For He's a Jollibee Fellow

I have to admit, I have always been a little frightened of Filipino food. It has nothing to do with my compulsive habit of rescuing dogs and the fear that I would be eating a pup formerly known as Kuro. Yes, yes, the thought always crosses my mind that the mystery meat in that lumpia purchased outside of K-mart may bark at me but it really stemmed from the appearance and reality of what the dish was made of.

As a small kid, I would dread those days that my Dad went downtown to buy himself some Filipino food. There would inevitably be something in the fridges that looked like it came out of Andrew Zimmern's lower colon. You know, Bizarre Foods taken to the next level. Lumpy, metallic-smelling grey colored bowls of fried blood (with the occasional stray clot of blood ball or an errant vein) were enough to make me avoid opening the fridge all day long. Worse of all were the trips to buy balut! Imagine having one of those jars of genetic oddities hawked at the Carnival freak show plopped right next to a carton of milk - totally stomach churning. I would inevitably have a nightmare on those days that my Dad left the balut container uncovered and a milky in-utero chickie eyeball would be staring at me.

Sometimes, I really wonder if my Dad's totally un-Japanese skin tone comes from some deep, dark secret from generations past. Perhaps we weren't from Fukuoka at all but really from Ilocos Norte.

Since those small kid days, tales about Filipino feast have continued to make my stomach churn. From my Uncle's story of going to a BBQ at his friend's house in Kalihi (of course) where he enjoyed a dish of fried pork chops that were actually fried Poochie to my BFF GB's tale of the plates of sashimi served at her brother's wedding that turned out to be raw goat! In my Uncle's case, he should have been forewarned since he and his friend were both Farrington grads. However, my BFF was stunned as she is 1/2 Filipino yet her family was horrified to see Billy Goat Gruff on the pupu list.

In spite of my great fear, I decided to venture out to Waipahu to pick up dinner from Jollibee, well known fast food chain offering finger lickin good fried chicken to native Filipinos. My "I gotta be the first one to go there" localness won out over my "I'm terrified to eat anywhere West of Moanalua" townieness. I also dreaded the long line of customers which have apparently been the norm there since they opened. The twins were not willing to embrace my cultural safari and stayed in the car, windows locked and eyes filled with terror the entire time. All they said was, "Just buy normal food."

I walked in and aside from one white guy, I was the only non-Filipino in the place. No joke. Just me and this haole guy - not a military haole guy like I'd expect on the Westside but a white guy married to a Filipina. Now I know how Oscar the Grouch felt that first time I took him to J-Town and walked away. Total fear of a brown planet. I am pretty sure I was the only one with the deer in the headlights look on though as everyone else was snapping photos of the place, of themselves next to photos of the Jollibee or of their food.

The line was LONG - about 50 people in front of me but it moved incredibly quickly. A worker presented each of us with a menu and then took our order which you took to the cashier when it was your turn. I would say I waited no more than 5 minutes. I did okay ordering the "normal food" - chicken, spaghetti, corn, mashed potatoes and gravy - but there was a culture clash when I ordered pilakbet. I asked the worker, "What is this?" He goes, "Pilakbet". I go, "What is THAT?" He goes, "Pilakbet, you know pilakbet". I go, "Uh, I don't know what that is," He goes (realizing that I only LOOK Ilocano but am not), "Oh, like pancit with shrimp." After all that, I felt compelled to order that too.

The food came out incredibly quickly and everyone there seems to be on happy juice. Seriously, very very happy. Like they had all been smoking pakalolo or something. Maybe that is the secret ingredient in the halohalo? Total came out to $75 for an 18 piece bucket of chicken (includes gravy), large mashed potato, large corn, family sized spaghetti, family sized pilakbet and a halohalo. Kind of pricey when you think about it but as I only head out to Waipahu maybe once every two years, I figured it was like a staycation meal.

Took the food over to my parents house, not expecting a very good response (esp. once my mom heard how much I had spent). However, nobody had anything negative to say about the food - except that there was SO MUCH of it to eat. I picked it up on Monday and we are only about 1/2 finished today (Weds.) My Dad is already planning a return visit post-New Years. Here is a dish by dish review:

FRIED CHICKEN - crispy like the old Pioneer chicken but not a lot of taste on its own. You have to pour the gravy on it and then it zings! If you are a white meat person, you are out of luck because they only have drumsticks and thighs. The 18 piece bucket was actually three six-piece buckets (3 thighs, 3 drums). You can order spicy or regular. As I thought everything came in one bucket, I ordered all regular but will try the spicy next time. No finger licken seen but lots of bones (and best of all, no eyeballs).

GRAVY - it tasted like KFC's gravy but not as salty and no herby-essence at all. Reminded me of brown gravy that had been really watered down. That sounds totally unappetizing but it was really good.

MASHED POTATOES - a little firmer than KFC's but again, not as salty. Kind of had a buttery taste to it and this was my favorite thing from Jollibee. I didn't eat the chicken, just ate the flakes of crispy batter on a bowl of taters and gravy. Yummy and heart-attack inducing.

CORN - Even though it was drenched in butter, these were a no go for corn-crazed Mad Cow. He said they were too "squishy" which I interpreted as Mad Cow speak for "FROZEN!"

SPAGHETTI - When I first met Oscar, his favorite thing to cook for himself was that ghetto favorite, spaghetti and catsup. Seriously, not even government American cheese, just spaghetti with catsup on it. Sickening sweet but something that Oscar continues to wax nostalgic about until today. The Jollibee version had the same kind of sweetness to it's meatsauce but toned down. If you aren't expecting that jolt of sugar though, it is kind of jarring. There was a mix reaction to this - the kids did not like it but the grown ups did. An additional bit of strangeness was the sliced hot dogs in the mix.

PILAKBET - Uh, only Dad ate this (Diva took a shrimp off but that's it) because it had a funky smell to it. Not funky as in bad or spoiled, more like funky as in downtown Chinese herb shop smell. Dad said it was good and took some for his friend who likes Filipino food. His friend liked it so much, he is going out there tomorrow.

HALOHALO - Again, this was restricted to Dad and he liked it even though it melted on the way home in traffic from Waipahu to Manoa. It started off incredibly pretty - reminded me of that Eminem and D12 song Purple Pills with the lavender ice, flan and multicolored cubes of stuff. By the time we got home, it was just one big purple slurpee.

Overall, it was good but not something I'd drive all the day out there for again. Maybe if they'd move into town, I'd go. There are plans to open a Red Ribbon Bakery of which the people around me were tormenting the poor worker taking orders about so it must be worthy of another Westside trek. On the other hand, I'm not a big Ube or Pandanus fan so maybe not.

I did notice that there were no dogs anywhere in the vicinity though.....

Bah, Humbug

I don't know what it is with me but I just cannot get into the holiday spirit.

The total unspirited doldrums started before Thanksgiving and I believe it was transmitted to me via the hundreds of Black Friday flyers that filled my mailbox and fell out of the newspaper like a daily avalanche of paper. I tried to fight the urge to look but alas, gave in to the lure of the sales. While I did not need a 50% off can of turkey Spam, for a moment, I considered joining the rest of the crazed Hawaii folk eating a turkey bento in line at Walmart from Wednesday.

I take it back, the malaise actually started at Halloween because Christmas decorations were popping up next to the bags of candy. Seeing Santa next to a Spongebob Squarepants costume was jarring and way too premature a sighting for me. I guess it really bothered me on a subconscious level because I just cannot bring myself into a jolly, holly spirit.

I am ashamed to admit that the family actually went shopping on Thanksgiving Thursday. I told myself this was okay because everybody else would be doing it but when we got to Waikele, the shops were pretty empty. Please Sir, can I have a heaping spoonful of guilt on top of my lump of indifference?

It only got worse when I caved into the Diva's momentary lapse of sweetness and actually went to Ala Moana on Black Friday. Not early in the morning like the crazed hordes (yes, I can name names but I won't because I asked a bunch of you to buy stuff for me), but after lunch like the semi-nuts regular folk. I thought it was a good sign that I got a great parking spot where I usually park (behind Macy's out in the sun) but I was wrong. After unsuccessfully trying to squeeze my uh overly fluffy body into the Apple Store, I settled on a brochure from the salesperson in the front who had a look on her face of utter terror - like a lone mango tree being approached by a flock of starving mynahs. It was just not worth sacrificing life and limb to save $43 on an I-Pad.

The Diva didn't even get that far. She would be 1-2 shops away from the store she wanted to go to and would stop in her tracks to make a hasty retreat.

Chanukah didn't make things much better. While I always enjoy watching the kids light their candles, the minute the flames are struck, the inevitable question that escapes the lips of my delightful triad is, "WHERE'S OUR PRESENT?" usually followed by grumbling about having to read the Diary of Anne Frank play by the twins. Throw in having a sore arm and smelling like Tokuhon b/c I had to grate 3 pounds of potatoes and latkes and that is enough to bring on the whole Scrooge vibe to any Mama's already black heart.

I realized then that what is really getting to me is the whole cliche of commercialism over sentiment. Christmas is no longer a religious celebration, a time for bonding with family or a season of giving - it has become one extended Zooper Sale. Think about the conversations you have had with people since Thanksgiving? I bet the ones about the great bargains you got at Best Buy or what you ordered online on Cyber Monday are much more numerous than the ones about going to Church or visiting your parents. I can't condemn anyone though as I too am one of the credit card bearing lemmings jumping blindly and madly into the sea of holiday debt.

As I circled the Nordstrom parking lot yesterday, I tried to remember when this whole shift in consciousness had occurred. In the Neaderthal ages when i was a kid, I don't ever remember spending hours in December nagging my parents to buy me something, particularly something that I knew they could not afford. The answer to a request for something insane would have been simple, "No" and that would be that. Unlike the present where the response to a "No" can vary from "We'd have money if the Mad Cow would quit school" or "Can't you get another job?" or "Just charge it" or the ever popular, "Oh, I'll just tell Grandma to buy it for me."

When I think back to holidays when I was a kid, I cannot remember a single present that I received for Christmas. I vaguely remember wanting a doll named Velvet something where you pressed a button on her tummy, pulled her ponytail and it would grow but beyond that, I have no recollection of any of the stuff I hauled in. Instead, I remember a year where Santa fell off the chair at my Uncle's house b/c he had substituted his cookies and milk with a six pack of Primo beer. I remember catching bugs with my cousins at my Grandparents house as we listened to my Grandpa's radio blaring Christmas songs with a running commentary by J Akuhead Pupule. I remember seeing the real "Rudolph" at Ala Moana and getting a sticker that said "I met Rudolph" which became my prize possession. I remember the awe I felt, like travelling to another planet, when my Grandparents took the whole family to see Danny Kaleikini at the Kahala Hilton (okay, that one is kind of a consumer fantasy).

I wonder what my children will remember about the holidays spent in our home? Will they remember Tiger eating the reindeer poop that was deposited on the steps last year by Santa's crew? Will they remember when Alvin and the Chipmunks made a surprise visit to the Chongs' Christmas party? Will they remember the year that New Years Eve was cancelled because I was in the hospital but the five of us had a nice quiet celebration (instead of our usual housefull of people) as I recouperated at home?

Now, I know this feeling would totally turn around if Santa leaves me another scruffy dog in my stocking!!!

Things I'm Shame I'm Thankful For

When it gets close to Turkey Day, people tend to get all sentimental and gushy about life. They forget the other 364 days of reality where they flip the bird to senior citizens driving slow or pretend that nobody is home when the spiffy Jehovah Witness boys ring the doorbell. Perhaps it is the sensory overload resulting from Black Friday tactical planning but people just stop acting like people and with each bite of white meat, figuratively bleach away their badness.

My Mom called me on this when she overheard the Diva and I planning to actually travel to Waikiki to shop on Thursday after seeing a commercial about the sales at the Royal Hawaiian Shopping Center. I mean, going into Waikiki for a reason not pertaining to having to transport Mainland family members to the Stadium Swap Meet? The last time we did that was to brave he three hour wait to go to the Cheesecake Factory when it just opened. My Mom got kind of huffy and said that Thanksgiving Day should not be spent at the mall in the company of total strangers but should be spent at home with family being thankful for all that we have.

Uh, nice but totally delusional conclusion, Mommy. You'll be my Mom forever but I can only get a Nintendo DSI for $69 on Thursday. Being totally neurotic though, I did momentarily feel bad for choosing sales over siblings and started to seriously think about what I am thankful for. Of course, being semi-human, the usual smaltzy items wre included - family, friends, health and home. Then the dominant subversive side of me kicked back in and I thought about the things that I am thankful for that I really should not be thankful for.

DOUGHNUTS
These are the Satan's snack of choice - hunks of processed white flower fried in lard and covered with processed white sugar. With each greasy morsel that slithers down my throat, I feel the molecules of cholesterol and fat slowly making their way into my already heavily coated arteries. I shut out the images of my Dad having a quadruple bypass at 43 and the bottles of high blood pressure meds sitting in the kitchen as I reach for yet another box of Krispy Kremes at Sam's Club - the fancy decorated filled ones and not the regular glazed one. Hey, I have standards. There is something so delightfully naughty in waking up at 3 am to go into the kitchen and scarf down the last smushed week old apple fritter from 7-11 in secret shame.

Yes, I did cry when Dunkin Donuts opened the drive-thru on Kapahulu Avenue and was nearly suicidal when the whole thing shut down. Now I know how crackheads feel when their dealer is arrested.

HAVING COMMON ENEMIES
Speaking of delicious, isn't there nothing as bad karma inducing yet totally satisfying as sitting around with a group of your friends talking stink about the person that you collectively hate? It is simply no fun to hate someone that everyone else likes or tolerates. There is just no joy in being the sole person hating someone. It's like of like being the one kid in Kindergarten who doesn't like chocolate. Others look at you like you are genetically inferior - how can you possibly not like the most perfect element in the universe? It must be you who is the screwed up one.

But, when everybody hates the same person, it is a party of deliciously evil bonding as each person tries to top the other with their story of "why the common enemy sucks". It's difficult to resist the urge to maniacally cackle or bring in a caldron full of lava while chanting together "bubble, bubble, toil and trouble". Yes, it is witchy with a B but dang, it is a darn fun time.

BEING FAT
Aside from a year in First Grade when I was called "bamboo pole" by my endearing cousins, all of my life I have been fat. Not a little chubby or pudgy, totally unabashedly proudly fat. You would think that I would have needed therapy due to many an afternoon spent at Sears shopping for clothes in the "Chubette" section - yes you skinny Minnies, "CHUBETTE"!!!! Not plus size, not big beautiful woman, but "Chubette". I guess the manufacturers figured if you add "ette" it sounds French so you could momentarily forget that you are a fat girl, like spelling fat with a PH instead of an F.

Now, fat boys were sent to the "Husky" section of Sears - still condescendingly cheerful in the eyes of the obese but somewhat tough and manly too. I guess because I have always been a dog fanatic, I thought it was cool to wear clothes in sizes named after those wolf-like canines that pulled sleds in Alaska.

I didn't mind being a "Chubette" since the word sounded like what you would call an oversized cream puff pastry. That's how I felt - like a big fluffy sweet thing bouncing around with every step. Fluffy delicious goo-filled goodness.

When I was preggers with the twins, I was over 200 pounds and had to buy 3X clothing from Walmart as that was all that fit comfortably. As you can guess, they weren't anything a Harajuku Girl would covet. Mostly gigantic tent-like neon colored Mrs. Roper caftans, Micronesian church lady elastic skirts with funky appliques and horizontal striped polyester sailor shirts. In the end, I just gave up and wore my brother and my dad's athletic shorts under my Konishiki-sized tummy. But I still loved being big enough to enter the Natsu basho.

There are great things about being fat. You don't need a tv tray to dine. When I was pregnant, I could balance a whole dinner plate on my stomach and now that I am not, I can still balance a dessert plate and maybe a shallow bowl if I don't breathe. You can leave a room and still be present since it takes your okole another 5 minutes to exit. Nobody wants to sit next to you on the bus or the airplane - I will gladly take having a row all to myself because somebody does not want me to sweat on them instead of having to suck in and inhale so they can fit.

Plus, fat Oprah is back so all is good in the universe.

INAPPROPRIATE PHYSICAL CONTACT WITH MY DOGS
I love my dogs, I mean I really love love love my dogs. They are the furry doughnuts in my heart. I love to kiss my dogs but more than that, I love to have my dogs kiss me. No matter how bad a day you have, you cannot help but feel better when your big 70 pound dog greets you by kissing your face for 10 minutes. The result is you end up covered with dog spit, looking like a dozen slugs had a marathon race on your visage. Of course, if you have a dog, you know that allowing him or her to kiss you often means you will end up with uh, how to put this, some frenchy le peu action. Basically, each time you try to breath while your dog is slobbering on you, you risk having some heavy dog tongue action right in the kisser. I know, I know - totally unsanitary and kind of disgusting (especially to you cat people or non-animal people) but I just cannot help myself. I LOVE it.

Now in 10 years, when I am dying in the hospital of ebola contracted from kissing my dog who dined on squashed toad guts moments before, I may feel diffently, but I doubt it.

I also love smelling my dogs after they have come in from the rain. It is just such a comforting doggy smell that, when I close my eyes and inhale, I can imagine that I am one of those crazy animal hoarding ladies with 97 dogs in my kitchen - which to be honest, is my dream gig. I can do without the muddy paws all over the furniture that is an unfortunate by-product of eau de wet chien.

I love using my dogs as pillows. Very relaxing to watch tv and have your head propped up with a mellow mutt instead of a sobakawa pillow. Unless they make a silent and deadly fart. I swear they do that on purpose. I can hear their inner dialogue, "Hmm, do you think she knows it's me? I doubt it. Look, she cannot even tell I ate cat poop before I kissed her today."

I love writing these lenghty rambling blog posts while wiggling my toes in the fur of my fluffy dog or having the crazy dog lick my feet. Actually, since I don't clean house, there are times I am probably wiggling my toes in oversized dust bunnies and having my feet licked by some desperate cockroches.

I LOVE DOGS. Well, actually, it's not that I have insane attachment to dogs, it is that I really cannot stand most people.

PRETENDING TO BE ASLEEP WHEN I DON'T WANT TO DO SOMETHING
Uh, I pretty much do this everyday, all day long. See also pretending to be passed out in a drunken stupor after only 1/2 a glass of wine to as to avoid having to deal with children, pretending to be engrossed in a Korean Soap Opera to avoid having to interact with spouse, leaving cell phone in the car on nights and weekends to avoid phone calls from work when I am not working and pretending not to speak English when the aforementioned Jehovahs come to the door.

KNOWINGLY PROCRASTINATING
This has nothing to do with wanting to make an entrance. This is just about having a inner psychological fear of being on-time. Seriously, I feel like if I am on time, the universe will implode because it is something so out of character for me.

Need I mention that I intended to write this post for Halloween?

On the other hand, if I am going to the airport, I have to be there at least double the time suggested by the airlines to be there. If I am going to the Neighbor Islands, I'll be there two hours early. The Mainland, four hours. International, the month before the flight. Unfortunately, I married someone who finds great entertainment in getting to the airport at late as possible, running down the terminal and slipping in just as the doors close. This is why we don't do a lot of travelling because sometime during the run to the gate, I swear when we return, I will file divorce papers for having married a totally insane person.

REALLY BAD REALITY TELEVISION
Forget "Colonial House" on PBS, give me "Flavor of Love" and "Bad Girls Club" anyday. If there isn't a beat down or a chorus of B-TCH as part of the plot, I won't watch it. It's just boring to see people acting civilized or intelligently. The lower the collective IQ of the participants, the higher my interest. I mean, you really think that "Upstairs, Downstairs" can compete with someone making doodoo on Flavor Flav's steps? I can name every skank who was Bret Michael's Rock of Love and ID their tattoos not only by image but location on each very used body part.

It has nothing to do with the social critic's belief that those of us who feast on reality TV are doing so out of a subconscious need to feel better about ourselves than the fools who are trapped in the walls of the Big Brother house. For me, it is the equivalent of what the Travel Channel is to those who have the money, time and inclination to fly to foreign destinations in Europe or Asia. For an hour or so, I am taken to a strange world that I will (hopefully) never inhabit to witness the mating practices and warfare customs of the locals. It is not a "Real World" that I live in during these hours but the "Surreal One" (although watching Verne Troyer pee into a mirror was uh, more than enough for a while).

Unlike real travel, I don't need to pack a bag or get a passport. I don't need to get to the airport neurotically early. I don't need to get a shot or vaccination, although there are times on some of those VH1 shows that I feel like I really need to bathe in clorox after watching them.

OH WELL, HAPPY THANKSGIVING EVERYONE!!!

Why Can't We Be Friends?

Recently, When Harry Met Sally aired on television. We actually have a "Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon" connection to the movie because the Meg Ryan fake orgasm scene was filmed at Katz' Deli which is owned by Oscar the Grouch's cousin. When Oscar and I first started going out, he would have a salami from Katz' sent to my parents for the holidays. They being of the Asian Persuasion, did not know what to do with this torpedo looking hunk of processed meat so they put it in their freezer, along with the other Jewish-tinged foodstuff that we would bring home from LA. When their freezer broke, there was enough deli stuff in there to set up a Katz' in Oahu.

But I digress as usual.

When I first watched When Harry Met Sally, I agreed with the basic theme of the movie - that men and woman cannot be friends because there is always the possibility of something happening between them, particularly if they are somewhat sexually attracted to each other. Of course, back then, I was still at the age when dating was a weekend sport and checking out guys was the real reason we'd go to the Mall. The truth is, back then, the last thing I wanted was a guy to be my platonic friend - I wanted a BOYFRIEND. Ironically, I did have a large percentage of close friends who were guys but somehow, I didn't consider them to be really guys. They were like brothers to me - which is the kiss of death for any possible hook up relationship. It's true. All you have to do is tell a guy you think of him like your brother and he knows that there is no way he is getting his hand or anything else in your jar of goodies.

Now that I am much, much older, my viewpoint on the topic has totally changed. I believe that men and women can be platonic friends, even if they are attracted to each other in anyway. At my age, even if someone hit on me, the reality is that I am just too tired, too lazy or too caught up in whatever Korean soap opera is airing that evening to accept the groin-motivated invitation. Actually, in the interest of total disclosure, the only proposition I receive on a regular basis is from one of the veterans who thinks that eventually his daily running commentary on the current state of my boobs will morph into a sweet siren's call, luring me to go to Las Vegas with him for the week (even though he cautions that all we can do is "hold hands").

The funny thing is, now that the possibility of any "boy who is a friend but not a boyfriend" getting anything from me is pretty much the same as Matt Lauer having a light lunch Kanye West, I seem to have a lot of friends who are guys. Guys who are my age or younger (as well as the guys who are older than my dad). If you check my cell phone call log, 80% of the calls listed are from my male friends while the other 20% are from the Diva complaining about some aspect of my totally rotten parenting style and how her life sucks because we are the only parents who will not let her do (fill in the blank) like all of her friends' parents.

Most of my in person and telephone conversations with my guy friend start off pertaining to some aspect of work but eventually evolve into me listening to them contemplate the meaning of their social lives or lack thereof. I have to admit that during these times, I usually read the paper or do some craft thing because I know that they do not want me to comment on what they are saying, they just want me to listen and agree with everything they say. Hey, kind of like being married, huh? So, I just throw in an "uh huh" and a "oh, you're totally right" every few minutes to assure them that I am indeed listening intently. I will also throw in an occasional, "You do remember that I have a husband and family to deal with" when the phone call starts to go into the 2nd hour of telephone therapy.

What I have come to realize is that my relationship with my male friends (the ones under retirement age anyway) is not of the When Harry Met Sally type. It is not a friendship between a man and a woman with an undercurrent of sexual tension. Rather, it is a Mommy and Son surrogacy situation. The kids pointed that out to me as they listened to one of my conversations with a guy friend. After 54 minutes of lecturing to my friend about the perils of drinking so much and encouraging him to go out and get a girlfriend, the kids told me I sounded like I was talking to them and not someone my own age. I realized that they were dead on! Perhaps with my many years of breeding and the liters of fertility medication that pulsed through my bloodstream, I am incapable to being looked at as a vibrant female and am only able to be perceived as Okaasan.

Well, the funny thing is, like with real sons, the minute my guy friends find REAL girlfriends, I become persona non grata. All communication intiated by them stops and I am expected to go back to the cave from which I crawled out of but still be available to answer their distress calls. They will occasionally text me to ask for assistance with their new relationship - you know, real important stuff like do they really need to buy something for their two week anniversary and how long should they stay at the girls house after you-know-what so she doesn't get offended.

As my cousin DD said, "This is why women turn gay...."

Eating Las Vegas

To answer the most common question I received regarding my recent trip to Vegas, yes, all we did was EAT the whole time we were there. Well, that and bowl. So, this is a short wrap up of ethe Mad Cow and Mommy 's favorite places to mangia-d while we were there:

Favorite Restaurant:
MC - Max Brenner's for the milkshake and the french fries which were cool. And the chicken because you could paint it catsup with a real brush.
Mom - Max Brenner's for the best veggie burger I have ever had. Read that on Yelp and thought it could not be true but it was actually the best veggie burger. Did not have a veggie taste to it and it was huge. I could only eat half. Plus it came with the fries sprinkled with chili powder and chocolate.

Favorite Drink:
MC - the peanut butter milkshake at Max Brenner's
Mom - the chocolate chai at Max Brenner's. Not only was it delicious but it was served in a very innovative way. Totally cool.

Favorite Breakfast:
MC - Main Street Buffet and the Golden Nugget Buffet for the chicken fried steak and gravy
Mom - leftover cold pizza from Max Brenner's

Favorite Lunch:
MC - Carson Street Cafe - the coffee shop at the Golden Nugget. Because they had chicken fried steak again.
Mom - the pizza shop at the end of the Fremont Experience, next to the psychic stand. I've always wanted to go there for the $3 special but never have. The Mad Cow and I had to kill time b/c there was no electricity at the Golden Nugget (and unfortunately had to lug our bags of Club Penguin stuff from the Disney Store at the Premium Outlet Mall). We got a whole pizza and it was ono. Crispy on the bottom, lots of cheese, not greasy at all. Reminded me of Chico's on Waialae (really old school).

Favorite Dinner:
MC - Tony Roma's for ribs, except when Mom got mad at me and said we were going to go home that night.
Mom - Pampas Argentine Grill at the Miracle Miles Shops and not just because the Mad Cow ate a $50 meal for free. I ate the salad bar (huge, fresh, totally ono with cheese biscuits to DIE for) and he ate the meat that came to the table on huge skewers. He probably ate about 10 pounds of filet mignon, sirloin, roast beef, grilled chicken, turkey wrapped in bacon, grilled pork, and sausage - so much so, the waiters ended up dubbing him "Meat Boy". Even the two hefty folks on the side of us were impressed with the Mad Cow's ability to thrown down and grind. Kind of pricey if we had to pay for both of us so look for the girls dressed up like Carmen Miranda who hand out coupons for major discounts.

Favorite Dessert:
MC - the Chocolate fondue at Max Brenner's
Mom - free samples of chocolate from the Vosges Store at the Forum Shops

Top Five Amazingly Delicious When Starving Dishes:

1) Sam's Town Bowling Alley's chili dog and fries combo - not The Alley at Aiea Bowl level but when you are watching you son bowl his 8th game at 9:45 pm, it is good enough. Yes, it everything came out of a can - probably even the hot dog - but it was greasy, grimy and gopher-guttilicious.

2) Two day old nachos from TGIFridays - yes, that was where I saw the human equivalent of Squidbillies. Thought it was a sugary blue drink induced trip but it was actually a bunch of two footed Squidbillies, complete with trucker hats and bastard children

3) Smashed spam musubi at the bottom of the carry on

4) Generic cookies from the vending machine

5) Chicken fried steak batter covered in gravy

What Happens in Vegas, SHOULD Stay in Vegas

Images of hedonism and general (or genital) naughtiness come to mind when one hears the phrase, "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas". Tales of waking up in the honeymoon suite at the Palms, married to a cocktail waitress named Bambi or a sweaty dancer who has the Thunder from Down Under abound. Tattoos, piercings, strange credit card purchases are omiyage brought home by those who were not prepared for the impact that free drinks and legal gambling can have on a sheltered mind from the rock.

Well, being from Hawaii, the whole "What happens in Vegas" aura of sexiness and scandal is pretty much non-existent, especially if you are with the other local kine cattle staying at one of the Sam Boyd hotels downtown as part of a Vacations Hawaii package. Anonymity is disposed of the moment you check into HNL, tossed aside like that mango from Grandma's yard that she snuck into your carry just in case you get hungry. Chances are amongst your fellow passengers are several members of your graduating high school class, a distant relative of one of your parents, someone who works with one of your siblings, one of your kid's teachers and of course, someone who goes to church with your grandparents and thinks you are still a virgin even though you have eight kids by eight different daddies.

It must be a Hawaii thing since for the rest of the normal world, Vegas is a place of escapism. It's where you go for that last fling before you commit to a life totally devoid of the joy of being single (in other words, that death sentence known as marriage). It's where you go when you need to reinvent yourself after that bad break-up, horrible divorce or criminal conviction. It's where you can make out with Elvis (or at least a semi-decent facimile), see more silicone boobs per capita than anywhere else (some even on women) or pretend you are the person you secretly aspire to be. More importantly, you can have your face tacked on a bag of M and Ms - WOO HOO.

However, this is not the case for us Hawaii folks - particularly if you are Downtown and in one of the aforementioned hotels. My friend, SH, said it was tiring just to walk across the casino to get to her hotel room because she was stopped every few steps by someone who knew her and being a nice person, she felt obligated to share everything that had happened to her in the past 10 years since she had seen that person. It's true - if you have taken a religious vow of silence, do not go to the Cal because if you don't speak to the folks who know you, they will invoke a wrath on you worse that Jesus. Eternal damnation post-death is one thing, a lifetime of people believing you think you are high-maka-maka is even worse.

This is why I cannot understand why people from Hawaii bring their "side salads" with them to Las Vegas, stay at the Cal and eat at the Main Street buffet? If ever you want to be caught, that is the way to do it. Each time I have gone to Vegas with one or both of my parents, they have bumped into a friend or a classmate, had a lively long conversation and then, within seconds of leaving, whispered, "Can you believe he brought his sidekick here? Ho da stupid!" Perhaps it is the local version the Mafia's code of silence - nobody ever rats out a cheater, even one dumb enough to bring his Korean bar girlfriend or her "platonic co-worker" for a weekend Downtown.

This trip, as none of the comforting home away from home Sam Boyd hotels were available, the Mad Cow and I opted to stay at the Golden Nugget. At first, I was happy about it - it was $30 a day cheaper than the Cal, it was right on the Fremont Street experience so no spooky nighttime walking in that alleyway from the Cal to the lights, and it had a real swimming pool (not a cement square on the roof that was shut down because of cracks). However, it was a little strange to be in Downtown LV and not being one of the lemmings in the sea of slippah wearing 'ohana. Instead, the Mad Cow and I spent our Golden Nugget meal times playing "Can you spot another local person?" We were thrown off a few times by kotonks but we Hawaii folks have a distinctive strut when we walk, leading off with the stomach and pelvis and we always swing our arms. We also look incredibly uncomfortable wearing shoes. It's true, try it sometimes when you are in an area where local people are scarce - like the Louis Vuitton store in Ala Moana or the Pacific Club.

When you are with your kid, the whole meaning of "What happens in Vegas" changes from sexy to shameful, especially if you are an older parent like myself. Most of the time is spent trying to look and act like your child's parent instead of looking and acting like your child's grandparent - which, quite honestly, you could be at your age. I could see it clearly on the minds of every service provider the Mad Cow and I came across, "uh, is that the Mom or the Grandma? What should I say? Should I tell the kid how lucky his Grandma brought him here? Should I ask him if his Mom wants coffee? I guess I will just call her Ma'am to be safe". I felt so bad for them, so much so that I considered getting a shirt that said, "Yes, I am his Mom (even though I am old enough to be his Grandma)." On these occasions, I would make an effort to roll up the sleeve on my right arm to reveal most of my tattoo, thinking that this would tip people off that seven years ago, I was still young enough that I was capable of breeding. If this didn't work, I'd make sure the Mad Cow said, "MOM" loudly, even though he too would be confused at times and call me Grandma.

Of course, when we went to the pool, I just gave up and let people assume I was Grandma. It was easier than trying to suck in my belly, push up my boobs and pack on the make-up in an attempt to blend in with the other Moms who had 1% bodyfat, wore bikinis and spent their mornings getting their chocho waxed while I pondered how idiotic I would look if I swam in the pool with my bathrobe on. Well, as I did forget my swimsuit and had to buy some men's board shorts and rash guard, perhaps I passed as the lesbian "aunty" instead of the dried up lumpy Grandma. I think the Mad Cow was bummed that I had somehow forgotten to bring my phone with me so we could not take any photos by the pool but he attributed that to (as he loudly informed everyone in earshot) "my mom's menopause brain". There was no way I was going to bring any images of myself in my attractive butchy swimwear back with me from Vegas.

To top off my totally humiliating pool experience. as we were headed down to the pool one morning, we were joined by a young guy also in swimwear (my shorts were much manlier than his and I am pretty sure I had more leg hair). The guy started talking to us about the pool and whether we had gone down the slide, etc. My very helpful son then offered this tip about pool usage and potential hazards, "You better go on the slide before my Mom because she is so fat, she will probably get stuck and it will take them a long time to get her out of there.".

That was a time when I wished that kid could STAY in Vegas indefinitely.

Things That Make You Go Hmmmm

Wow, actually have time to write since we dumped all the kids at Grandma's house. However, I think I am a little unstable mentally since I spent the morning in the hot sun picking up doggie doodies so I am just going to ramble a while.

1) Am I the only one not surprised that reality dad Brian Masche went all OJ on his family? Anyone who watched Jon and Kate could see the crack in their marriage get bigger and bigger with each episode. His passive eye rolling whenever she criticized him turned into aggressive but ineffective verbal bombs signalling the end was near. With Brian Masche, the cracks in his sanity and personality were evident from episode one. If you are a parent, you knew that he was looney tunes the moment he moved the family away from the grandparents. Who turns their back on free babysitting for one kid, let alone six kids? Only somebody nuts.

2) I am kind of ashamed to admit this but Paul McCartney looked really hot on the Hard Rock Concert that was on VH1 yesterday. I am more of the lust for no bocha Eddie Vedder types but dang, clean cut, suspender wearing Sir Paul was totally adorable and yummy in his cute Beatle way. I wish he would let go natural and stop with the brown hair dye though. Those of us who bought the I Wanna Hold Your Hand in 33 RPM will accept you and love you even if you are way way way over 64.

3) I am still hopelessly addicted to Pit Boss on Animal Planet even though they now run a disclaimer at the end of every episode explaining that the show is a docudrama and that the dogs have been placed in caring homes. Cannot figure out if I have a mad crush on Shorty Rossi, like seeing an Asian who is not all happy happy joy joy but constantly complaining (so very un-Oriental), or just like seeing the dogs. Probably a little of both. I watched the new episode yesterday three times. Mental...

4) I could never understand why people said you should not even try meth one time because you will be hooked for life but then I took a hit of something called Chocolate Mochi (which is actually chocolate covered mochi crunch) that was on sale at Longs for $12.99 this week. This is my new crack of choise, I am totally hooked. It never leaves my side the moment I get into bed and I've even taken to hiding it in the futon so I don't have to share with the kids. Pretty much have replaced eating regular meals with scarfing down handfuls of the stuff. Planning to take a drive to Longs under the cover of buying toothpaste to make another score

5) Picking up dog poop sucks. Even if the poop is hard and looks like chalk, it sucks to pick it up. Even if you don't have to touch the stuff and use your blue clampy poop thing, it sucks. They need to clone a dog who doesn't poop or invent a dog bidet. I love my dogs but it is much easier to pick up rabbit poop.

6) Why do I get jealous when the important men in my life have girlfriends? No, not Oscar the Grouch (I wrote IMPORTANT - duh) but the other men - my sons, my brother, my friends who are like brothers. I even hate the little cute 6 year old who hangs all over the Mad Cow. Even if the girl is super sweet and a perfect match, I still hate them and want to feed them to Sadako in the well from The Ring. If I met the girl on her own, I would probably be good friends with her but the fact that she's paired up with one of MY GUYS irks me to no end and I turn into an evil K-Drama overprotective insane mother-in-law. Haven't stabbed any of them yet but I do shoot major stink eye daggers. Majorly psychotic, I guess, or menopausal.

7) I should not type until I have had coffee. Definitely should not post anything on Facebook until the caffeine has kicked in.

8) There really needs to be a reality show called "The Wine Gang". No script needed, no retakes - just let the camera go. For example, a reporter came this week to ask the boys about women soldiers becoming part of the 100th/442nd and the possibility of these women being deployed alongside the men. The reporter goes, "Were there any working women when you were fighting in Europe?" to which the response was, "Oh yeah, prostitutes!!!!!" This was followed by a good hour of stories about the international buffet of ladies-of-the-night offered to the soldiers during WWII as well as USO volunteers who would do it for free. Dang- those guys lived life to the fullest.

9) Please vote for Margaret Cho on DWTS so people will stop asking me if I am her. Folks, you can tell us apart because she has tattoos on both arms and her eyes are bigger than mine.

10) It may take years and years but bachi happens!

May I Have More SIster Wives, Please?

In the past few weeks, there has been a lot of brouhaha over the new TLC Show, Sister Wives, which features a normal family consisting of one husband, thirteen kids and three wives. At first, I wasn't going to watch because I figured it would be like watching the whole Warren Jeffs debacle on CNN or the Duggar's plus two wives, you know, lots of women with long brown ponytails dressed like their Little House on the Prairie finest and an overly horny American Gothic-esq master. However, when I saw the promos on TLC and noticed that the women were not dressed as though they were on Pilgrim Runway, I thought I'd at least sneak a guilty peak.

The strange thing is about this strange family is that they were pretty normal and boring as all heck. It was almost as dull as the "drama" on the Real Housewives of DC. A bunch of white chicks sitting around talking. That's it.

As I watched though, I starting finding myself thinking that as much as the media condemns the whole polygamy marriage concept as horribly misogynistic, it really seemed like a good deal for the women involved. The burdens of running the home and caring for the children (as well as the obligatory swarmy and useless dad) were distributed amongst the wives with each responsible for the specific duties she preferred or did the best. The wife with the good job went out to work, the motherly one cared for the children and the insane one who enjoyed housework did the laundry. The house was spotless, the meals were all cooked from scratch and the kids seemed remarkably normal. Perhaps it is editing but not a single monku was heard from anyone (unlike those of us who are the one wife and spend most of our waking hours monkuing to any friend we can get on the phone).

What kind of sealed the deal for me about the positive side of the whole sister wife thing is one of the women explaining that her sister was in a polygamist marriage. When her sister was diagnosed with terminal cancer, she did not have the additional stress of wondering about who would care for her children when she was gone. She knew that the sister wives would care for her kids as they considered all of their children to be true brothers and sisters - not half-siblings. She had lived with the other women every day and knew how they parented. So when her time came to pass on, she did so knowing her children would be loved and the other wives would keep her memory alive.

With so many of us suffering from heart disease, diabetes and high blood pressure at an early age, the reality is that the time may come sooner than we think that we must face our own mortality. While it may be easy to accept that it is time for us to go to the great beyond, the fear of what will happen to the children left behind is almost too terrifying to deal with. Of course, the assumption is the surviving spouse would become the primary caregiver as a single parent (with the extended 'ohana stepping in) but what happens when a new significant other is added to the mix? Will Daddy's new "friend" from a hostess bar on Keeaumoku be able to help with homework when she has to punch in at 7 pm? Will that new "Uncle" that Mommy brought home remember to stop leaving the open bottles of Bud out of reach from the baby? The shadow of the unknown stepparent looms over every parent. This is why we have opted just not to deal with it, instead making the totally idiotic promise that we will not kick the bucket at the same time - at least until the Mad Cow heads off to college.

Oprah says that the toughest job in the world is being a parent. She is wrong, that is the 2nd toughest job. The #1 toughest job is being a parent to someone else's kid. I know that I am not the best parent but I figure that since I bred them, I have the right to screw them up since they are my products. You know, the whole train of thought that goes, "I brought you into this world so I can take you out". But screwing up someone else's kid (unless they are giving hassles to my kids in which case I will F them up to no end) is not something I will even consider.

We were asked once if we would be guardians to a friend's kid in the event they passed away. We didn't have to discuss the matter before we told them that we could not do it. Not only were there cultural and religious differences between us but our parenting styles were totally different. Adding this child to our already chemically imbalanced brood would result in a hazardously toxic mix. So we had to say no which was very difficult to do. I mean, how would you react if your friends said "Thanks for thinking of us but we really don't want to have anything to do with your kid when you kick the bucket." Our relationship with them has not been the same but it was something that we had to do because we knew we could not raise her in the manner they would want her raised. Also, kids are like dogs, if you don't get them trained at puppy age, you are screwed and have to go on the Dog Whisperer. The prospect of letting their child live in our pack of semi-obedient human pit bulls and not being able to send her back somewhere when she was somewhat trained was a definite no go.

The one thing I know for sure is that there will never be a reality show called Brother Husbands. Think about it, have you ever heard a woman say that she wished she could have multiple husbands? Most of us don't even want to deal with the one we have at home, let alone add a few more to the mix. I don't need a Brother Husband because I already have another man in my life to do the jobs that my husband doesn't do - things like fixing things around the house, repairing my car, telling me I am always right, picking up the kids when I can't get there. Best of all, this man is stuck with me for life. His name - DADDY!!!!

Welcome to TV Land

I am not a big award ceremony watcher, aside from the BET awards which always promise to deliver some sort of rapper on rapper on-stage diss and backstage beat down. I never watch the Oscars because the only movies I see in the theatres are the ones that have a merchadise tie-in with McDonalds. I try to force the Diva to watch the Tony Awards in a desperate attempt to use my Stage Mom powers and cajole her into returning to DHT or try out for anything remotely musical on the island. But most of the time, if there is an award show on Sunday, I'm usually tuned in to Bridezilla reruns or Making It Through on Kiku.

I did tune in last night to watch the Emmys, well, some of the Emmys anyway. I watched the pre-Emmy show on E because it was hosted by Ross Matthews who I adore and three comedians from Chelsea Lately. Because they were on during the day and the censors were standing by, their commentaries were not as biting and hilariously cruel as usual so I soon turned that off. I mean, when you have two snarky gay guys on a panel talking about donated jewelry and the level of excitement is like a bad QVC commercial, it's time to switch channels.

Of course, I watched the opening number, mostly because Jimmy Fallon had said in an interview that it involved the kids from Glee, Betty White and Kate Gosselin. That was a fantastic opening - esp. when Tim Gunn dressed Jimmy Fallon in the Bruce Springsteen attire, down to the red kerchief in the pants pocket. I'm sure everyone noticed that Kate Gosselin was kept way in the back row in every dance number and it was clear that even though she has returned to the warmth of her plus-eight home, she still has not managed to get her groove back. I don't think she realizes that simply dressing like a stripper does not magically endow you with the ability to dance like a stripper. Terrible, just terrible.

I didn't watch the whole show as I realized that I knew only about 10% of the actors, actresses and television shows that were nominated. I knew a few of the comedic shows, nothing about the drama category and had not seen one of the special programs or mini-series. The only category where I knew every show and could ID everyone who went on stage to accept an award was REALITY (please don't let Kim Kardashian sing again. Just because you have a big okole doesn't mean you can sing like Aretha Franklin).

Did anyone else think it was strange that a straight guy playing a gay character won best supporting actor in a comedy and a gay woman playing a straight character won best supporting actress in a comedy? Perhaps it was some kind of bizarre karmic justice for the whole controversy earlier this year about the gay guy from Will and Grace not being convincing as a straight guy on Broadway? I knew Jane Lynch was a shoe-in because the Sue Sylvester character from Glee has become iconic but I was hoping that Chris Colfer would win for his outstanding portrayal of Kurt. The guy brings me to tears in every scene he is in and his singing is angelic and pure. For many of us of a certain age, our television introduction to a gay person was via Pedro on The Real World. If you were any bit homophobic when The Real World started, chances are (if you had a heart anyway), your opinion changed 180 degrees at the end of the season. Yes, I cried when Pedro got married and when I heard he had passed away. I believe that Chris Colfer is the Pedro for my kids' generation. If you are a parent, watch the episodes of Glee where Kurt comes out to his blue-collar, mechanic father and is totally accepted by Dad for the person he is. That is the way we should all treat our children.

Okay, enough seriousness. As I was totally ignorant about 90% of the Emmys, I decided to compile a list of my own awards:

Show which makes you glad you aren't a rich, blonde white woman: Real Housewives of Washington DC (Bravo)
You know it is bad when even the ethnic folk are totally boring and drama means speaking to each other in overly enunciated syllables.

Show which makes you ashamed to be female: Bridezillas (WE network)
I have looked into the face of evil and it is draped in taffeta

Show which makes you understand why people think Asians are strange: Food Party (IFC)
If you have never dropped acid but want to know what it feels like, just watch this show. After one episode, you will feel like you have spent the past 15 minutes in a drug induced haze. Plus you will have the munchies.

Least stereotypically Asian TV personality: Ronald from Pit Boss (Animal Planet)
Ronald is always complaining about having work, drives pretty well and has a pet cat. How many Asian guys do you know who have a pet cat? Maybe his yellow-ness was diluted because he was adopted by a white family?

Most stereotypically Asian TV personality: The crew of the Nom Nom Bahn Mi truck on The Great Food Truck Race (Food Channel)
Three UCLA grads (but of course) are kicking butt on this show, selling Ba-le type Vietnamese sandwiches from a green food truck with Tokidoki-esq cho kawaii animal mascots. The two girls and the one guy are all adorable in the Korean Soap Opera idol manner. Being techno savvy, they have won for two weeks in a row by using social networking like Twitter to let people know where they are.

Show that makes me wish I was a guy: RuPauls' Drag Race (Logo channel)
In my next life, I want to be reborn as a drag queen so I can be beautiful, have a cutting wit and be sitting on a secret. I'm still seething that Tyra beat Raven and it's been months now.

Game show I want to be a contestant on: RuPaul's Drag U (Logo channel)
This is RuPaul's Drag Race for those of us with Buddha-given V-jay-jays. Femininity-challenged women are made-over by Drag Race contestants into drag divas. My kids are in a panic b/c they are casting for next season and I have told them I want to apply. They are really worried because in the most recent episode, one of the ladies flashed her nekkid huge rump to the judges to win.

TV character that I used to be like when I had a waist: Snooky from The Jersey Shore minus the sluttiness (MTV)
Okay, I was and still am on the chunky side, dressed inappropriately for someone on the chunky side, had big hair, lots of black eyeliner and was tanned (albeit real and not sprayed on). I wasn't as slutty as her though and if someone punched me in the face, I would not be crying on the ground but would kick the crap out of them.

TV character that I am like now: Roseanne

In the Good Old (End) of Summertime

The three spawns returned to school this week after nearly a month long Summer break at home with me. My analysis of the Summer is that it was a successful one since nobody ended up killed at the hands of an irritated family member, no parents were summoned to the Dean's Office just for a "talk", minimal nakimiso episodes with the Mad Cow, predictable frequency of hostile moments with the Diva and minimal having to drive home to pick up something the Professor forgot in one of his absent minded moments. If I'm not under CPS custody when school rols around, that's a major accomplishment.

To the children though, the summer was a terrible one because:
1) We did not travel anywhere like all of our friends did
2) We did not stay in a luxury hotel in Waikiki like all of our friends did
3) We did not see our friends enough because we don't live by them (5 minute drives don't count)
4) We had to spend time together at home like all of our friends did not
5) We had to spend time at the Clubhouse even though Mom doesn't work there anymore
6) None of our textbooks came in time for school to start and all of our friends had theirs because they all got new books at the Bookstore and did not have to buy them used online like we had to
7) We did not get to play with our cousins from the Mainland enough because Mom has a small car and cannot fit everyone in there while all of our friends' Moms drive SUVs or vans that can fit 8.
8) MAD COW did not purchase all of he puffles ever made like his friends did
9) DIVA did not get to go to Old Navy every day like her friends did
10) PROFESSOR did not get an IPad, new laptop or Droid b/c he was required to clean his room before doing so and none of his friends have to do that.

So, you see there is a trend here. Basically, everything sucked because of comparisons to or lack of friends. Each child counted down the days and hours before school started which seems to be a common occurrence amongst modern day niblets.

Is it just me but didn't those of us who are now Moms and Dads (well, OLDER Moms and Dads anyway) enjoy the Summer break and dreaded returning to school?

My favorite summer memories do not include buying some techno gadget or hopping in a plane to go somewhere with hoards of other demented families but involve some quiet moment spent at my grandparents' home in Moiliili - usually accompanied by my younger cousin RI. Our day started off with breakfast - wheat toast and orange marmalade for Grandma (what is it with Obaachans and orange marmalade anyway? Do you know anyone besides an old Japanese lady with a tight blue-haired afro who eats the stuff?), scrambled egg with a ham pattie from a can for Grandpa and toast with butter for us. Sounds totally boring but my Grandparents would jazz it up by making "crowns" for us out of paperbagss. When we finished out toast, we would put on our crowns and go "Da da da DAHHHHH" like in the Imperial Margarine tv commercial. For you young folk, this was slick advertising back in the day - eat butter, get a crown on your head (Imperial - crown, get it?). It didn't matter that we had a ghetto crown made of brown paper bag, we felt as regal and special at Queen Elizabeth at her coronation. There is no way you can have a sucky morning if you started it out with a crown on your head.

One day, my grandparents decided to throw us for a loop and serve Frosted Flakes. We were so thrilled that we ate like we had been on Survivor eating grubs for three months. Scarfed down the whole box - we had about six bowls each. Then we puked but to this day, I still get a little jazzed when I smell an open box of Frosted Flakes. There wasn't even Tony the Tiger then. Actually, I don't remember my grandma ever giving us cereal after that. I think she thought there must have been narcotics sprinkled on instead of sugar by the way we ate till be barfed.

My cousin and I would eat breakfast really quickly so we could watch Checkers and Pogo. As she was skinny and I was chubby, when we'd play, she would always be Pogo and I would be Checkers. This was a plus for the plump since I could whack her with stuff and tell her that I was just copying Mr. Checkers like on TV. While I admired Checker's ability to batter innocent vest-wearing bearded bumbling idiots, I really really wanted to be the evil, furry Superspy McPigg. How cool to spend ever moment of the day plotting the overthrow of Mr. Heftel's great empire and trying to recruit his nephew Sylvester to the dark side. If it was lucky number day, my Grandpa would spread out the stack of Checkers and Pogo magazines he had taken from Orange Julius at Ala Moana (always at least 20) and we'd see if we won anything.

It have been must be bachi because we never won once. Grandpa did win the lucky number once when he called in on J Akuhead Pupule's morning show (which he blasted out of his outdoor office every morning) and we were in heaven when we got to go to the KGMB studio to pick up our prize. It was a bag full of demo 45s from Bobby Goldsboro, a loaf of Loves Bread, some Hostess snowballs and KGMB bumper stickers, total value maybe $10. But my cousin and I felt like we had won the lottery, even though we didn't get farther into the place except the receptionist's desk.

My cousin was an outdoorsy kid but I was a homebody, stuck to my Grandma's side like glue. I would sit at the kitchen table and just watch her create magic at the stove. It seemed like no matter what sort of indistinguishable item she pulled out of the back of the freezer, it was transformed into something huge and onolicious once it hit the bottom of the black cast iro.n skillet Her fried chicken was better than the Colonels', her beef tomato was alluring even to us veggie hating kids and 'til this day, I still can't replicate the miso eggplant dish she cooked for me on special occasions. I used to think that my biggest lament was that my Aunty threw my Grandma's wedding kimono in the washing machine (it was supposed to be mine when I got married) and shredded it to bits but now that I have to cook to feed a Jewpanese army, I really wish I had found that cast iron skillet. Not only to cook with but to discipline the kids and Oscar the Grouch when needed. Think Medea.....

Of course, the taste might have had a lot to do with the holy trinity of high blood pressure inducing flavorings - salt, shoyu and Ajinomoto which was in everything Grandma made. However, no skillet or MSG could save the disaterous braised pig kidney dish Grandma made once after the "Mamasan" from church said it would be good for her health.

After lunch, my cousin and my grandpa would go walking to Times or McCully Superette to buy groceries for dinner while Grandma and I would head to the TV Room to watch her favorite "Story", the Young and the Restless. I remember watching the first episode ever of Young and the Restless which featured a young, handsome guy named David Hasselhoff playing Spencer. Back then, the shows were very simplistic in plot and characters - rich people were evil (boo Jill) and poor people were good (everyone who didn't hassle the Hoff) and never the twain should meet. My Grandma would launch into a running commentary during the whole program, treating the show as a real life documentary on the lives of horny haole people and explaining why Japanese folks would never act that way. Her favorite comment was "Men are dogs and they can sniff you out so be careful." Now, being a major dog lover as a child, I did not see why this was a negative but upon reaching puberty, I realized she was right.

My Grandma would take a nap after her stories and my Grandpa would do something that required him to climb up one of his six mango trees so my cousin and I would spend the bulk of our afternoons trying to figure out ways to keep ourselves entertained. We would go into the back yard and put on shows. More specifically, she would watch and I would pretend to be Jerry Lewis AND Dean Martin. Totally schizo when you think about it. We spent many a day digging up potato bugs in the dirt and putting them into cans (yes, we set them free but I never have quite figured out why this was such a fun thing to do) or picking up mangos that fell on the ground. If we were really really stuck for entertainment, we'd go in the house and read Better Homes and Gardens, Sports Illustrated or US News and World Report which were the only magazines Grandpa allowed in the house. Occasionally, one of my uncles would sneak in a Life Magazine and it would be quickly removed. This was due to us seeing the issue that featured photos of the people in Japan who were deformed from Mercury poisoning - resulting in both of us waking up SCREAMING that same night.

The highlight of every week would be taking Grandma to Dr. Bachman's Office at Ala Moana for her "hormone" shot. Our whole family loved Dr. Bachman who was referred to by our family as the "ching ching doctor" or "Dr. Penguin". While Grandma was at the doctors, Grandpa would take us to Keiki Land where he'd yell at us the whole time to warn us of the hidden dangers of each ride. If we put our hands out of the flying saucers, we'd whack them on the ceilings and break them. If we put our fingers in the water of the boat or stick them out of the Ferris Wheel cage, they'd get sliced off. If we honked the horn on the tanks too much, we'd be deaf. No wonder I still have PTSD when I go to an amusement park. If we waved, we'd fall off the Merry Go Round and crack out heads open. We were not allowed to play any of the games because only the "low class bad people" played pinball or bowling. In fact, we could not even venture near that area withoug Grandpa going into convulsions. Reading this, it sounds like a horrible experience but it was really fun and my first taste of rebellion. We'd watch Grandpa's every move and when he turned his back, we'd engage in one of the forbidden hazardous activities.

Our reward for being such good girls who didn't do what Grandpa said not to do was a doughnut of our choice from Dunkin' Donuts. Back then, being told we could choose from not only the regular doughnuts but also one with sprinkles or (ooh, luxury) one of the filled ones made us feel like we were living large. Surely that's what the rich people in Young and Restless ate, apple filled jelly donuts with cinnamon sugar.

Later, when McDonalds opened in Ala Moana, Grandpa took us there for our post-Keiki Land snack. He would always stump the cashiers by ordering "that potato thing that is fried" instead of ordering french fries. Who would have thought that but a few years later, he would have mastered the McD's menu enough to order "a filet of fish sandwich, no cheese, extra sauce and a chocolate shake with extra milk"? I'm sure the ancestors were churning up their ashes in the urns when the Chonan preferred American food to nishime from Shirokiya.

Now, contrast this to Mad Cow who on a recent visit to Ala Moana asked if we could have lunch at Mortons because he wanted to eat filet mignon (yes, he said it by name). Had to settle for Genki Sushi yet again as we still have a stash of gift certificates that Oscar won in a Star Bulletin auction.

Ah, perspective is everything!

My top five favorite summer moments:

1) Learning to make Mango Pineapple Jam by scratch from Grandma
2) Watching the Diva's DHT performances, esp. the one where she sang in the shower to "I Enjoy Being a Girl"
3) Going to The Professor's art show at the Academy of Arts
4) Seeing the Mad Cow's face light up as he waved to his Grandmas and Grandpas in the 100th during this year's Fourth of July parade
5) Sitting on the bench at Waiola Shave Ice on a hot afternoon with the three kids - eating and not fighting

She With the Nicest Boob Wins

A few of you know that the REAL me is a frustrated artist. When I set foot in the Art Building at the UH campus for the first time 40 years ago (ARGH), I felt that harmonic convergence that comes with realizing you have found your true place in the world. The swaying green bamboo in the Courtyard, the minimalist angles of the classrooms and gallery, the kind of funky, paint covered sleep deprived hipsters logging their huge porfolios and giant sketchpads were as thrilling to me as the sight of a rescue boat would be to the folks on Gilligan's Island. This was HOME, what I had been yearning for all of my life from the moment I sketched a pear-shaped version of my Grandma on leftover newsprint my Grandpa "borrowed" from somewhere. The regret I felt over opting to stay home and not venture out to Los Angeles to attend the FIDM (for you non=Hills folks - the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising), vacated my body, floating into the sky like black smoke from the raku kilm.

The intense happy happy joy joy did not last long. During my first week of Intro to Color class, I emerged covered from head to toe with hives. I chalked it up to having eaten something that didn't agree with me but class after class, it happened. Turned out that I had a newly discovered allergy - to paint fumes, any kind of paint fumes.

My kids are baffled as to why this had to halt my artistic endeavors. Why didn't I just go into computer art or use an IPad to sketch? I had to remind them that I was living in the Day of Dinosaurs when computer art meant painting a picture of a keyboard. Basically, I was told that the only way I would ever work in the field would be to request that my employer provide special fume-free paint which cost $$$$ per tube and as we all know, accomodating any sort of disability (even an itchy one) is not top of the list of any business. Even us artsy types who can spend years looking for just that right tone of burnt sienna but detest spending a minute balancing a checkbook know that the person who can work with regular supplies will be hired above the incredibly dedicated, talented artist with the environmentally induced chicken skin

So for those of you who always wondered why I became a lawyer, this is the reason. When all of your credits are in Art and Political Science and the Art path is closed, what else are you going to do with your 24 PolSc credits but become an attorney?

I still remain a closeted artist, holding tight to my indignation over the commercialization of artwork as evidenced by my earlier rant over Bravo's reality competition show, Work of Art. As much as I hate to admit it, I have watched every episode and have for the most part, agreed with the judges when it came to who's Work of Art was really a piece of crap (literally for performance artist Nao who apparently smeared feces over herself in the "shock art" challenge.

Where I totally disagree with the panel of judges is over repeated selection of artwork by contestant Jaclyn as the best in the gallery. Jaclyn's imagery of choice is usually her nude body - her big boobed, small waisted, uh-self-pleasuring body. Whenever she has presented a full frontal image of herself in an artwork, she has won. Whenever her work shows her from the back or does not include any nekkid-ness, she is on the bottom of the pack. What is terrible is that there is not even an attempt to hide or disguise the sukebei factor in the selection process. Mentor Simon described the work as successful because it got a "rise" out of him or he could not stop looking at the image or it continues to intrigue him. Hey, aren't those the same responses that most guys have looking at porn?

Nudity by other less attractive artists was shunned as gimicky or unappealing. If it was boobs they valued, then contestant Mark should not have been cut since his topless photographs showed that his clevage was way more impressive than Jaclyn's. (going by quantity anyway). Yet, the sight of a bare pair of moobs, even a ZZZ cup at that, did little to "stir" the mentor or the judge.

I am pulling for artist Abdi to win but I fear that the final contestants will be bitchy sex-bomb Jaclyn and the totally irritating, don't you want to just slap him Miles who epitomizes the tortured, socially inept, angst-filled artist stereotype. His last piece was constructed by him punching holes with his fist to punchture one large canvas painted white and one covered with black tar. It was heralded as the essence of male anger and machismo (in contrast to yet another painting of a naked Jaclyn which was intriguing in its depiction of the power of female sexuality). Maybe Abdi should have headbutted a big hole in his painting to show chaos and he would have won? But then, will a bunch of upper-class white folks (plus a hapa-girl whose intro name-drops Andy Warhol) understand an expression of black rage? It is much easier to adore insipid white whimpers.

Don't Be Jealous of My (Big Fat) Boogie

Recently, there appears to be a boom of fatness (with an F) in the media and the shocking thing is that is has a positive spin. The new TV show Huge is about big-boned teenagers who must deal with homonal upheaval and lack of food at a fat camp. I haven't watched it yet but so far, all of the reviews I have read have given the program a positive spin. Most of the kudos have gone to the Nicki Blonsky character who is happy in her hugeness and was sent to camp against her will by her thin-is-in obsessed parents. Even Glee has a fluffy character - granted it is a big black girl who is repeatedly addressed as Aretha by Sue Sylvester (hopefully for her powerful voice but probably for her ample chunkiness).

I have mixed feelings though about the "Let's make the fat people sweat like pigs and look like fools so they can become skinny" shows. For example, Dance Your Ass Off which is hosted by Eddie Murphy's baby mama and former Spice Girls Mel B aka Scary Spice. Rather than have that sinewy Nazi Jillian Michaels scream at them until their huevos fall off, the contestants have to put on a choreographed dance routine every week. Think Dancing With The Stars but replace that Pussycat Dolls local girl with Roseanne with a bad dye job. What I like about the show is that they do not put contestants in fat people clothings - nothing loose, flowy or muumuu-ish in sight. The girls dress as hoochie as any bamboo b-yatch in a Lil Wayne video and the guys wear their pants down way way low. Sometimes it's hard to tell on close up shots whether you are looking at someone's rumbling mountains of cleavage or a sweaty butt crack rising like a full moon over some BVDs. Most of the contestants (unlike Dancing with the Starts) are pretty likeable and some can even really really dance. The first time you see fat folks doing a booty shake and witness the rumbling of the flubber, it can be cringe-worthy - even for those of us who naturally jiggle like jello - but after a while, you are kind of amazed at how light of foot many of the people are.

I mean, everyone loved watching Rerun on What's Happening pop and lock, right? Even if you couldn't tear yourself away from the bouncing of his moobs (man boobs for you folks not in the know) or his double chin hopping in time with his belly.

The sudden chic-ness of the chunky has made me wonder if perhaps it is time to embrace the flubberness that has been and continues to be me. I have always been Petunia Pig-esq from the time I was born until now. I was skinny for about three months and then was able to eat solid food and it was over. Went from shopping at the regular sizes in the girl's department at Sears (yes, yes, I was ghetto fabulous even then) to wearing CHUBETTE sizes seemingly overnight. I always wondered what marketing genius thought of using the word Chubette? I mean, like you really were going to call a friend and go, "I'm so happy because I get to buy a new Chubette outfit today?' Fat boys bought clothes from the HUSKY department. That's totally manly and macho right? Husky makes you think of Grizzly Adams, B.O. and chopping down trees. Chubette makes you think of stuffing a box of Hostess twinkies down you pie hole while tears roll down your chubette cheeks. I hated having to buy clothes because I knew I would not be able to shop with the normal girls but would have to move with the rest of my bovine herd to the Chubette section.

I still am haunted by remembrances of thinking I would grow up and have to shop at Da Trunk! Remember that store? For the chic ladies of lumpiness. I mean, I loved Loyal Garner but the prospect of spending my adult life in polyester caftans - no matter how perfect my make-up and sushi roll hairdo ould be - was less than desirable. Not that it motivated me to stop eating malasadas or anything like that. I figured if need be, I could rock the crap out of a caftan if need be.

I have gotten to the point where I am now the fattest person in the room regardless of gender, race, sexual orientation or food obsessive disease. Nonetheless, I never seem to believe that I am the fattest person in the room and realize that I have something like reverse anorexia. They feel they are too fat so they don't eat, I feel like I am way too skinny so I gotta eat everything in sight - particularly if it is fried, greasy and will inevitably result in buying a new Bentley for my cardiologist. I used to get upset about people constantly pointing out how much weight I have put on or trying to come up with a witty retort when people ask if I am pregnant again but it's just not worth it because it usually sends me running to a box of Napples.

You all know I am a big fan of RuPaul's Drag Race, mostly because I dream of someday dressing up one of my sons as Jujube or Ongina, but also because of the way the big bad Mama contestants were celebrated. They weren't singled out with a sneer and a hint of pity as "the plus size girls" like on America's Top Model but were judged and treated the same as all of the other drag queens. They were simply beautiful because they were fat not inspite of it. Google "Pork Chop" or "Two Piece and a Biscuit" and "RuPaul's Drag Race" and you'll understand.

So, now I am just going to embrace the Chubette that I am. Yes, I wear the same size bra as your average Sumo wrestler but every bleached blonde bimbo on Real Housewives paid a year of their tortured husband's salary to get boobs the size of mine. Sure I can only take 3 steps at at time before I have to sit down but it gives me the chance to really enjoy the scenery around me. Okay, so I will probably keel over from a big hunk of personal pan pizza lodging in my heart but I will die with a smile on my face and a string of cheese stuck in my teeth.

Yesterday, I was walking one of the veterans to his car. He told me he could go on his own but I told him I needed the exercise. He goes, "Oh, why, you not THAT fat. You only little bit husky so that's good. That's that kind wahine I like 'cause you can grab on."

One day at a time......

Real Housewives of Honolulu

I have never been much of a fan of Desperate Housewives. I did watch a little when it first debuted but that was mostly to see the young gardener guy take off his shirt and because I could related to the hilarious and true experiences that the Felicity Hoffman character went through dealing with her children (esp. the twins). After that first season, things felt a little too forced and I felt like I could feel the botox oozing out of the TV whenever I tuned in. I mean, can you really display emotion when your face doesn't move?

I do love, love, love every incarnation of the "Real Housewives" reality program on Bravo though. I cannot relate to anyone on the show nor do I know anyone remotely like them but I am totally addicted. Even more than the shows themselves, I delight in the train wrecks known that are the Reunion shows! Maybe it stems from the love of TV wrestling that I had as a child but I really enjoy overly dramatic fights over absolutely nothing. The words "Yellow Rat" and "Ripper Collins" send the adrenaline pumping through my veins since I know they will be followed by a chair being flung in the air and a bucket of bright red corn syrup "blood" flowing down someone's beer belly tummy. Well, a Real Housewives Reunion show is kind of like that but with Prada bags flying and bloody wounds felt deep in the gut and heart.

Each cast has its own flavor depending on location - no subtlety in casting as housewives are chosen who clearly reflect the stereotypical view of women from that State. Orange County is heavy on the bleached blonde Barbie bimbos, New Jersey is more Italian than The Sopranos, New York is a mix of Jewish-American princesses and pol0 playing white bread Hamptonites,and Atlanta is chocolate ghetto-fabulousness with the exception of the token white girl who really belongs on Orange County. The only yellow housewife is hapa-Chinese in Atlanta and yes, she is really hapa since the show filmed when she visited her Chinese family in California. Other than that, the only Asians are the sushi chefs, nail artists and the pattern makers and sewers who "assist" with these ladies fashion lines.

The next series will be set in Washington DC and one of the housewives will be that blondie with the red sari who was the univited guest Obama's party with her husband. Clearly, she has met the sole requirement to be on the show - desire to be a fame-whore.

Perhaps if Hawaii 5-0 blows up, Bravo will turn it's attention to our beautiful state to cast for Real Housewives of Honolulu? MTV is presently casting for an Asian American version of the Jersey Shore, so why not? Is there a typical type of woman who is a "real" Hawaii housewife? I bet you'll recognize some of these....

LOLO SPORTS WIFE

Occupation: Year round team mother for each of her 5 kids' teams.

Lives in: Mililani or Kapolei

Attire: Polo with the logo of one of her kids' teams, shorts, visor, shoes without socks, and giant refillable Big Gulp container (with a straw). Wears this all day, every day.

Car of Choice: Toyota Sienna with back window covered with soccer, baseball and other sports-related stickers

Skills: She knows where every bathroom is at every park on the island and how to get there without going on the freeway. She also knows which McDonalds will give you free juice and ice. She is never without a giant tupperware container of 50 individually wrapped, handmade spam musubi and a first aid kit.

Why you should be her friend: Always has something in her car from Costco to cover for you when you forget to bring snacks

Why you should not be her friend: Always selling some kind of fundraising ticket

HIGH MAKA MAKA WIFE

Occupation: Chairing a gala honoring some worthy old fut around town and shopping for accessories to wear with a new gown for one of the galas

Lives in: Waialae (nouveau riche) or Kahala (old money)

Attire: Purchased from the stores at Ala Moana that only the Japanese tourists shop at

Car of Choice: Range Rover if she is haole or giant Lexus SUV if she is Asian even though she only has one child or no children and never hauls her own groceries home

Skills: She can coordinate a sit-down banquet for 1000 people in less than a day while wearing 6 inch custom Jimmy Choos without breaking a sweat or an ankle. She can identify the town's heavy hitters and politicos by sight and by reputation and has enough dirt on them to make them cough up the big bucks for her favorite causes. She knows CPR and will use it as she has had to use it on her first three husbands, all of whom were at least 20 years older than her.

Why you should be her friend: Her house has a pool and feels like you are "doing her a favor" by taking last year's Chanel off of her hands

Why you should not be her friend: She'll expect you to assist her with events, which translates to do anything that involves getting out of the car and carrying something or picking things up in "undesirable" areas (anywhere west of Kahala Mall)

DING DING MUSHI WIFE
Occupation: Works a normal job during the day but spends all her free time trying to find a boyfriend or her next husband

Lives in: Upscale condo in Ward (if no kids) or in a home that was part of divorce settlement (with kids)

Attire: Low cut chichi-baring shirt, skin-tight stretch jeans or short black skirt with fishnet panty hose. Bra and panty from Victoria's Secret "just in case"

Car of Choice: Bright red Toyota camry with "Yes, I'm single" bumper sticker

Skills: Knows what the monthly fee is for every online dating service and the minimum amount of months for membership. Can detect any single guy with a job within a 50 mile radius. Can put make-up on in the car while driving and texting, even at night. Has seen every episode of Sex in the City 5 times and can recite the lines to the two movies.

Why you should be her friend: It's always a lot more fun to go out with her to the clubs and just "watching" the dance of the single folks then going out for an evening of monku-ing and eating with your married friends

Why you should not be her friend: Your cousin will never forgive you for setting him up with her

KOO KOO FOR K-DRAMA WIFE

Occupation: Watching Korean Soap Operas all day and taping them for her friends who work or have real lives

Lives In: Manoa or Kaimuki

Attire: Covered in buttons featuring her favorite leading Korean actors

Car of Choice: Hyundai because Bae Young Joon did the commercial in Korea

Skills: Can rattle off the schedule for every Korean tv station on cable no matter what the day or time by memory. Knows enough Korean to make sure your order is correct when you buy something to eat at the Palama Market food court and to identify what is what in the kim chee buffet at the store. Has a DVD collection more extensive than Netflix and will even deliver to your home too.

Why you should be her friend: Knows all of the spoilers for every show so you don't have to waste your time watching them.

Why you should not be her friend: You'll be even more of a couch potato then you are now

CRUNCHY GRANOLA WIFE

Occupation: Organic farmer, hemp weaver, aura reader and modern day hippie-dippie

Lives in: a caretakers cottage on an estate in Tantalus or giant beachside home in Lanikai

Attire: Handmade versions of Stevie Nick's handkerchief dresses or a one piece bathing suit/leotard with pareo ensemble

Car of Choice: Old VW bus, giant diesel Mercedes or hybrid anything

Skills: Can make a complete meal out of a handful of mung beans, a cup of soy milk and a papaya. Always willing and able to come and teach tie dye or macrame to your kid's class at school no matter how last minute. Is close, personal friends with every performer at Kokua Fest. Will gladly share her worms with you when the ones in your compost bin die from lack of scraps. Will adopt any stray animal you find.

Why you should be her friend: Ample supply of medicinal marijuana

Why you should not be her friend: BO from her unshaven underarms after a session of Bikram's yoga are toxic to your health

Uh, these are totally FICTIONAL women and not based on anyone I know. Hope that covers my okole.

That's a Mistah Frogtree?????

One of the most unforgettable and hilarious comedy routines of all times is Room Service by the late Rap Replinger. If you have been living in a cave in proper English land for the past 40 years or so, the phrases "hamburgah deluxe with cheese on da top or one cheeseburgah deluxe", "cool your jets, what you tink dis is, automation?" and "tsk, tourists...." do not have the same meaning to you as to everyone else who knows of what I am writing of.

The funny thing is it is NOT funny when you are Mr. Frogtree who is on the receiving end of a hapless person on the other end of the line. Such was the experience we just had at Burger King in Moiliili.

I should have known that I was in for trouble when we were parked waiting to get in line for about 10 minutes without any movement. Unfortunately, I was caught in the tide of Moms in their minivans and could not budge from my place in the queue for crap.

My opening line,

"Can I get a value meal 7, medium size with a mixed icee?"

"Uh, what is the number 7?'

"Chicken fries combo."

"Okay, medium size chicken fries combo. What size?"

"Medium"

"What size drink?"

"Medium"

"Medium ice tea. Does that complete your order?"

"No, medium icee."

"I have your medium iced tea."

"No, ICEE, ICEE. Medium ICEE."

"Oh, you want to change your iced tea to medium?"

"No, not an iced tea. An ICEE!!!"

"Okay, you changing to Icee. What size?"

"Medium mixed."

"What flavor?"

"Mixed."

"We have coke and blueberry. What flavor?"

"Mixed. mixed."

"Mixed, and what size?"

"Medium."

"And did you want fries or onion rings?"

"Fries."

"What size?"

"Medium."

"Medium. Okay, and what kind of sauce?"

"Barbecue."

"We have ranch, honey mustard, barbecue....."

"I said BARBECUE already."

"Okay, so one medium chicken fries combo with medium iced tea and fries..."

"No, not iced tea, ICEE."

"Oh, yeah,Icee. What flavor?"

shake head incredulously and bang on door in agony, say, "MIXED!!!"

"Okay so does that complete your order?"

"No, I'd like to order a Steakhouse XT combo....."

"So, you rorder is one medium chicken fries combo with medium icee and fries. Your total is $8.69. Drive forward please."

"No, I said I'm not done ordering. I still have to order more."

"Okay, wait yeah......" be put on hold for 5 minutes......

I won't even post the next 10 minutes that were spent ordering the Professors Steakhouse medium combo, the Diva's Whopper Jr. medium combo (the Diva actually changed her order while waiting three times) and my veggie burger without mayo. The no mayo conversation went as so:

"Can I have a veggie burger without mayo?"

"Veggie burger comes with mayo."

"No, I don't want mayo, can I get it without mayo?"

"Veggie burger with mayo."

"No, NO MAYO PLEASE!"

"Oh, you no like the mayo???? Okay, veggie burger with mayo but with no mayo."

No surprise to discover veggie burger with mayo when I got home.

What really baffles the mind was that everyone at the drive-through window or within audible distance at Burger King spoke proper clear mildly-accented English. Why would you put the person who has the heaviest accent and is the least competent in understanding English on the mike during the lunch hour rush? I can understand if she was the most eloquent of everyone there but just based on what I could hear of her co-workers speaking voices, it was obvious that there were other people who could have done a better job.

I mean, when you have one car driving up to the pick-up window every 15 minutes while there are 10 cars lined up to place an order, you would think SOMEBODY would figure out that there was a problem.

I think Mr. Frogtree would have bus' a cap in someone's okole if he was in my car today.