Salad Days

I went to the gym last night after work, and really pushed myself. I was exhausted when I finally finished, but I needed to pick up something for dinner because Baby was working late. The original plan was just to order a pizza, but that seemed counterproductive to all that working out. So I decided I check out the new salad chain place that just opened in Chinatown. First mistake.

I didn't know too much about the place, but it seemed pretty cool. All sorts of fresh salad stuff, made to order for you. When I first walked in, I was a bit overwhelmed by the number of choices and the entire ordering process. But they had someone standing at the back of the line explaining how everything worked, so soon enough I had picked out what I wanted and was waiting to order. I'm not one to be adventurous when it comes to food, so I ordered a very basic salad with just a few vegetables. I noticed, however, that everything looked very fresh and very good, so I was excited about coming back with Baby sometime and trying something new.

As I stood at the counter, watching them assemble my salad, something dawned on me. The woman immediately in front of me and the man immediately behind me both ordered shrimp on their salad. If you're a regular reader, you know that shrimp = poison for me. I noticed that the bin with the shrimp in it was precipitously close to the other ingredients, but that wasn't the worst part. After they mix all the ingredients, they dump everything out and chop it all up and toss it again. They do this on cutting boards, and there is plenty of chaos happening with so many salads being prepared in such a small space. I realized that it was almost impossible to avoid getting shrimp bits and juice and poison in my salad, and I felt deflated. But at that point I was already at the register, so I just paid and planned to give the salad to Baby when she got home.

It's a bit of a walk to our place from Chinatown, so I called Baby on the way and told her what happened. More than anything, I was disappointed that I wouldn't be able to eat at a place that otherwise looked pretty good. But in talking about it, we realized that maybe I had overreacted. Surely I'm not the only one of their customers with a shellfish allergy. And plenty of vegetarians don't want any meat in their salad, and my Muslim grandmother damn sure wouldn't want pork in hers. I still had a few blocks to go on my walk home, so I got the phone number for the place from my receipt and gave them a call. I asked to speak to the manager, and he assured me over and over again that everything is sanitized after every single salad. They wash everything thoroughly, including all of the utensils and cutting boards, to protect against just this sort of thing. And although I didn't notice them changing anything while I was there, I had no reason not to believe the guy. He really did seem very nice. Second mistake.

I wanted to wait til Baby came home to actually eat it, because I'd be in trouble if I had an adverse reaction and I was all alone. While I waited for her, I did some more research on the company, to see if anyone else had blogged about this kind of thing. I couldn't find anything. In fact, all I could find were comments from the owners about their commitment to quality ingredients and sanitary preparation. I even found one blog where someone had complained of catching the stomach flu, and he went down the list of everywhere he had eaten that day, including the very same location in Chinatown. One of the owners actually commented on his blog, talking about their commitment to providing healthy food and hoping it wasn't anything he might have picked up in their restaurant. They seem like nice folks, right? By the way, the fact that they're scouring blogs is precisely why I'm not mentioning their name here, although I imagine they'll probably show up anyway.

By the time Baby finally made it home, I was ravenous. I already had everything planned out. I was going to take my basic salad and add some of the leftover turkey we're still working our way through. It was gonna hit the spot. So I was pretty bitter when I opened up the container and found chicken in my salad, especially when you consider I didn't order any fucking chicken. If there was chicken in there, there was bound to be shrimp as well. I was furious, but I tried not to go through the roof. Mistakes happen, the place is brand new, the staff are probably still in training, blah blah blah. Nevertheless, the manager swore up and down it was safe. Had the chicken not been there to tip me off, I might still be in the hospital or even worse. I wasn't happy.

But rather than do what you'd think I would do- blog about it and mention their name and threaten to burn the place down and put them out of business and other acts of comic hysteria- I decided to try to be constructive. I wrote a nice, calm email to them through their website. I expressed my disappointment with not only the preparation, but the manager's story as well. I explained that I understood the growing pains associated with opening a new business, but I also voiced my frustration. I did not say fuck one single time. In fact, I was almost trying to be helpful by alerting them to a breakdown in the way they do business. I was fortunate that I didn't get sick, and the next person might not be so lucky. Third mistake.

About a half hour later, I got a call from a number in New York. It was one of the owners, calling to apologize. I didn't even know what to say, but I thanked him for calling. He offered to buy me lunch to make it up to me, and promised to speak to the staff to make sure they follow protocol in the future. It was a nice touch, and my faith in humanity was restored. The company obviously cares, right? Would McDonald's do that?

A little while later, I got an email from someone in their company, and this morning I got another. Then another. Then one from the regional manager, or something, explaining that he had tried to call me to offer me my free salad, and hoped I could stop by soon. At this point I'm freaking out. Who are these crazy salad guys? You have a business to run, stop worrying about me so much! I emailed him back to thank him, and praise his company for taking customer service so seriously (it's almost scary). But I told him I had to decline his offer, as I just can't see how they can safely do what they do and not end up getting poison in my food. It's nobody's fault that shrimp is made of poison- certainly not the guys working in or running this restaurant. I've seen the guys in Cosi make a shrimp salad, not wash their hands, and then make my turkey sandwich. As a result, I don't eat at Cosi anymore. I'm going to do the same with the salad place, because honestly it's just not worth the risk. And I can chalk up the lost six dollar salad as a lesson in how much shellfish ruin everything for everyone.

So if you're reading this, please stop offering me a free salad. Just make sure the people who work for you follow the rules, and try to come up with a way to keep the poisonous stuff away from the stuff that's not poisonous. I'm not gonna try to sue you or put you out of business. I respect what you're trying to do, and I think it works just fine for people who don't mind having their stuff all mashed up. But it's not for me, because it might kill me.

Thanks.

Don't Be That Guy

When Baby and I are angrily talking about which people we are better than (everyone does that, right?), the conversation often turns to people who lack self-awareness. These are our favorite targets. See if you can think of people who fit these descriptions-

"Make It Up As I Go Along Driver"- The rules of the road are merely suggestions. My SUV with the Virginia Pentagon Memorial plates and Support Our Troops yellow ribbon stickers affords me the opportunity to create my own set of driving guidelines as the situation dictates. Make a U Turn across traffic from the far right lane? No problem. Right turn on red when people are in the crosswalk? Go for it. It's not like there are other people out here sharing the road with me, right?

"Don't Hold The Door"- Look, I'm in a hurry. Glancing behind me to see if someone else might be standing there will waste valuable nanoseconds. I simply can't be bothered. Manners be damned, I am late for shit!

"Stop Somewhere You Shouldn't On The Metro"- Some tourists get a pass on this one, because I understand how the Metro can be confusing (if you can't read, listen, or even understand basic symbols on signs). But how completely unaware of your surroundings do you have to be if you feel compelled to stop at the the top or bottom of an escalator to get your bearings? How do you not notice the wave of human beings standing right behind you? And did it ever occur to you to fish through your pockets for your farecard BEFORE you got to the turnstile?

"Waiting In Line Talking On Your Cell Phone"- Hang up the goddamn phone. If you were really that important, you wouldn't be standing in line in Subway, would you?

I've recently added a new person to the list, and he/she is climbing the charts with a bullet.

"Fucking Wheelie Briefcase Douchebag"- The wheelie suitcase is very helpful. Makes you wonder how you ever got along without one. But how fat and lazy do you have to be if you have to get wheels for your goddamn briefcase? For starters, consider not carrying so much crap with you wherever you go. I regularly bring books, my gym stuff, and my lunch with me to and from work. It makes my bag pretty big. But I certainly don't need goddamn wheels to lug it around. And please miss me with the 'my back hurts' argument. My back is in goddamn shambles, to the point where I sometimes can barely walk, even with a cane. And yet I somehow manage to carry my stuff without wheels. Get rid of some of your material possessions, man, or they will only end up owning you, man. Why on earth do you need to carry them all with you, anyway? Is this some sort of hobo training program? Harden the fuck up and invest in a good, sturdy bindle. Your dignity will thank you for it.

If you absolutely have to have the wheelie suitcase, because your combination of abject laziness and utter apathy has rendered your muscles useless, can you consider trying to remember that the bag you're trailing behind you leaves a twisted path of stumbling commuters in its wake? Every second of the day, things are occurring outside of your meager little mind. And not just things directly in your line of sight! Look around, including behind you. You'd be amazed at what you might find back there. We're tired and just want to go home, too. And we're actually carrying our shit, so give us a break, k?

And I'm just gonna say this last part once, people. This is your only warning. You know that backpack you bought for your kid with the wheels on it? You've got one chance to go get it at this instant and set it on fire. Do you honestly believe you can raise your child to be anything other than the World's Biggest Pussy if he can't even carry his own books home from school? If he has that many books, have you considered that maybe he should start doing things other than homework for a change? Give him a football or a slingshot or a book of matches and let him be a real boy for once. Tell him to go outside and climb something. Set him free. Because if I see him standing on the Metro platform lugging that thing around one more time, I'm pushing both of you in front of the next train. The future of the human race is at stake, god damn it!

Tell That God Damn Baby To Shut The Fuck Up

I had this big fight with my mom once, where I tried to convince her we were white trash. She denied it vehemently, it was almost frightening. My mom, true to her psychopath nature and bless her heart, is in complete denial. If you ever want proof that we have it good in America, you need only remember that my family doesn't live in a trailer park. If we can make it, anyone can. Just to win this argument again, I present our credentials.

-I have never met my daddy +15 points.

-I refer to my daddy as "my daddy" +25 points.

-My mom dropped out of high school when she was 17 to have me. +15 points

-My mom was on her third attempt at 9th grade when she 'decided' to drop out. +25 points

-My mom, very pregnant with my sister, married my stepfather (daddy #2) in our apartment. In the pictures, I am 2 years old and featured prominently. +10 points

-Also featured in those photos is my cousin Shawn, daddy #2's sister's son. Shawn is 14 months older than me, even though his mother is 2 years younger than daddy #2. That means she was 15 when he was born. +20 points

-Shawn is black, his mother (and daddy #2) is/are Turkish, and I am white. We don't, ahem, look very much alike. +50 points

-When I was about 7, I learned that daddy #2 was not my real daddy. My mom's sister's daughters (my cousins) told me. Their mother had both of them before she turned 20. Their dad, although not completely missing, wasn't exactly "around." +25 points

-Both of those cousins had children out of wedlock before they turned 20. One of them was arrested for trying to stab the father of two of her three children. She has since lost custody. +50 points

-My brother is named after both of his grandfathers. My mother, to get even with daddy #2 (his father), called him by yet a third name well into his childhood, leaving many to wonder what ever happened to that kid Ryan who used to be my brother. +25 points

-My sister decided to finally marry her high school sweetheart, in between the birth of her second and third daughters. They now have a total of four little girls, and they appear to be the perfect little family. Of course, you have to ignore that she dropped out of high school to have the first one (at age 16), and that her husband, by lying on his resume, was able to land a job as a marketing executive for a tobacco company, where he makes more money in a year than I make in a decade. +100 points

-My mom's father lives in a double-wide rambler in Woodbridge, VA. A 'renovation' to the house has allowed it to stretch from one end of the chain link fence to the other, to match the empty swimming pool in the backyard. The car in the driveway is a Lincoln, and has not run in at least 20 years, if ever. +50 points

-His wife (my grandmother), rest her soul, was named Jo Ed. That is not an abbreviation, that's the whole name. But it could be worse. Her mother was named Gay, and my grandmother liked that so much she named my aunt (the mother of the detectives who uncovered my birth secret and shared it with me) Gay as well. I'd tell you my mother's name, but honestly I'm just too embarrassed. +50 points

So I win, right? I mean, it's not even worth arguing about, is it? Let's call a spade a spade (just kidding, Shawn!). It's a miracle, not to mention a testament to the greatness of the United States of America, that we're firmly planted in the middle class. And my god, it scares the shit out of me to wonder about the people who haven't been able to make it. I mean, really.

I would like to think that I have some great gift, because I seem to be the first person in the family with the self-awareness to realize we're a couple of bad decisions away from dragging our knuckles and having to divide the family up into hunters and gathers. I'd like to believe that I can take these lessons learned and pave the way for a brighter future for my family. And maybe that does happen in the movies.

But in reality, this is where I am. I'm calling my brother, frantic, at 1 o'clock on a Friday, scrambling to get advice for this weekend's football picks. And he, clearly in his element, takes the time to pontificate about the point spreads and interesting matchups. It should be perfect- a bonding moment between two brothers. Only I'm distracted, because he's holding his newborn son in his lap and he won't stop fussing. And my brother is distracted, because it's hard as hell to play online poker, talk on the phone, and juggle your fussing newborn son in your lap. As we both grow ever more exasperated, I finally shout, "Jesus, will you tell that god damn baby to shut the fuck up!?" And when we both laugh, I realize daddy would be proud.