A Tale of Fish and Deceit.

Ah, the weekend. That magical time between getting off work on Friday and waking up Monday morning.

I had a particularly long day at work on Friday, so to start the weekend off right H said we should watch a movie. I brought home the pizza, he set up the movie, and we sat down to watch the next Hobbit installment. A few minutes in, I asked, "So the last thing I remember from the first Hobbit movie was that they were running from some evil dog-like things, and they kind of got out of it ... oh yeah, and then they're trudging off toward that big green mountain."  H confirms the end of the movie, and while I'm kind of curious as to why the group of dwarves are looking out at a lake-town with a giant dragon burning it to a crisp, I figure I must have fallen asleep at the very tail end of the last movie and just missed a little foreshadowing. Or perhaps this movie is just starting off in the middle of a battle scene, as some action movies do.

Some two hours later, the movie ends, and without giving too much away, it is very obvious that this is where the movie series ends.
     I turn to H and ask, "How many movies did they make?"
     H says, "I guess they made three."
     "And which one was this?"
     "The third one."
     "Have you seen the second one?"
     "Yeah, me and my brother and you all went to see it a while ago."
     With great shock, "I have never seen the second one."
     "Weren't you there?"
     "No. No I wasn't.  How could you see the second movie without me and then make me watch the third one without even saying anything?!"

That line of conversation ended with me admitting that I must've been on third shift and told them to go ahead and see it without me, and H telling me I can't blame him for not seeing it on my own and keeping up with the series. And then it dissolved into that hysterical fight laughter that occurs when you realize you're fighting about something ridiculous but still want to somehow pin it on the other person yet can't quite find the words to.

Saturday morning I was reading a book I like to take on airplane rides to calm my nerves about flying a million miles an hour in a heavy hunk of metal. It's an exciting read, but the point of this story is that it had a sadly commonplace riddle that the characters were trying to figure out. Why is a raven like a writing desk? I complained about this awful riddle usage to H, who said he hadn't heard it before. I was in a huff about it until I remembered that it was part of a beloved childhood movie of mine, The Last Unicorn. I suppose if you haven't seen a movie ten or twelve times with that one riddle in it, you may not know the answer either (Edgar Allen Poe wrote on both). This led me to question what it would take to get H to watch the movie. He responded with something like a grunt.

I went outside to check on my Delicata. It's been raining on and off every other day since I picked out my tiny plant. This has allowed me to completely forget to water the little guy without worrying I've killed it. He's almost to the point where I need to decide if I want to go with a trellis or some nice mesh to help keep the leaves - and imminent the sprawling vines - out of the boards of the deck. I've also been entertaining the idea of moving him down to the grass below, perhaps on some kind of raised object, but then I run the risk of non-watering.

My, how you've grown. 

We watched the game (Go Royals!) and headed out to a little Mexican restaurant within walking distance of our house. Did I mention how wonderful it is to walk five minutes to a restaurant and be able to eat (or drink) whatever you like? It is phenomenal. We had been here a few times before, and through the process of trial and error determined that shrimp is the best thing they serve. So we sit down at this restaurant, we both order strawberry margaritas, I get the shrimp and crab enchiladas, H gets the shrimp chimichanga. The food was delicious - they bring out the entrees so quickly after you order that it feels like you're sitting around for an unreasonably long time after eating, but you're not. We chatted about this and that, finished our margaritas, got a to-go box (the portions are quite generous), and hopped in line to pay for the food at the front.

After a minute or so, I started to feel queasy. The air drifting out of the kitchen smelled like burnt frying oil, and it wasn't helping. I leaned in to H and said, "Sorry, but I've got to use the restroom." I made my way back. My head started to feel swimmy, my skin started to get clammy, and I thought maybe that margarita was stronger than I expected. But then it was just one drink, right? I paused for a moment, and thought back to the last time I felt like this. High school, Chinese pot stickers, and ... holy crap this is food poisoning. Without going into too much detail, let me just say I experienced one of the great moments where everything in your body feels absolutely wrong. I emptied the contents of my stomach into the porcelain bowl and took a minute to evaluate the situation. I think there may have been a teenage girl in the next stall over. Well, she wasn't there now. I had little to no energy - I would have been happy to spend the rest of my life in my stall if it meant never having to move. How long had I been in here, anyway? I'll just text H to go and get a car to come and get me. Crap, both of us had margaritas.  I gathered some strength of will, washed up, texted H  I have food poisoning. I just threw up. I need a minute., and waited for the second round I could have sworn was going to happen but never did.

When I emerged from the cold, tiled room, I made a bee-line for H. He gave me a strong hug, then said, "Let's get out of here." I don't really know how I made it the whole five minute walk back home. H didn't bring up how slow I must have been going, he just told me what happened from his side of things. He got my text, then asked to see the manager. He showed the manager the texts, told him to throw the leftovers in the nearest trash can, and asked for a refund for the food. The manager apparently has people come in all the time claiming that they have food poisoning, and argumentatively asked what was wrong with the food. To which H responded, "It gave my wife food poisoning. She just threw it all up in your bathroom. I should not have to pay for food that caused her to be physically ill." The manager argued a bit, said, "What do you want me to do about it?", then grabbed some cash out of the register and handed it to H - it wasn't even half of what we had paid for the meal. This explained why the manager didn't even say anything to us on our way out of the restaurant.

I was beyond shocked, but it was hard to feel anything except the acid burning my esophagus and the wretched taste in my mouth. At one point I turned to H and said, "So can we watch The Last Unicorn now?" He laughed, which made me laugh, and it made me forget the experience for a moment.

Once home, I sat down on the couch and didn't move for the rest of the evening. H brought me a large glass of ice water, and sat down on the other side of the couch with his laptop out. I looked over to see him writing a scathing email - apparently this little Mexican restaurant is part of a chain, and they had a company website. For those of you who are looking to eat Mexican food in the area, the restaurant chain is La Fuente, based in Kansas City. H's email mentioned that while our other visits were fine, it was the way this manager handled the situation that really pissed us off. Like he gets a couple once a week that has food poisoning and has decided to not refund them unless they put up a fight about it. H made it clear we would not be going back to this establishment while it was under that manager -  we could just as easily walk ten feet east and eat at another similarly-priced restaurant that doesn't try to kill its customers.

Since then I've had a lot of water, about one and a half muffin tops, some jicama, and a small-ish breakfast burrito (eggs, sausage, cheese).  It seems my appetite is slowly coming back, which is great news considering we're planning on getting some sushi for dinner after the game. Yes, I realize there is some amount of irony that I will be eating raw fish the day after having shrimp and crab conspire against me and stab me in the back. However, I am still pretty damn excited to eat me some tasty, tasty sushi.