There are certain situations where I can, almost like an out-of-body experience, stand back and observe and wonder why I'm there.
Saturday's triathlon was one such experience.
For starters, Wade had been gone at scout camp since Monday morning and wasn't due home until later on Saturday afternoon. So I had to secure a babysitter. My parents were gracious enough to come out and babysit. They were going to bring the kids over and cheer me on the course. I had the perfect cheering spots picked out and everything.
But when they showed up Saturday morning at 6:50 am, my mom announced that there are only certain activities that warrant her ruining her hair--she is of the old school generation that gets her hair done once a week (Thursdays) and then tiptoes through life as to not mess it up until the following Thursday--and standing out in the rain watching her only daughter participate in a triathlon was not a good enough reason to walk around for five days with flat, matted hair. So, they sat home with the kids while I braved the elements.
I really thought they were going to call the swim portion of the triathlon. I mean, with the thunder and the lightning, putting 100 people in a lake is probably not the wisest decision. But it's a good thing that I'm not in charge. Note that while I don't think it was the wisest decision, that didn't stop me from getting in the water. We all lined up on the sandy beach leading to the lake and the first heat (of two heats) of swimmers readied themselves. The siren went off and they took off. Then it was my turn. I stepped into the slimey water (the water was actually warmer than the air) and noted a gorgeous rainbow above my left shoulder. Surely, if God was going to smite us in the water, he wouldn't have given us such beauty to look at beforehand, right? Wrong. Because just then I saw the sky illuminate with lightning and then the siren went off indicating it was our turn to go.
First thought: "Oh, this is going to make a good story for the blog."
The second heat of swimmers is filled, primarily, with those who's forte is not swimming. Thus, that is why I was continuously attacked by people who were swimming on their backs. In fact, one lady was ON TOP of me and I was swallowing quite a bit of water. So much in fact, that I was hydrated enough for the both the bike and run portions without so much as having to take a drink of water.
When I finally got out from under her, I was assaulted with various limbs of other swimmers. Strangely, I didn't really think about the lightning. I spent some time wondering where all those bullfrogs come from I see smashed on the road and then that led to what I'd do if I saw a snake swimming by and then I was interrupted by a swift kick to the face. Finally, I made it out of the pond and was quite surprised to find that the clouds had opened up and spewed forth copious amounts of rain. I had no idea it was raining while I was swimming. But I was well aware of the fact that my socks and shoes were soaking wet BEFORE I put them on.
While on the bike, it rained. And rained. And rained even more. I saw someone biff it taking a corner too fast. And the water was dripping off my helmet. 12 miles later, when I finally got off the bike (yes, I totally beat the 13 year old on a mountain bike. Barely.) it was still raining.
I started on the run with close to a quarter inch of water in my shoes. My socks were soaked. My shirt that I had waiting at the transition area to run in with my number pinned on it was soaked. I was soaked.
The run was pleasant enough. I was surprised to find that I wasn't at the end like I thought maybe I was. That made me feel good. I felt REALLY good when I beat the local spinning instructor on the bike. Perhaps I have future calling?
When it's put in words, it reads to be a horrible experience, but it was actually pretty awesome. Except for it was a little cold. Being wet and all for 2 hours. It took 15 minutes in a hot shower before my teeth stopped chattering. And even though I got my butt kicked by both training buddies and one of the neighbor ladies (the other one couldn't talk herself into going in the lake so she didn't even show) I still had a great time and can't wait for next year.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Competition
I'm a competitor by nature, though there are few things that I actually come out on top of. I'm decent, though not spectacular, in most (all?) areas.
This summer, I've been training for a triathlon that's here in the community. Two years ago, I did the same triathlon and convinced three friends to do it with me. We were the only ladies from the neighborhood doing it and were looked upon like the royalty we clearly are at church the day after the race. Even though the four of us nearly rounded out the bottom of the finishers, everyone seemed amazed at our endurance and strength to complete a task so foreign as a triathlon.
This year, one of the original four had a baby and another one decided not to do it, so it's me, another original member of the quartet and a new gal that's also been training with us for a half marathon next weekend. The three of us make a good team. H. is incredible in the water. Last year, she competed on a relay team and was the fastest woman out of the pond. 3 months after giving birth. She's also a great runner. Having only been running since May, she's cut nearly 10 minutes off of her 5k time. She's definitely an inspiration. C. is overall good. She's middlepack for all three events, but she shines in endurance. The last two years she has done the triathlon in conjunction with battling a stomach bug. Two years in a row! She's a machine and will push us on our runs. She's also 37. My event is biking. It's the long legs. Both H. and C. are 5 foot
tall, so my advantage is that I have a good 8 inches on them. I also have 40 pounds on them as well, which is a hinderance in both swimming and running. I hold no illusions that I will beat these two. But the thing is, I don't care. I love these gals and I'm equally excited to see them do well (both placed in their age categories at the Tooele July 4th 5k, beating out quite a few women) as I would be for myself. We make a good trio and can keep our competitiveness at bay with each other. We train well together because we all bring something unique to the table.
However, a few other women in the neighborhood have jumped on our royalty bandwagon and signed up to do the triathlon. Which would be all fun and stuff except for they are considerably better than us,--by which I mean, me. They're presumably faster bikers and swimmers, and most definitely faster runners. Therefore, they're going to beat us (me).
And the thing is these two ladies are the NICEST, KINDEST, most charitable women in the entire neighborhood. I don't think they've even given one thought to who might win. They're just doing it for "fun". They will stand and cheer me in even if I'm the last person on the course. They'll tell me I did incredible and there will be no fakeness about it.
But my posse and me...we've discussed it ad nauseam. We've pummeled every possible scenario into the ground. We've strategized and theorized and planned every microsecond of the triathlon to get the edge. It's been very brain-consuming.
Which kills me inside. Because I don't want them to beat me. I've worked dang hard and one gal flip flopped all summer about doing it and then decided just this week she was going to compete. She'll go out and it will be a walk in the park. A nice Saturday jaunt in the gross, carp-infested water, while I've literally been training for this thing for two months. Getting up at 5:30 am to go to the indoor pool. Running intervals at the track. Flat tires and near misses by passing cars on the bike.
And really, it should just be about doing my best and having fun. Which it will be. Provided my tires don't pop. Or I don't get eaten by four foot carp. And it wouldn't be an issue if the triathlon was three weeks later because one of the gals would be 30 and in the next age group. The other one is 33 and so I don't have to worry about her as much (C. does though). But, my age group just got better and I'm pretty much guaranteed not to place. Which is an ego buster in an event that only has like 30 woman.
But, you know what? We'll go out, do our best, beat the one person we need to beat (because there is someone that we MUST beat at all costs), not come in last (though somebody does have to come in last. And my mom assures me that you will not die if you come in last. From personal experience.) and have fun. And relish in the fact that we did a triathlon on a Saturday morning before most people were out of bed.
This summer, I've been training for a triathlon that's here in the community. Two years ago, I did the same triathlon and convinced three friends to do it with me. We were the only ladies from the neighborhood doing it and were looked upon like the royalty we clearly are at church the day after the race. Even though the four of us nearly rounded out the bottom of the finishers, everyone seemed amazed at our endurance and strength to complete a task so foreign as a triathlon.
This year, one of the original four had a baby and another one decided not to do it, so it's me, another original member of the quartet and a new gal that's also been training with us for a half marathon next weekend. The three of us make a good team. H. is incredible in the water. Last year, she competed on a relay team and was the fastest woman out of the pond. 3 months after giving birth. She's also a great runner. Having only been running since May, she's cut nearly 10 minutes off of her 5k time. She's definitely an inspiration. C. is overall good. She's middlepack for all three events, but she shines in endurance. The last two years she has done the triathlon in conjunction with battling a stomach bug. Two years in a row! She's a machine and will push us on our runs. She's also 37. My event is biking. It's the long legs. Both H. and C. are 5 foot
tall, so my advantage is that I have a good 8 inches on them. I also have 40 pounds on them as well, which is a hinderance in both swimming and running. I hold no illusions that I will beat these two. But the thing is, I don't care. I love these gals and I'm equally excited to see them do well (both placed in their age categories at the Tooele July 4th 5k, beating out quite a few women) as I would be for myself. We make a good trio and can keep our competitiveness at bay with each other. We train well together because we all bring something unique to the table.
However, a few other women in the neighborhood have jumped on our royalty bandwagon and signed up to do the triathlon. Which would be all fun and stuff except for they are considerably better than us,--by which I mean, me. They're presumably faster bikers and swimmers, and most definitely faster runners. Therefore, they're going to beat us (me).
And the thing is these two ladies are the NICEST, KINDEST, most charitable women in the entire neighborhood. I don't think they've even given one thought to who might win. They're just doing it for "fun". They will stand and cheer me in even if I'm the last person on the course. They'll tell me I did incredible and there will be no fakeness about it.
But my posse and me...we've discussed it ad nauseam. We've pummeled every possible scenario into the ground. We've strategized and theorized and planned every microsecond of the triathlon to get the edge. It's been very brain-consuming.
Which kills me inside. Because I don't want them to beat me. I've worked dang hard and one gal flip flopped all summer about doing it and then decided just this week she was going to compete. She'll go out and it will be a walk in the park. A nice Saturday jaunt in the gross, carp-infested water, while I've literally been training for this thing for two months. Getting up at 5:30 am to go to the indoor pool. Running intervals at the track. Flat tires and near misses by passing cars on the bike.
And really, it should just be about doing my best and having fun. Which it will be. Provided my tires don't pop. Or I don't get eaten by four foot carp. And it wouldn't be an issue if the triathlon was three weeks later because one of the gals would be 30 and in the next age group. The other one is 33 and so I don't have to worry about her as much (C. does though). But, my age group just got better and I'm pretty much guaranteed not to place. Which is an ego buster in an event that only has like 30 woman.
But, you know what? We'll go out, do our best, beat the one person we need to beat (because there is someone that we MUST beat at all costs), not come in last (though somebody does have to come in last. And my mom assures me that you will not die if you come in last. From personal experience.) and have fun. And relish in the fact that we did a triathlon on a Saturday morning before most people were out of bed.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Toastmasters and Feet
If Wade had a blog, he'd have some funny stories to share. But since he doesn't I'll have to share this one on his behalf.
Last night, Wade was driving home from his parents' house--where he was holed up because of I-80 being closed due to a cop-involved shooting following a high speed chase--when he discovered that I-80 was closed again because of a grassfire that had jumped the freeway.
He called me, at Toastmasters, to warn me about this turn of events and to advise me on taking a different route home. (Quickly running out of routes because the other one--201--was closed as well due to construction). (Did I mention that I had to drive the backway into Lehi to get to Salt Lake yesterday because I-80 was closed? Took an extra hour. So you can imagine how I was feeling about the new closure at 9:00 at night.)
In his cell phone, my cell phone is saved sans the area code. But now, in Salt Lake, you have to dial the area code for all numbers. So Wade punches in what he thinks to be 801-________. But instead of 801, he accidently typed in 800.
Then he hears the message. Classic 800-number message, only it's about FEET. A hotline for people who have foot fetishes (fetishi?). The very thought just grosses me out.
Of course, Wade, who was *ahem* driving at the time, can't figure out what this message is all about--especially when he looks at the display and it says "Sandra" (because the phone picked up that he had dialed part of my number). He will admit that for the briefest amount of time, he did wonder "Toastmasters, huh? Maybe that's not where she is after all."
Of course, like a bunch of 15 year olds, we both had to call back the 800 number and snicker. And admit it, there's a little part of you that's curious, isn't there?
Last night, Wade was driving home from his parents' house--where he was holed up because of I-80 being closed due to a cop-involved shooting following a high speed chase--when he discovered that I-80 was closed again because of a grassfire that had jumped the freeway.
He called me, at Toastmasters, to warn me about this turn of events and to advise me on taking a different route home. (Quickly running out of routes because the other one--201--was closed as well due to construction). (Did I mention that I had to drive the backway into Lehi to get to Salt Lake yesterday because I-80 was closed? Took an extra hour. So you can imagine how I was feeling about the new closure at 9:00 at night.)
In his cell phone, my cell phone is saved sans the area code. But now, in Salt Lake, you have to dial the area code for all numbers. So Wade punches in what he thinks to be 801-________. But instead of 801, he accidently typed in 800.
Then he hears the message. Classic 800-number message, only it's about FEET. A hotline for people who have foot fetishes (fetishi?). The very thought just grosses me out.
Of course, Wade, who was *ahem* driving at the time, can't figure out what this message is all about--especially when he looks at the display and it says "Sandra" (because the phone picked up that he had dialed part of my number). He will admit that for the briefest amount of time, he did wonder "Toastmasters, huh? Maybe that's not where she is after all."
Of course, like a bunch of 15 year olds, we both had to call back the 800 number and snicker. And admit it, there's a little part of you that's curious, isn't there?
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Catfood Catina Addendum
At lunch the other day with my mom, I was reminded of a few things that I had, apparently, suppressed in the Catfood Catina incident:
(a) It was not the salsa that smelled like catfood. It was the refried beans. The very refried beans that my dad was shoveling in his mouth at the same time the comment was made. Hence the red face and the barely audible gasp. Because, honestly, who comments at all about refried beans? Everyone knows that they aren't the most appetizing looking food. So, you don't need any comments to draw attention to that fact, right? Dustin, did however, try to get me to smell the refried beans to back up his statement.
(b) He said that the salsa was NOT salsa, but merely tomato sauce with a few spices added. And he picked it up to smell it to see if his theory was right. He then preceded to push it into my face so that I'd smell it and agree with him. For the record, Dustin was some white boy from West Valley and hardly in any position to be a worldclass expert on salsa considering his family didn't even like Mexican food.
(c) My mom called over the waitress and asked for a new bowl of salsa. "Excuse me. Someone has put their nose into OUR salsa." Cue death glare. "Could we get a new one?"
(d) Apparently--and I've completely blocked this out of my memory, but my mom SWEARS it happened--I excused myself from the table and pratically dragged Dustin out of the restaurant by his ear to give him hell in the parking lot. She could see us from the window. And after we returned to the table, Dustin was as good as gold. So whatever I said, it must've been made an impact.
Again, my reporting is flawed. I blame it on the incident being so mortifying that I supressed much of the detail.
(a) It was not the salsa that smelled like catfood. It was the refried beans. The very refried beans that my dad was shoveling in his mouth at the same time the comment was made. Hence the red face and the barely audible gasp. Because, honestly, who comments at all about refried beans? Everyone knows that they aren't the most appetizing looking food. So, you don't need any comments to draw attention to that fact, right? Dustin, did however, try to get me to smell the refried beans to back up his statement.
(b) He said that the salsa was NOT salsa, but merely tomato sauce with a few spices added. And he picked it up to smell it to see if his theory was right. He then preceded to push it into my face so that I'd smell it and agree with him. For the record, Dustin was some white boy from West Valley and hardly in any position to be a worldclass expert on salsa considering his family didn't even like Mexican food.
(c) My mom called over the waitress and asked for a new bowl of salsa. "Excuse me. Someone has put their nose into OUR salsa." Cue death glare. "Could we get a new one?"
(d) Apparently--and I've completely blocked this out of my memory, but my mom SWEARS it happened--I excused myself from the table and pratically dragged Dustin out of the restaurant by his ear to give him hell in the parking lot. She could see us from the window. And after we returned to the table, Dustin was as good as gold. So whatever I said, it must've been made an impact.
Again, my reporting is flawed. I blame it on the incident being so mortifying that I supressed much of the detail.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
The Good, The Bad, The Ugly
The Good
Ran 8 miles today. It was like I was some desert wanderer though. I actually had to sip water from someone's sprinklers--twice--lest I shriveled up and died on the road. I watched some unsuspecting soul walk to his car with a bottle of water and actually considered tackling him for it. I was SO thirsty. Lucky for him, he was moving faster and I couldn't catch him.
The Bad
Last week, we decided we were going to stay in our house. This week, Wade's renewed the efforts to find a new, better house. And he thinks he might have found one back--dare, I say it because I swore I'd never leave--in the valley. It might even trump the dream home. And it's cheaper. Oiy. We still have to see the inside. And there's probably a very good reason why it's on the market at the price it's on. But, whenever we spend time looking at new houses, that means we're not spending time working on the basement. Which needs to be finished before we even think about selling. So, it probably won't be for a while. And I'm a little nervous. But, if it's right, it's right. And it will be right when the basement is done.
The Ugly
I don't own a full length mirror for a reason. And so I was surprised when I received an email telling me to check out my pictures from the 10k I ran on July 24. Thinking I was flying on that run, so I must've looked good, I, stupidly, clicked on the link. It took me to a site where there were 6 shots of me "running". I don't remember ever seeing a photographer on the course, because I know I would've at least tried to look like I was an elite runner. They must've been hiding because these are two of the shots I got:
Yes, that would be both feet on the ground. For those who are non runners, it's virtually IMPOSSIBLE to have both feet on the ground at the same time while you're running. It's amazing I even made it to the finish line with how little of steps I'm taking. And as Wade so steathily put it, it looks like I'm holding up my boobs. And that, my friends, is my deep summer tan.
Clearly, I've stopped to dance for the crowds. This is me bustin' my 80's moves. And to think the drill team didn't want me. I'm showing them now, aren't I?
On a good note, look at that muscle definition in my leg. It's been a long time since I've seen that.
So, yeah, if I would've seen the photographer, I would've at least tried to look like I was having a good time and running as fast as I could go (confession: I was running as fast as I could go). But chances are, I'd still look something like this. Because I KNEW there were photographers at these next two races.
This is during the marathon. I was so fast that no one was around me for most of the race.
I look like Bozo the Clown's little sister. And it was like 20 degrees. I'm wearing 3 layers. And I had just returned from a cruise six days before in which I gained 7 pounds. This was another half marathon and I believe this picture was taken at mile 11. So, all things considered, I'm thinking I look pretty good here.
But, don't despair. Despite how not photogenic I am as a runner, I'm not giving up and I bet there will be pictures at the half I'm doing later on this month (hey, did you know I was doing a half marathon in 2.5 weeks? That's 13.1 miles. On my feet). I'll try to pay attention and get a better picture.
Ran 8 miles today. It was like I was some desert wanderer though. I actually had to sip water from someone's sprinklers--twice--lest I shriveled up and died on the road. I watched some unsuspecting soul walk to his car with a bottle of water and actually considered tackling him for it. I was SO thirsty. Lucky for him, he was moving faster and I couldn't catch him.
The Bad
Last week, we decided we were going to stay in our house. This week, Wade's renewed the efforts to find a new, better house. And he thinks he might have found one back--dare, I say it because I swore I'd never leave--in the valley. It might even trump the dream home. And it's cheaper. Oiy. We still have to see the inside. And there's probably a very good reason why it's on the market at the price it's on. But, whenever we spend time looking at new houses, that means we're not spending time working on the basement. Which needs to be finished before we even think about selling. So, it probably won't be for a while. And I'm a little nervous. But, if it's right, it's right. And it will be right when the basement is done.
The Ugly
I don't own a full length mirror for a reason. And so I was surprised when I received an email telling me to check out my pictures from the 10k I ran on July 24. Thinking I was flying on that run, so I must've looked good, I, stupidly, clicked on the link. It took me to a site where there were 6 shots of me "running". I don't remember ever seeing a photographer on the course, because I know I would've at least tried to look like I was an elite runner. They must've been hiding because these are two of the shots I got:
Yes, that would be both feet on the ground. For those who are non runners, it's virtually IMPOSSIBLE to have both feet on the ground at the same time while you're running. It's amazing I even made it to the finish line with how little of steps I'm taking. And as Wade so steathily put it, it looks like I'm holding up my boobs. And that, my friends, is my deep summer tan.
Clearly, I've stopped to dance for the crowds. This is me bustin' my 80's moves. And to think the drill team didn't want me. I'm showing them now, aren't I?
On a good note, look at that muscle definition in my leg. It's been a long time since I've seen that.
So, yeah, if I would've seen the photographer, I would've at least tried to look like I was having a good time and running as fast as I could go (confession: I was running as fast as I could go). But chances are, I'd still look something like this. Because I KNEW there were photographers at these next two races.
This is during the marathon. I was so fast that no one was around me for most of the race.
I look like Bozo the Clown's little sister. And it was like 20 degrees. I'm wearing 3 layers. And I had just returned from a cruise six days before in which I gained 7 pounds. This was another half marathon and I believe this picture was taken at mile 11. So, all things considered, I'm thinking I look pretty good here.
But, don't despair. Despite how not photogenic I am as a runner, I'm not giving up and I bet there will be pictures at the half I'm doing later on this month (hey, did you know I was doing a half marathon in 2.5 weeks? That's 13.1 miles. On my feet). I'll try to pay attention and get a better picture.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Joshisms
On occassion, the shell of the monster currently residing in my home will open up, and my sweet little four year old boy will emerge. When he does come out, he says the funniest things:
- At his grandparent's house the other day, he was talking about his friend Jeremy. Unfortunately, grandma and grandpa couldn't figure out who he was talking about. Jamie? They asked. Jimmy? Jenny? Finally, exasperated, Josh said "No. J-E-R-E-M-Y. Jeremy."
- Saturday, my parents were watching Josh and Aunika while I went to a meeting. Josh and my mom cooked French Toast for breakfast and my mom was encouraging Josh to drink his milk. "Drink your milk honey. Or your teeth will fall out." My mom said. "Papa's (Wade's dad) teeth fall out." Josh replied. "Really?" my surprised mom asked. "How?" "Like this. Blah." Josh said, holding his hand out to catch an imaginary set of dentures.
- "If I add an 's' to Jesus, then I get lots of Jesuses."
- "I love mommy, daddy, baby and this house." Josh said last night at bedtime. "This house?" I asked. "Yes. I don't want to move." He replied. "Why?" "Because then Jeremy can't find me. I love this house."
- I was quizzing Josh on what makes Aunika a girl. He doesn't *know* the answer, but I was curious to see if his friend, Jeremy--who's two years older--had clued him in. "What makes Aunika a girl?" I asked. Josh thought for a moment. "She's happy." he replied. "So, she's a girl because she's happy?" "Yep." Josh said, smug that he got the right answer. "But you're happy sometimes, aren't you? Does that make you a girl?" I asked. "NO." Josh practically screamed. (Clearly, Jeremy has clued him on to not wanting to be a girl.) "So, what else do you think makes Aunika a girl." Josh thought about it some more. "She laughs." "But you laugh too." I said. "Oh. Well, then she likes the color pink. Girls like girl colors and boys like boy colors." Very astute, I guess. And good thing that he doesn't notice really what makes Aunika a girl.
Saturday, August 1, 2009
Catfood Catina
Another story I'm pulling from the annals of family history lore for lack of anything else to post.
There is a Mexican restaurant out in Kearns that my family has been frequenting for about 15 years now. It has the best-THE BEST-fajitas I have ever tasted. In fact, they are so good that I have only tried one other thing on the menu--about 10 years ago--and it paled in comparison, so I've kept to my usual order. Steak fajitas ala carte. Because I don't want to have to share my plate with beans and rice. Turns out, you get less fajita when you order the whole meal. Took about 7 years to figure that one out.
My sophmore year of high school, I met Dustin. We started dating and he was invited to come to dinner one Friday night with us to our favorite Mexican restaurant. On my dad's dime.
Most guys would've been gracious and happy that their girlfriend's parents were taking them to dinner. They would be polite and respectful. But Dustin was not like most guys. This event severely marred our relationship and sent it cruising downhill.
We arrived at the restaurant and sat down. The waitress brought out chips and salsa and placed it before us. Before she walked away, Dustin picked up the bowl of salsa, put it right under his nose and took a big whiff.
"This smells like catfood." He said--quite loudly. People stopped eating and stared at our little table. My dad's face went bright red. My mom let out a barely audible gasp.
But instead of realizing what a scene he was making, Dustin pushed the salsa into my face.
"Smell it. It smells like catfood."
I was MORTIFIED. This was not how normal human beings acted in restaurants. Even if the food smells like catfood, if someone else--especially your girlfriend's father--is picking up the tab, you smile, you nod, you eat, and you make small talk. Nothing more. Nothing less.
And at the end of the meal, you say thank you for a pleasant evening out. That's it. This isn't rocket science.
There might be something in the "rules" that says keep your nose away from all communal food that will be shared by the rest of the table, but that should be implied. You shouldn't need direct verbal confirmation that this won't happen with your girlfriend's parents present.
And so christened our favorite restaurant "Catfood Catina". Today, roughly 13 years after the incident, I was at my parents house with the kids deciding on where we should eat for lunch.
My dad suggested Catfood Catina--just like that too. Hey, let's go to Catfood Catina. Like anyone would eat at a restaurant named Catfood Catina--and off we went. I have to think about the actual name of the restaurant when I tell people about their amazing fajitas. (I'd name the restaurant, but if someone were to google it, they'd get this and the reference to Catfood Catina and we've probably hurt them enough with our casual mention of Catfood Catina to friends over the years. If you care enough, call me and I'll tell you).
It was only a couple of years ago that my sister-in-law, who has been in the family for 9 years, confessed to just having found out that the name of the actual restaurant was NOT Catfood Catina. She never could figure out why someone would name their restaurant that, or why we would choose to eat there.
There is a Mexican restaurant out in Kearns that my family has been frequenting for about 15 years now. It has the best-THE BEST-fajitas I have ever tasted. In fact, they are so good that I have only tried one other thing on the menu--about 10 years ago--and it paled in comparison, so I've kept to my usual order. Steak fajitas ala carte. Because I don't want to have to share my plate with beans and rice. Turns out, you get less fajita when you order the whole meal. Took about 7 years to figure that one out.
My sophmore year of high school, I met Dustin. We started dating and he was invited to come to dinner one Friday night with us to our favorite Mexican restaurant. On my dad's dime.
Most guys would've been gracious and happy that their girlfriend's parents were taking them to dinner. They would be polite and respectful. But Dustin was not like most guys. This event severely marred our relationship and sent it cruising downhill.
We arrived at the restaurant and sat down. The waitress brought out chips and salsa and placed it before us. Before she walked away, Dustin picked up the bowl of salsa, put it right under his nose and took a big whiff.
"This smells like catfood." He said--quite loudly. People stopped eating and stared at our little table. My dad's face went bright red. My mom let out a barely audible gasp.
But instead of realizing what a scene he was making, Dustin pushed the salsa into my face.
"Smell it. It smells like catfood."
I was MORTIFIED. This was not how normal human beings acted in restaurants. Even if the food smells like catfood, if someone else--especially your girlfriend's father--is picking up the tab, you smile, you nod, you eat, and you make small talk. Nothing more. Nothing less.
And at the end of the meal, you say thank you for a pleasant evening out. That's it. This isn't rocket science.
There might be something in the "rules" that says keep your nose away from all communal food that will be shared by the rest of the table, but that should be implied. You shouldn't need direct verbal confirmation that this won't happen with your girlfriend's parents present.
And so christened our favorite restaurant "Catfood Catina". Today, roughly 13 years after the incident, I was at my parents house with the kids deciding on where we should eat for lunch.
My dad suggested Catfood Catina--just like that too. Hey, let's go to Catfood Catina. Like anyone would eat at a restaurant named Catfood Catina--and off we went. I have to think about the actual name of the restaurant when I tell people about their amazing fajitas. (I'd name the restaurant, but if someone were to google it, they'd get this and the reference to Catfood Catina and we've probably hurt them enough with our casual mention of Catfood Catina to friends over the years. If you care enough, call me and I'll tell you).
It was only a couple of years ago that my sister-in-law, who has been in the family for 9 years, confessed to just having found out that the name of the actual restaurant was NOT Catfood Catina. She never could figure out why someone would name their restaurant that, or why we would choose to eat there.
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