(no subject)

This morning I awoke from still more strange dreams (books read with deer horns and burnt bones, fearsome wars) to run errands. For hours, I ran. I was almost run over by a Mitsubishi, sideswiped by a Pontiac and bumped by a Volvo. I watched a woman in a giant Suburban with a marina parking sticker try to maneuver her vehicle in between the lines on the lot without success. Too many bad drivers. But I picked up supplies for the pets, and sighed over the enormous grey cat in the window sleeping. I bought frames for the awesome cake prints for the kitchen and picked up the groceries I forgot yesterday. I searched two stores for Mike's favorite ice cream without success, so I bought two for him to choose from. After all that madness, I bought myself lunch from Whole Foods.

It's a lovely day, sunny and cool breezes. The sky is the pastel blue of a Jordan almond and feathered with streaks of cirrus clouds. Now I want to lay in the yard and read more Robert E Howard while I eat my almonds.

reviewing

In case you have ever wondered what shoes your British phone sex operators are wearing, they are probably these leopard print slingbacks. Yes, the reviewer stated that these were her favorite shoes to describe to her callers.

Is it just me, or does this head massage device look more like something aliens might use to remove the top of your skull? I find it sort of hilarious that it is called the Heebeegeebee. Why have I not seen anyone in the Torchwood fandom menacing us with this object?

Finally, I code restaurant reviews for Open Table pretty regularly. They make me grit my teeth because most of them are full of a sense of entitlement that causes me physical pain. The following is a very mild example:

I went for dinner on Sunday at 3:00 pm, but didn't know they were still serving brunch. Most restaurants in DC start dinner at 3, so it was very disappointing. Even though the brunch meal we had was well prepared it was hard to be enthusiastic since we wanted dinner not breakfast. We had a great waiter, but Clydes could have been more accommodating about letting us order dinner anyway. It was my mother's birthday. Generally speaking I like Clydes. I had dinner there on Friday as well and that meal was terrific.

Seriously, whiskey tango foxtrot? Most restaurants may be serving dinner at the ungodly early hour of three in the afternoon but this one clearly wasn't. the answer was to go somewhere else if you want dinner, not badger the restaurant about their service hours and pout because you didn't get what you wanted. Gee, it was your special day. Every day is someone's special day. Why does that mean the restaurant should bend over backwards to placate you?

I understand that part of eating out is service and one pays for the pleasure of having someone else do the heavy lifting. But I find a lot or reviewers seem to expect restaurants to cater and kowtow to their every whim. What the fuck is that? This attitude is so repulsive to me. I would never imagine pitching a fit about not getting the dinner menu at 3pm, or being upset that I had to wait ten minutes during dinner rush for my drink to arrive and my order to be taken, or demand that the waitress be more happy to see me and fawn over me.

Waiting tables is hard, brutal work - physically and mentally. I know that I wouldn't last one day. Someone would make me cry or be so wretched that I would stab them with a fork. I tip my waitstaff high, even if service isn't great. I do this because I imagine they deal with horrid, selfish customers all day long who make unreasonable demands and make life difficult for them. If I went somewhere and they didn't have exactly what I wanted, I would order something else or go somewhere else. Sure, I'm paying for someone else to cook the meal and bring it to me. But I am not paying them to grovel or so I can treat them like slaves.

(If you're my friend and you ever act like that when we go out to eat, that's the last time we're going anywhere together. Ever.)