Quest to redeem my 2nd favorite thing...

                There I was…

                …sitting at home, when I had a rumbly in my tumbly.  No, that’s not true..  I never really have “rumblies”, I have hunger pains.  Pains are not like cramps.  They are the result of a tiny angry little beast that lives in my stomach, getting furious that I have not fed him, so he begins to chomp into my stomach lining with his long teeth.  (Honey badger don’t care.) CHOMP! CHOMP! CHOMP!  That’s what my hunger pains are like…anyone else?

                Regardless, I decided I was going to get something to eat, but it would be so much more than just eating. 

                See, over the past few days, I’ve had bad experiences with steak.  I love steak.  I would like to marry it, and make little sirloin tip babies, but if I did, then the homophobes that argue against gay marriage by saying that the next stage would be men marrying horses or flashlights would have an example to point to as they exclaim “SEE!”.  I really hate those fuckers, so no Miss. Rib-eye, I will not marry you.  One night stand... maybe.

                My misadventure with steak began Saturday, when I went with a friend to IHOP.  Yes, I know… One shouldn’t expect to find anything resembling a good steak at IHOP, but I was in the mood for steak, and steak sat there on the menu.  As it turns out, it was a steak in “name on the menu” only.  What I got was a steak wrapped in bacon, where the steak was overcooked like it had been returned from the depth of hell, and the bacon which was wrapped around this overcooked chunk of dead cow was way undercooked.  How does that even happen?!?  In short, it was not good, and was the worst thing I have put in my mouth in quite some time.

                Later that night, I was meeting up with a second friend for dinner, and we decided that a little place called AQ Chicken House would be the way to go.  So I, my first friend and second friend sat down to eat.  I was going to get their famous fried chicken, but noticed that they had steak on the menu.  On… like Donkey Kong.  

                I ordered the steak, and had high hopes for this meal to wash out the IHOP venom that had been left on my taste buds from earlier that day.  When it arrived, it looked good, yet upon putting it in my mouth, I realized that I was eating the worst thing I had tasted in about 9 hours.  My hunt for a decent steak was not going well.  I was turning into the Elmer Fudd of steak hunting.  Regardless, I ate the steak, because there are starving children in Africa.  I would have sent it to them instead of eating it, but then I’d be the dick that sent crap food to starving kids.  I mean send then food, sure, but if they get crap food, then they would be like “Those Americans are such assholes…”

                I’m not kidding about the quality of the steak.  I had a small piece left over, and my friend, Zac, decided to eat it for me (because of the kids).  He cut a piece off, and shoved it into his mouth, which was connected to his face, which began to curdle as if he had poured lemon juice in an otherwise perfectly normal glass of milk.  Yes, his face curdled… it was just that bad.  I’m not sure why I assumed I going get a good steak at a place which obviously specialized in chicken, but there I was, and there he was, with a minor revolution forming on both our taste buds, all chanting "VIVA La Resistance!".  

                The next day wasn’t any better.  I planned to make a trip to Outback Steak house, but had waited too late.  I stopped at Waffle house.  I ate steak, and left with the minor revolution growing into something resembling the Arab Spring.  This has to stop.

                Last night, I was a man on a mission.  I felt like I was a Blues Brother-on a mission from God, but without the nice car.  Ruby Tuesday’s was 2.3 miles from my house, and they have never let me down.  

                I took a shower for the occasion.  Really, I swear.  I shampooed my hair, I soaped up and washed my body, I dried, I brushed my hair, brushed my teeth after mouth washing my mouth, I smeared deodorant, and I scrapped my tongue (which oddly, isn’t something everyone does…).  I even ironed not only my button up green stripped dress shirt, I ironed my freaking t-shirt that wouldn’t even be seen.  Clean underwear, clean socks, clean jeans, clean t-shirt, clean shirt, cleaned my glasses and with my clean teeth, tongue and breath, I grabbed my keys and moved swiftly towards the door. 

                Getting there was an adventure in itself.  As I relayed to a friend, (“friend” in this context is an unbelievably beautiful redhead that I’m trying to go out with, whom may be reading this, so hi. <wave>) this was a part of my journey to travel the 2.3 miles:

“I made it to Ruby Tuesday’s, even if a possibly drunk blonde lady tried to kill me on the ride over with her SUV.  She looked like she had been the prom queen of a po-dunk high school 30 years ago, but a lifetime of cheap vodka had wrestled away her sparkle.  I think she called me a ‘dickhole’.  I didn’t know that was an insult” 

                (Note:  I said tried to kill me WITH her SUV, not kill me in an accident while she happened to be driving an SUV.  It was like the Hulk picked up an SUV, and was all “HULK SMASH!”, trying to bash me into the road, guardrails, and a bridge.  I think she has anger management issues…)

                But screw her, I was going to get steak.  

                I ARRIVED at Ruby Tuesday’s, unscathed.  I entered the establishment.  I was met at the door by a girl named Alex. (Did I ever tell you I have a thing for girls with ‘boys’ names?  Well, I do.  No, I’m not gay.)  She took me to a booth, where I revealed the bare bones of my quest.  I was a redeemer, there to redeem the good name of sliced up and flamed dead cow, and I was recruiting her in my adventure.  She took it rather well for someone that had just been conscripted into a perilous adventure.   She asked what I’d like to drink on my quest, and I did as I often do, told her to “surprise me”.  She did, coming back with iced tea, with (I kid you not) little tiny bits of peach that had been diced and added for flavor.  It tasted grand.  Fair play, fellow adventurer… fair play.  

                She also brought along with the peach tea goodness, a plate of cheese biscuits, which I had forgotten were some of my favorite members of the biscuit family.  I then ordered an appetizer of spinach dip with multicolored chips, a big fat Rib-eye, cooked ‘medium’ please, with a healthy portion of mashed potatoes and (at her insistence) green beans.   

                Alex, as it turns out, was quite the talker.  While waiting for my food, and after it had come and even after it was finished, she’d stop by to chat.  She seemed awesome in the way that you think of the girl-next-door as awesome that grows up to be ubber pretty with pretty teeth and pretty hair and hips that make you want to hug them… tightly.  If the redhead blows me off for someone better looking, with more money, and a nicer car, and a nicer place, and smells better with less hair on his feet- I may have to re-visit the Alex situation. 

                THE STEAK ARRIVED!  <trumpets blow, cherubs fly, doves fly, hitting the cherubs and knocking them silly, and even the TV went on an odd ‘dead air’ pause while it was being placed in front of me.  True story.>  This is going to be good, I can tell.  I sliced into the steak, and it trickled pink juice.  I poked it with the fork, because it was so tender that there was need to stab it.  Easy… calm down… it’ll all be over in a second.  I put the slice of steak in my mouth, and in an instant - nirvana. 

                Readers, it was so good.  It was good in every way that a steak is supposed to be good.  It was good in the way that your favorite book is good, as you close the cover.  My entire body sighed.  It instantly became the best example of the 2^nd favorite thing that I like to put in my mouth, and for a brief moment had the chance to edge the first thing out of its place on a pedestal.  (I said brief.)

                It’s not that it was good in parts, it was good from first slice to last  There was a moment, I admit, when I started to not care about the arguments of the odd argument making homophobes.  I would have babies with this steak.   I ate it slowly and tenderly and with no pause.  (Yes, that sounds sexual, but I really want to get across how good this was!)  

                I remember parts of the post meal (paying, the drive home) but only in the ways that you remember the details of a good drunk conversation.  The Arab Spring, ladies and germs, had quieted.

Everyone is munked up. Even her!

                I wrote an article a few weeks ago, where I outlined some dating tips.  Specifically, it was how not to get tossed into a friendzone.   I thought I’d follow that up with a post that outlines something that should seem obvious, but I was never able to cram it into my cranium until much later in life. 

                One of the things that goes through a guy’s head when he’s looking at a perfect specimen of femininity, is that she is somehow perfect.  She’s too put together to even lower herself to his level, so why even try.  This is complete and utter bull.  Those gals are just as fucked up as the rest of us. 

 

                Now, obviously there are some that even if they are heavily flawed, they will not admit so.  These gals are the stuck up witches that you could act nice to, and they will look down their noses at you.  Screw em.  Those aren’t  the ladies I’m referring to, and if they are under the delusion that their place is high above you, then you don’t want them anyway.  Let them end up with douchebags and learn the hard way.  I have no use for them, and until they can get their ass off the pedestal, you don’t either.  

                When I was a kid, I always thought of certain people as better.  I’m not sure why I had this delusion.  I grew up in a house in the country.  I mean coun-try.  The road we lived on was made of dirt.  The house I grew up in, my father built.  So when I was younger, the people living in beautiful brick houses, in beautiful suburbs, with beautifully kept lawn seemed like they were just a bit better.  They never seemed to have problems, always had nicely washed and pressed clothes, and with a few exceptions, always had parents that drove BMW’s.  

                So in my mind, these kids didn’t worry about being popular, they just seemed to BE more popular.  (This is coming from one of the far less popular kids.  My dog was my only friend for a very long time.)  Popular kids never seemed to have problems, but here’s what I learned much later in life.  They did, they were just better at hiding them.

                Jump forward to today.

                See that beautiful creature in the bar?  See how she looks like she plays 3 instruments, and was just born with a perfect body,  and never had to study in school, and how she just seems to have the face that has never known about how complicated and hard life can be?  HA!  She does.  

                I learned when I only started flirting with the best looking gal in the bar, that tons of them had, or had dealt with people in their family, with eating disorders.  They had popped pills when they couldn’t sleep, and popped more pills to wake them up.  More than I was comfortable had done, and were doing coke to keep up with the lifestyle that was imposed on them.  Many of them were neurotic.  Some had OCD about their apartments being clean, and other apartments were so filthy, that I piled my clothes on top of my shoes, so my underwear wouldn’t touch the gunk on the carpets.  

                I’ve dated women with daddy issues.  I’ve dated women with so much credit card debit that they couldn’t make minimum payments.  I’ve dated women that had been abused, and orphaned.  I’ve dated women that had so many issues that they broke down in tears as soon as things started to crack in their perfect facade, and the overwhelming portion of the women with these issues were just like that beautiful creature you are thinking of in the bar.  (Yes, even THAT one.)  

                My point here is simple.  A lot of guys will not approach women, which seem to be well put together and beautiful.  You psych yourself out, by assuming that they can’t possibly have any use for a chump like you.  This is where you are wrong.  Many of those gals have issues in part, because they have dealt with assholes in their life.  Now go introduce yourself, and help break that cycle.