Chan the Channel

I'd been having the roughest week at work and, unfortunately, it spilled into the weekend. In short, the weekend started with me calling my boss with a quivering voice. "I can't go back to work if it's going to be like this ," I said as I started crying. I hate that when I don't want to cry, so I try not to. Then when the tears start spilling, it's inversely proportional to how hard I tried not to. In short, I bawled.

Then I went to take the GRE the next morning. Which I thought I was doing well on. I filled out my name, the schools I wanted to be reported. I was aceing this thing. Then they starting asking question and the rest of the test was downhill. It was an abysmal experience. In short, the score preport read, "Don't bother applying, Dumb Ass."

On the way home, I cried some more. Then I laid on the couch for a couple of hours until I could motivate myself to go buy my sister a birthday present at Ann Taylor Loft. I found something that I thought would look nice with Emily's red hair, went out to my car, and nothing. The car wouldn't start. Of course, I'd forgotten my cell phone at home, so a nice woman who was leaving agreed to let me jump my car. It started, I climbed in, and started driving to a battery changing place thing. I got about 1/2 a mile from the Pennzoil place when I realized that my purse was not in my car. No. No. I'd put it on top of my car when I replaced the jumper cables.

The stream of cuss words and hateful things that poured out of my mouth with such an accelerated speed that it easily hit the next galaxy, some lightyears away, within seconds. I turned the car around and went hunting for my purse. I found the checkbook, but nothing else. I found the checkbook pretty much outside the store, so I turned off my car and went in to ask if someone returned it. In the heat of my passion, I forgot something else. My battery was on it's last leg.

When I was informed that no one had returend my purse, I sheepishly asked, in that damn quivering voice again that was holding back the tears, "Could someone help my jump my car again, by chance?" I smiled my cute, please help me look. I realized that only works on crusty old men in the oil industry. Other women-- not so easily swayed, but the manager was kind enough to take me outside and give me a jump when she saw the tears starting to pool in my eyes.

Back at the car. Nothing. That battery was not going give me even a hiccup. Empty. Dry. Ot of juice.

I went back into the store for the third time that day and used the store phone to call Amy. No answer. Emily. No answer. Emily cell. No answer. Amy called the store back and I said, "I'm stuck, is there any way at all you can come and get me?" Music to my ears for the first time in over a week: "I'm on my way."

I went to talk to the security guard about my lost purse. He didn't see anything, but he did have to return his stereo that he got at Radioshack two days ago. And he's mad because it was a new stereo. It should be working, he assured me. And Radioshack was not being nice about it because the would only give him store credit, not a refund. Can I believe that? While I listened to him lisp through his missing front teeth, I thought, "Yes, I can believe it. And Dude, please leave. I need to cry. Where the hell are Amy and Kyle?" The guard was more than happy to keep me company while I sat on the trunk of my car.

By the time Amy and Kyle came I'd gotten a plan together. I could go to Matt's house, pick up his car, and then use his until he got back into town. Then he could help me replace the battery. Boyfriends are the best invention ever.

When Amy and Kyle arrived, I said, "I know this is supposed to be a funny story, but it's just really not." They dropped me off, I got Matt's car, and headed home where I was greeted to a message telling me that someone called and had found my purse. I cried, again. Obviously. So I headed to Central Market, bought some flowers, and went to Judy Margolis's condo. This place was humiliating. I was driving Matt's car with three wheels in the grave into the plush high rise on Post Oak. What was I thinking? They had men dressed in bobby outfits and pith helmets. There was a gate that you had to check in at before being allowed onto the premesis. They asked to see my ID when I entered. I would, you see, but it's in the lobby?

I was interrogated slightly when I got to the concierge. He also wanted to see my ID. Um, if you give me pursue that you're holding, I can show you some. He was not amused and let me know as much. I wasn't amused either. And this time, I wasn't trying to be funny. I just wanted my purse. I left the flowers with the concierge, who made a grimace that said, "I'm non-plussed by the gesture".

I needed something to eat, as I hadn't eaten in the 11 hours between leaving for the test and dripping off the flowers. I headed to Potbelly Sandwiches, a new Quiznos-type joint on 59 near the Joel Osteen shrine. They'd been open a week, and I'd been meaning to stop. I figured I could be in and out. When I got there, I ordered The Wreck. Not so much for the half a cow on the sandwich, but because of the irony of it was too much to pass up. The employee asked if I wanted a malt, which also made me want to cry. I said, yes, yes, a vanilla malt. My exuberance did not go unnoticed. The workers asked a bit hesitantly, "You having a good day?" I chuckled, not really. But, thanks for asking. The malt makes everything better. "Not a good day? what happened?" Oh, you know. Car stuff. "Really? What?" So I gave the thumbnail. Just the shortest version I could do without getting quiver voice. By the time I got my food and ready to check out, they felt so bad for me they gave it to me for free. I am a life long customer now. No joke.

And let me tell you, that was the best freaking food I've ever eaten Maybe because I'd had a bad day, maybe because they were so nice, maybe because it was free: I don't care. The overly salty meat and the decadently malty malt was exactly what I needed. Of course, I cried.

The next day, Matt and I changed the battery and made dinner plans with Chris. We decided to go to Mak Chans in the Heights. This was to be a kind of out with the old in with the new meal. We would sit down, eat some good grub, and look towards a better week ahead. I'd read about this place as being tasty and an excellent value. And from the start, I thought it would be.

It was disgusting. I don't know if it was a Sunday night laziness or just that the food overall was terrible, but all three of us had terrible meals. I ordered the crab rangoon, which was cold for starters. The cream cheese was clumpy and the crab was overly crabby tasting... meaning it'd been sitting around for a while. I got the pad thai, which is almost impossible to mess up. But somehow, thius place was able to find a way to make it inedible. I might recommend a name change: sardine thai. It was so fishy tasting that I couldn't eat it. I know that fish sauce goes into the dish, but it's meant as a spice, not the main ingredient. Neither Matt nor Chris cared for that they got, and this was one time I was not about to ask for a bite. No thanks.

The nicest part of the place was the bar that offered probably 12 condiments. But what are you going to put those tasty things on if you're not going to eat the food? Not sure if I caught it on a bad night or I'm overly picky. In short, I don't have any interest in finding out. I say, skip Mak Chans, and go to Potbelly.