this fact.
Lamb skewers with a spicy remoulade dipping sauce, seafood risotto, cheesy grits with sausage, mini grilled cheese triangles with tiny cups of tomato basil bisque, dim sum, and various dips, local cheeses, breads, and crackers. (That’s the lamb with remoulade in the above photo. Not, uh… whatever else it may look like.)
And let’s not forget the desserts.
So basically, I was stuffing my face, and then I noticed this.
Morgan’s tattoo.
Look close.
No, it’s not a Celtic knot symbolizing her spiritual faith for all eternity. No, it’s not some inspirational word written in French or Latin or any language other than the one in which she’s fluent. And no, it’s not the birth date of a child or the death date of a grandparent or the date she went to her first Creed concert and decided that she would, in fact, embrace the world with arms wide open by getting a wrist tattoo.
Nope.
It’s just a word, and it’s written in english, and it says…
Inappropriate.
That’s it.
Inappropriate.
Of course it was the result of an evening’s drunken escapade — the kind where permanent ink always seems like a great idea to commemorate something you’re sure was quite hilarious at the time. And then you wake up in that fuzzy, semi-delirious state-of-mind — that place where you can’t quite remember which of your brain’s crazy recollections are real, and which are just dreams, and then you feel it. You feel it before you see it. That bee sting burn that indicates you may have done something really, incredibly, stupid.
It’s something characters do, not real people, like the face tattoo in The Hangover II or the butterfly tramp stamp in Californication.
Except in this case it is very real, very permanent, and very… inappropriate.
Or is it?
I mean, maybe it would actually be kind of nice if we could all get branded with a blunt word that describes our prominent personalities. I know many people who would stamp me with “inappropriate” or “loud” or “incredisexylicious.”
Okay. Maybe not that last one.
But if I had a tattoo that said “inappropriate,” people would no longer be shocked when I say something, well — inappropriate. They couldn’t get offended because I’d be all, “Hey. Can’t you see the tattoo? It’s not like I didn’t warn you.”
It would give people a heads-up. You’d go to shake a hand, check out the wrist, and immediately have an idea of who you’re dealing with: Funny? Great! Bigot? No thanks. Easy? Let me buy you another drink.
I might need to buy a tattoo machine for the sole purpose of branding people while they sleep.
Labels are bad, you say? People are more complex than a single word? Yes, we are. But think about it. Deep down, in our heart of hearts, we all have something very definable. Something very us. Something not likely to change anytime soon. It might be good, it might be bad, but whatever it is, it just is.
If you had a word, what would it be?
Travel Tip #472: How To Look Like You Know What You’re Doing. Kind Of.
I have said it before, and I’ll say it again.
Traveling alone, while completely thrilling in a scary-adrenaline-pumping-whoa-I-just-had-sex-without-a-condom kind of way, is best when punctuated with familiar faces. Even better when those faces happen to be local.
See, when you have access to a local, and I mean more than a quick information exchange on an airplane or subway though that’s certainly helpful too, you have access to the heart of a place. The keys to the Camaro. The ear to its secrets.
And in San Diego, not only did I meet up with long-lost non-local friends, but I met a friend I’d never actually met — an online friend and someone whose words I’ve been reading for over two years, so really it seemed like we’d never not met because honesty, if you haven’t figured it out by now, is kind of hard for a blogger to avoid.
So it’s like we’re in each others’ heads.
Dennis Hong is the founder of Musings on Life and Love, as well as a new relationship advice site called Lemon Vibe, and a regular contributor to Cracked.com and Dear Wendy and probably another one or two or seven that I’m forgetting. He’s a molecular biologist-turned-high-school-teacher or something along those lines, the American kind of Asian, argumentative, wicked smart, swing dancer, lover of scotch and unwitting connoisseur of saki, has a lovely girlfriend named Melissa, and is an exceedingly talented and prolific writer.
See? Must mean I know him like the back of my hand.
Which doesn’t really mean much, when I think about it, because I doubt I could pick my hand out in a lineup.
Anyway.
Like I said. While exploring an unknown place on your own can be an incredible, mind opening experience, consulting with a local is, more often than not, the most efficient way to dig around its guts.
He showed me one of the best places for food.
(More on this place HERE.)
He told me one of the best places for drinks.
(More on this place HERE.)
He showed me his mad swing dancing skills at a place whose surface screamed I’m just a pub! by day but hiked up its poodle skirt by night.
Henry’s Pub
He showed me saki. And made me drink it.
Uhh… Don’t remember the name of this restaurant.
And he left me with advice of other places to check out, like Kansas City Barbecue, the locale where Goose sings Great Balls of Fire to his kids and the lovely Meg Ryan in Top Gun:
And the Top of the Hyatt, which is a FREE — yes I said FREE — elevator excursion to arguably the best view in San Diego.
It took me no less than 3 elevator rides from the Hyatt’s impressive lobby to get into the correct one — the one that would take me to the top.
This is me. Bored in an elevator. You can’t tell, but I was really excited to get in the right one.
Are we there, yet?
Oh, yes. We are most certainly there.
There’s also a bar up there called — get this — Top of the Hyatt. I didn’t get a drink or even go inside because the place is über fancy which made my jean shorts feel a little Daisy Duke but not as sexy so I skipped it, but here’s my take: If you’re in San Diego, go to the top of the Hyatt (the floor). If you’re in San Diego and have money to spend on drinks and are wearing something nicer than Jean Shorts and don’t smell like Saki, go to the Top of the Hyatt (the bar). Even if they’re extra pricey (they probably are) and not that great (they’re probably not), the euphoric view more than makes up for it.
Since I have an intense aversion to travel research, I never would have known this existed if it weren’t for Dennis. It was kind of awesome, completely free, and kind of awesome.
So.
Find yourself a local.
And if your local happens to be a swing dancin’ Asian, consider yourself extra lucky.
Broncos? I’m Pretty Sure They Should Be The Denver Dogs.
Did you know that the song, “Build Me Up, Buttercup” always puts me in a good mood?
It doesn’t matter that my allergies have practically crudded my contact lenses to my eyelids and my husband’s in Afghanistan and the dogs have been waking me up at 5:30 every morning so they can drag me 2 miles around the neighborhood.
Ultimately, it’s The Foundations — not the sunrise over the lake or the smell of my morning coffee or any amount of caffeine — who put the spring back in my step.
Which only further proves that I was born in the wrong generation.
Technology makes me nervous, and I’m pretty sure that a poppy-seed from my bagel just got stuck inside my keyboard.
That wouldn’t have happened with a typewriter.
Of course, then this whole blog thing wouldn’t be happening either, and I’d probably be haphazardly wandering the streets of Fayetteville talking to anyone who will listen about the merits of Poo-Pourri while shoving photos of family vacations in their faces.
But instead, I get to shove them in your faces, which is much more gratifying.
So.
After our first day in Colorado was spent guzzling free alcoholic beverages at the Coors brewery, we decided we needed some culture in our lives. My mother, her boyfriend Ed, Justin and I hopped on a train that speedily dropped us in the heart of downtown Denver.
(Can I just say for a second how much I love public transportation? Seriously. My dream is to live in a city with clean, efficient public transportation — where I can jet from one place to the next without worrying where to park my car, how much it’s going to cost, or whether I might lose the drag race I just accepted with a 60-year-old man. True story.
I won.)
Just one of many modes of Denver mass transit.
Anyway.
Our first stop in the Mile High city was for food.
You know my priorities.
Justin, always the advocate for anything highlighted on the Food or Travel networks, opted for Biker Jim’s Gourmet Dogs. We were searching for their street cart at the specified location, but ended up walking several city blocks to the actual restaurant when we learned it was an off-day for the food cart. Turns out this was a wise decision, since I’m pretty sure they don’t sell beer from the food cart.
But I’ve been wrong before.
The decor is minimal and industrial, but their main food is hot dogs. What do you expect?
An interesting juxtaposition of good ol’ “Amurcan” cuisine, gourmet ingredients, and several oddities you’d be more likely to find dead on the side of the road than in Manhattan’s finest establishments make up the simple menu.
Tip: The larger the selection of food on a restaurant’s menu, the crappier it will likely be. Smaller, more selective menus are generally where you’ll find the best food.
I ordered the Weiner Wellington — an insanely delicious rib eye steak brat with mushroom duxelle and grainy Dijon cream wrapped in puff pastry and drizzled with Bordelaise. I don’t know what most of that is, but I do know this: It tasted like heaven wrapped in fluffy clouds dipped in gravy.
For $8.50, this is not the most I’ve spent on a dog, believe it or not. Nor is this the widest selection of toppings I’ve seen. But it was, my friends, the tastiest.
Take one.
Take two.
Take… *burp*
Now. I honestly can’t remember what Justin and Ed ordered. It may have been the southwest buffalo. It may have been the Wild Boar. Maybe the smoked bacon Bat Dog, with avocado puree, tomato cream cheese, caramelized onion, and bacon bits. And I know the idea of the rattlesnake and pheasant dogs were at least discussed.
But I do know they were delicious.
Pretty sure this is the Bat Dog.
And… um… boar, maybe?
But they weren’t quite as good as mine.
It was the puff pastry that sealed the deal.
If this is Denver, consider me a fan.
I Bet My Lunch is Better than Yours
I have a confession to make.
It’s not like this confession or this confession, where my mistakes were embarrassing but innocent, yet they were just that – mistakes.
No, this is something different entirely.
This is something that could be considered a flaw of character.
I know.
I didn’t think I had any of those, either.
Well maybe this isn’t so much a character flaw, as it is a taste flaw.
I can’t believe I’m about to admit this on this blog. My foodie friends read this blog.
But those of you who know me – like know me, know me – are already aware of this fun little fact.
One of my absolute, all-time, mouth-is-watering-right-now-just-thinking-about it foods is…
A hot dog.
Correction – a good hot dog.
But I’ll eat the bad ones, too.
Justin and I decided to go out to dinner last night because our heater is broken, it’s unseasonably cold, and refusing to conform to what most people would do in our situation, which is call someone to fix it and eat Ramen noodles in an attempt to save as much money as possible for something that could potentially do catastrophic damage to our already-dwindling savings account (more on that later), we decided to pretend that the problem didn’t exist and go try a restaurant we’ve been wanting to try for quite some time.
*This problem is much more difficult to ignore today, while I’m sitting here typing with the very real fear that the tip of my nose is going to freeze off, which, if you’ve seen my schnoz, wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to my face aesthetically speaking, but I’m pretty positive it wouldn’t feel all too pleasant.
The restaurant is called The Steele Pig, and is located a mere 25 minutes from our house, which is remarkably close for an actual chef-owned restaurant ’round these parts. We didn’t even know it existed until a couple of months ago. It’s incredibly understated, hard to see from the street, minimally decorated, doesn’t have an overabundance of tables, and none of that matters because holy crap, it’s a real restaurant less than an hour away from our house!
Now, I’m not a “foodie blogger.” Unlike my friends Steven and Matty, I can’t wax poetic about chef credentials and food names I can’t properly announce and why certain reds are better served in a tulip glass because the liquid will hit my not-so-refined palette in just the right place and are you still talking because I’m seriously trying to eat over here.
So I’m not even going to try.
All I can tell you is that while there are some things on the menu that sounded absolutely delicious (crawfish cakes or a fried green tomato BLT, anyone?), I knew my choice had been made for me when our server told us about their $12 hot dog they had on special that night.
That’s right – $12 for a hot dog.
I knew it had to be good.
I waited anxiously with my tasty $5 mojito, and we downed some fried pork wontons that were gone before I could snap a photo.
*All of these photos were taken with my crappy camera phone, by the way. My apologies. I tried to be discrete because I know Justin loves being seen with the girl taking pictures of her food. I only wished I had my giant DSLR to take better photos…
But then – then – came this:
A giant, delicious, 100% beef (I think) dog on an egg bun topped with incredibly tender pulled pork and homemade coleslaw with my choice of either a traditional red barbecue sauce or a North Carolina vinegar-based sauce.
Oh. My. God.
I had to eat this with a fork.
It was also served with homemade applesauce and incredible herb and garlic fries.
Heaven.
In fact, I think I’m going to go devour the other half right now before I go in search of a warm place (maybe a bookstore?) to spend the afternoon.
Let’s hope the heater fixer guy has good – and not expensive – news, shall we?
Because I’m Just a Waitress
Have you ever noticed that when television shows or Hollywood movies want to make you feel sorry for a female character, they usually cast her as a waitress?
I mean, really, the biggest thing that makes waiting tables a crappy job (besides the minimal pay, odd hours, and cleaning up other people’s messes) is that obnoxious woman who, as I tell her our specials or bring her another wine spritzer, lets herself think that she’s better than me.
It doesn’t happen often, but I can tell which ones they are. There’s this expression of relief that washes over her face as she makes the conscious decision to not say thank you and instead, turns to her dining partners (who, more often than not, look embarrassed to be seen with her), so she can regale them with stories of her own personal intelligence, wit, and charm.
Because she, after all, did not end up a food server.
(Is that the same blonde actress giving our leading lady the evil eye in both movies? If there’s anything worse than being the waitress we feel sorry for, it’s being the waitress we don’t even think about.)
But I’m here to tell you, friends, that you should never make that mistake. Not only do you portray yourself as a repugnant, judgmental ass, but it’s just plain not nice.
Believe it or not, I actually have a bachelor of science in environmental geoscience with a minor in geology.
I even took a class called Geomorphology.
I could go to grad school, if I felt that would make me any happier.
I’ve worked for both the U.S. Air Force and the Army, as well as a private environmental consulting company – a job that, may I remind you, was not easy to get.
Does this make me better than you? Of course not.
It just makes me better than you think.
In fact, some of the most intelligent people I’ve known have worked in the food service industry at one time or another. A girl with whom I work right now is an RN. So, snobby waitress-hater at my table, the good news is she can save you if one day you choke on your snide-laced pride.
Whether they’re doing it for the social aspect, as a transitional phase, or because it was the only thing preventing them from knocking over cubicle walls or beating the crap out of copy machines, it doesn’t really matter.
More often than not, it’s the catch-all career for those who, while pursuing all of the “shoulds” in their lives, realized they lost sight of the “wants” and decided to try again.
Is that really so degrading?
They’re impulsive.
They’re driven.
They’re biding their time until the next big thing.
But, most important, they bring you your food.
And if you’re as smart as you think you are, disparaging woman at my table, then you already know that you should never, ever bite the hand that feeds you.
See you tonight!
xo,
Katie