Diana L.'s Profile

I can't have dairy because of the farting.

That said, I occasionally throw caution and concern for others to the wind (Get it? THE WIND. God, I'm fucking HILARIOUS.) and just have some sort of amazing cheese, or some GD ICE CREAM on an 80 or so degree day. Yesterday was such an occasion.

The kid and I had a big old day of one park, then REI for some treehouse, then Izilla's for some marbles and some new book reading in the spaceship, and then on the way to more park we noticed that, for the first time since it opened - there was NO LINE AT MOLLY MOON'S.

Since I was just hanging with the person who has literally PISSED INTO MY EYE in the not so distant past, I decided that this was indeed a throwing whatnot to the wind sort of situation; it's hot, we've been playing  our fool asses off, and there ain't no mo-eff'ing line.

Give me the Salted Caramel.

And it was good. Worth some very unsavory, dead wet dog like smells coming from my person - but guess what? NO SUCH SMELL WAS FORTHCOMING.

MAGICAL ICE CREAM. MAGICAL DELICIOUS ICE CREAM.

The child liked his too. It was chocolate - and by the time he was finished with his cone, he was too.

Thanks. I totally needed that.

I am going to be 40....someday.

That day seems to be closing in on me now. Most of my oldest friends are getting there before me, and this past weekend the first of my high school era girlfriends tripped the switch. Honestly, I think it was far more upsetting for me than it was for her -  mostly because I'm an enormously self-centered person who has to make a monumental effort not to make every single thing that occurs around me ALL ABOUT ME, but also because I felt this huge duty to make it an amazing night for her. To soften the blow - as if doing blow off the asses of hookers would somehow turn back the clock. For both of us - so again, ALL ABOUT ME.

All my friend wanted to do was have some nice sushi, maybe get a mani-pedi and catch a movie. But no - Little Miss Panicked About Mortality wanted to make it a NIGHT TO REMEMBER. We had to get DRESSED UP, GO OUT, GET HIT ON, SCORE SOME TENDER LITTLE BOYS AND TEACH THEM A LESSON THEY CAN'T LEARN AT UCSD MOTHER FUCKERS!

Friend: No dude*-- I do not want to go to some club where there are a ton of tight little 23 year olds on the loose. That is not going to make me feel better.
ME: What? WE ARE 23!!! WE WILL ALWAYS BE 23!!!!
Friend: No dude* -- we're not.
ME: Huh? What are you talking about? When did that happen? Where was I?
Friend: Well dude* -- for a while you were sitting at the bottom of a bottle of bourbon with a straw hanging out of your nose and then you married that....that guy.
ME: Oh. Right.
Friend:  Dude*, let's just go to a gay bar and tell everyone it's my birthday. A divey one with lots of nice old queens.
ME: *sigh* Ok, where's the Gayborhood in San Diego? *consults Yelp for iPhone oracle*

So that's how we ended up at Number One. It was a nice little dive, with plenty of gracious old queens that understood EXACTLY HOW FABULOUS WE ARE, and that lovely little sprinkling of washed up old fag hags that we LOOKED WAY BETTER than to make us feel like the MOTHER FUCKING GODDESSES WE ARE.

We toddled on home at around 11:30...cause we're old and we were tired. It's cool - I totally didn't sleep in my 20's.

*Please note, when someday comes and I turn 40 - I no longer wish to be referred to as "dude". There. Something to look forward to.

(I am fully aware that I stole that first line from When Harry Met Sally. Please no one sue me.)

I can't deal with this place anymore. I went this weekend with the kid and the G-Ma Palooza set to see the penguin's fabulous new digs, and you know what? They still suck. Not the same suck that they used to suck, but suck nonetheless. And all I could think about was how very hot it was and how penguins don't come from hot. Even though I hear these particular penguins come from warmish, or tepid or something. Still tiny. Still suck. Still bottom feeders of humanity oggling them when they should be catching fish or some such less suck penquinly shit.

And then we go see the elephants, because the boy is elephant obsessed. There they are in their awesome forest, the zoo's claim to fame. And what did we see? Hansa's mommy (you may remember that Hansa was born at the zoo a few years back and then died of the HERP last year - how the fuck does that happen to an elephant?? I don't even want to think about it.) was there pacing back and forth with the most pitiful, heartbroken look on her beautiful face, just shaking her head as though she still wasn't willing to believe her baby had died. Which is what I would imagine I would be doing for the rest of my life if anything (GOD FOR-FUCKING-BID) should ever happen to mine.

Mini Hero: Mommy, is that elephant happy?
Me: No baby, she's not.
Mini Hero: Why?
Me: Because she lost her baby.
Mini: Why?
Me: Because zoos aren't good places for animals. Let's go.
Mini: TO THE PARK!?
Me: Yes! And then ice cream and bubbles and rainbows and cookies and democratic politics and big cups of Vivace and high thread count sheets and sunshine and love and everything that takes us to our happy place because mommy is going to seriously start leaking if she has to look at that poor elephant for one more minute.

I'm with you on this one P Master Vegan Monster - the overt sadness of the place far outweighs any educational benefits.

In honor of Mother's Day, I think I'll share a little story about my moms with y'all.

My mama was born poor white trash somewhere in the ass crack of Washington state - over on the other side of the mountains where they vote Republican when they vote at all and where the tater tot is a vegetable.

Her and her kin folk moved west to Marysville some time in the 1950's where she grew up in a tiny house with her three sisters and her parents, my grandparents - a janitor and a nurses aide or something like that. Not  totally sure, they both died by the time I was 8. Maybe it was all the tater tots? I don't touch the things....

At any rate, unlike the rest of the family, my moms turned out to be something of a looker, like some combination of Elizabeth Taylor and Linda Carter - looker, and a smart cookie to boot. My smart, artsy, and also lookerly father, oddly enough, really liked to look at her and draw her. So you know - they got hitched at 18.

Fast forward 20 years or so and they are divorced, the moms has been working for doctors the whole marriage and decides that the next guy isn't going to be some artist, teacher middle class money making type - this time she's gonna land herself some dough-ray-ME. And so she does.

Enter my step-father - local real estate mogul and all around nice guy. Likes to spoil people, and the moms wants to put all that white trash behind her. So we need to BELONG. To all the special little clubs where you don't see a lot of color and do see a lot of Brooks Brothers and Botox.

The moms has done a pretty good job, over the last 40 years or so, of extracting that white trash from her system and replacing it with as much synthetic blue blood as possible. She fits in well, virtually never does she commit a faux pas of epic proportion - however, she does make the occasional judgement call that exposes her country origins.

Like, for instance, when on our way out of the clubhouse this evening she suggested to her 3 year old grandson that he could sit in one of the golf carts parked outside. Just to play, you know....like she did in her grandpa's truck back on the farm. I mean, really - a three year old in a golf cart, what could go wrong?

Oh, I don't know...maybe he could release the brake and roll the thing into a wall? Could that happen? Could it?

Oh yes. It could. And it did. And what did little Miss COUNTRY Club do about it? What did any of us do? We laughed nervously because the child was unharmed, walked quickly away to our luxury vehicles and made a hasty exit from the premisses.

Cause we're new money and that's how we roll yo.

(The food was alright - salad was nice with the chive flowers and the filberts and whatnot, but my lamb was completely flavorless and the creme caramel was a bore. Nice course and a little putting green out back of the clubhouse. There's your useful.)

I wanted an omelet with tomato, feta, spinach, and garlic. No problem! You can build your own (and really, why shouldn't you be able to? I mean, how fucking hard is it to make an omelet to order? Not at all. It's not at all hard.) - you start with the basic omelet at $8.95 and then add $.85 for each additional ingredient. So that makes my omelet somewhere in the vicinity of $10,000.

Any omelet that they have concocted of their own accord on the menu is $.9.95. Ok, so no problem. I'll just have this one that comes with spinach, feta, green pepper, and olives and sub out the peppers and olives for tomato and garlic.  Also, I don't want the mozzarella, so they're saving money on me here - perfect!

OH NO YOU DON'T CUSTOMER LADY! We're gonna charge you $.85 extra for those subs ON TOP of the $9.95 for the omelet.

The price for your HIGH MAINTENANCE OMELET: $10,000.

Fuck you. I'll have toast. Fuckers.

SOGGY. TOAST.

(Side note - this used to be Ernie Steele's and then Iileens. I drank myself 90% of the way to a nice tidy case of the cirrhosis here and watched several thousand people piss on the side of the building where they offer lovely outdoor seating now. Also, our waiter this morning had a nasty case of the herp all over his face. Tasty.)

Enjoy.

Awesome. Five stars for all the services I have received here:

1. The DUI that was part of the endgame that led to the soberiffic lifestyle I currently lead. Nope, I did not defer prosecution like the rest of y'all. I went my ass to court! The arresting officer didn't have me take any sobriety tests whatsoever! YAY! So what if she found pot and an open container in the car - that doesn't prove I was fucked up, right? Right? Jury says yes. Yes it does. :| 2 days in the poky really wasn't that high a price to pay given that I had been driving blind drunk for YEARS. I'm totally sure I killed someones cat. I had to of. If you lost your cat on Capitol Hill between the years of 1991 and 2001, I sincerely apologize.

2. The marriage certificate thing that you fill out before your wedding (which is what actually makes you married, so your wedding anniversary is meaningless.  Unless you just up and got hitched at the courthouse. I could go on about marriage as an institution now, but people don't generally like what I have to say, so I'll shut my gape. IT'S ALL BULLSHIT. Oopsy.)

3. The parenting class I had to take to undo the marriage thing. Apparently King County thinks that my sitting in a lecture hall with a bunch of other people of varying socioeconomic status and IQ scores will somehow safeguard all of our children from the pain of divorce. As if those who are shitty parents will somehow be magically turned around after watching a short video wherein Karl Malone, formerly of the Utah Jazz (that's right - The Mailman) offers his heartfelt reflections as a child of a "broken home". For $40. $40 and any worries you have about your ability to shepherd your children through the choppy waters of divorce will be allayed. What a relief right? It's totally worth taking the day off from work. Totally.

and finally -

4. The divorce. For all the paperwork and schedules for this and quit deeds for that and waiting for 90 days to be SURE, it was quick and easy:

Lawyer/AA Sponsor/Friend: Is your name Diana L.?
ME: You know it is.
Judge: You have to answer yes for the record dear.
ME: Yes.
LAASF: Do you want to dissolve your marriage from Mr. Diana L.?
ME: Yes.
LAASF:Are you sure?
ME: You know I am.
Judge: Ms. L....
ME: Yes.
LAASF:: Are you pregnant?
ME: WHAT?
LAASF:: Are you pregnant?
ME: What if I was?
Judge: Are you pregnant Ms. L?
ME: Hell no, but what if I was? What the fuck? Do you ask men if they're pregnant? WHAT?
Judge (to clerk): Enter no for that last one...

And so on to -

Judge: Yadda, yadda, yadda, blah, blah, blah by the power vested in me by the State of Washington and King County I hereby grant you this lovely dissolution of marriage.

ME: *freedom grin*

\m/______\m/

I've been coming here since I was a wee lass and never before, before tonight that is, have I noticed that the OG Red Robin has a first generation rendering of a very high "Red" gracing the entry way. His dropping eye lids obscure blood shot eyes, a joint dangles from his feathered paw thing. He's baked - there's really no question about it.

Maybe it's that legacy that has set the tone for mediocre (albeit very filling) fare, half-assed table service, and sloppy kitchen service that is an ever-present reality here. I lived around the corner for a few years and would often dine here when I was a straight up broke mother fucker because I knew that something would happen in the course of the meal that would get me my entree gratis.

Tonight was no exception. Miracle Whip is not "dijon vinagrette", bagged iceberg salad mix is not "wild greens", and if you're going to say goat cheese on the menu, please be sure it's present on the plate. And the "bottemless fries" fucking suck.

Have you ever tried to take a little Italian guy from Buffalo, and a dude from Kansas City, and a milk fed vegetarian chick from Green Bay out to dinner in this town? HAVE YOU??? It's not fucking easy yo. Serious.

Kansas City: I want some really awesome sushi because it's thousands of miles to any real body of water where I come from.

Me, AKA Eats Anything But Fungus: Oh! Umi!! Umi! They have Blue Fin Tuna right now and it's Uni season!! WOO HOO!

Buffalo: I don't eat raw fish. I want a steak.

Eats Anything But Fungus: Ummm, ok. We could go to the Met I guess. Maybe we'll see Jaba the Mayor there! They have Kobe on the menu!! WOO HOO!

Green Bay: I don't eat anything with a face.

Eats Anything But Fungus: :\

So, you know, fuck it. I took them to How to Cook a Wolf. There's gotta be some grilled flesh, raw fish and some friggin' pasta or another on the menu right? Thankfully - yes.

The Hamachi Crudo was a refreshing, lemony applely love fest of yellowtail heaven. Flavors were amazing, the fish was so fresh I imagine it swam into the kitchen.

The Poor Little Baby Sheep Chops were perfectly rare atop of a minty scattering of cannelli beans and greens. Sheep are really stupid, I actually thinking letting them wander the earth into adulthood is terribly inhumane.

The Semolina Gnocchi was a big old hit with the rest of the table, sadly off limits to yours truly due to the Ricotta Salatta content. Had this not been a work dinner, had I been with a group of close friends or alone, I would have gone for it because that is one of the cheeses that I am willing to risk a lactose intolerant bout with noxious flatulence over.

Who wants to come with next time? Anyone? No?

If I were like a princess, or a queen, or a Oprah, or a Britney Spears or something, I would buy this place and live here.