Day 341: Sometimes Losing is Really Winning

On Day 341, a group of work friends decided to blow off some steam over a couple of beers at the Bookhouse Pub.

I begged Amanda and her husband Stephen to come because I was not motivated to think of anything to do that I'd never done before and I knew she'd come up with something that would be highly entertaining to write and read about.

I think Amanda was upset that I'd yet to actually go out with anyone that I'd met online at Plenty of Fish.com, because she was using this "blog-fan's choice," as an opportunity to force me out of my dating shell. Her goal from the start was to find someone that I could buy a drink for or give my number to or use a cheesy pickup line on.

But my experience with meeting cool guys worthy of such tactics is that those kinds of meetings rarely happens when I (or in this case, Amanda), is looking for it. I usually encounter interesting, attractive people that I'd like to get to know better when I haven't showered, my hair is slicked back into a ponytail and my shirt has holes in it. I was coming to this bar from work, looking relatively presentable, so I knew my chances of meeting anyone worthwhile were slim to none.

And sure enough, I was right.

I would've done any of those things Amanda was suggesting, but but neither of us could really find anyone worthy of sending a drink or giving my number to. Despite her persistence with a guy that looked like former CNN television anchor Rick Sanchez, we abandoned this mission and moved on to something else. (Later I saw that he had a wedding ring on, so it obviously wasn't meant to be.)

What else can be achieved in a bar that I hadn't done before? In my almost-30 years had I done all of the inappropriate, regret-the-next day bar activities? Certainly not.

The night was starting to wind down and there were friends at my table ready to pay their checks.

"I still haven't played credit card roulette," I said out loud to the table to no one specific.

Credit card roulette involves handing the waitress a group of credit cards to choose from. Whatever card she chooses has to pay the whole tab. If I was going to make this Day 341's "thing," the rest of the group had to be on board and willing to play.

Luckily, I'd suggested we play on payday, so all of our checking accounts were in good shape for this kind of game. Timing, I continue to realize, is everything. With everyone then feeling generous (and perhaps a little tipsy), they said, "Sure!" Day 341's thing I've never done before was to play credit card roulette.

If you play the odds, which I don't because I'm not entirely sure I know what that means, then credit card roulette is really a safe bet. With eight cards in the pile, I had only a one in eight chance that my card would be chosen. Even when we decided to choose two cards to split the check (the bill was significantly higher thanks to some fancy, expensive tiki drinks, commemorative glasses included), the odds were still in my favor.

That's the thing about credit card roulette: if your card is the one chosen, you must pay for everyone's purchases, regardless of how ridiculous they seem (Tiki glasses? In a beer bar?).

I digress.

By splitting the check between two people, the odds moved to one in four. There was a 75 percent chance that I would not have to pay for my (or anyone else's) drinks. I like those odds.

But with any gamble, there is always a chance you could lose. Or win. Here's something I'm still not clear on--if my card got pulled and I had to pay, does that mean I "won" credit card roulette, or did I "lose?" Being chosen makes it feel like I'm a winner, but paying for everyone makes me feel like a loser.

Everyone laid their cards face down on the table. When the waitress returned, we explained to her what we were doing and she returned with the bill and two pint glasses. She gathered the cards and put them in one of the glasses, turned the other glass upside down to cover them and then shook wildly, mixing up the cards.

She reached her hand into the glass and pulled her first card.

"Devon Sayers," she said, unsure of how to pronounce his last name.

The whole table, except for Devon, erupted into thunderous applause and shouting.

I love credit card roulette!

She covered the remaining seven cards with the glass and shook again, drawing another card from the pile.

"Carolyn Cremen," she announced.

Again, more applause and shouting, at least from the six of us whose cards weren't picked.

Carolyn and Devon took their loss (or win) in stride, and happily posed for pictures while signing their checks. I posed for a picture with Katy, happy that my beers were paid for and my checking account remained untouched for another night.

I'm not quite sure how I would've felt if it was me who had to pay, but from where I was sitting, credit card roulette is a great game.

Losing never felt so good.

Day 340: Filet of Gross

At least once a month, my friend John sends me a picture text message around lunchtime with various captions.

"Mmmmm . . .wish you were here!"

"Delish!"

"About to dig in."

His written message is always different, but the picture, of a McDonald's Filet-O-Fish sandwich, is always the same.

Yes, that's what I wrote: A Filet-O-Fish sandwich. From McDonald's.

The first time he sent me this picture, which is now an inside joke between us that has been going on for years, I was confused. Why is John sending me a picture of his lunch? And, more importantly, why the hell is he eating a Filet-O-Fish?

Our friendship has evolved over the years, and so has my understanding, or at least acceptance of his feelings about the popular McDonald's menu item. He loves it. He craves it. Since he tries to abstain from eating meat during Lent, he may eat it upwards of once a week sometimes.

I'm a seafood snob as it is, refusing on occasion to eat fish at the nicest restaurants simply because I was in a landlocked state; eating seafood prepared in a deep fryer at McDonald's is almost too much for me to even think about.

I've turned up my nose at John's decision to eat the Filet-O-Fish so frequently and with such gusto, but my judgment was based on nothing. I'd never actually tried it, so how did I know if it was as disgusting as it appeared? John pointed out to me that for someone who claims she's open to trying new things, refusing to try the Filet-O-Fish is really not fair.

And he's right.

So on Day 340, I decided to table my judgment, if for only an hour, and try a Filet-O-Fish from McDonald's as the thing I've never done before.

I sent John an email that morning with the subject line, "Filet-O-fish?"

He responded, "Lunchy?"

And I said, "Yeppers. 12:30pm in the parking deck."

John never asked, but if he wondered why on this day I decided to put aside my strong adverse opinions about the Filet-O-Fish long enough to give it a try, I'd have to admit there really wasn't a good reason other than I had the time to go to lunch with him, and, thanks to Whynatte, I would've eaten anything so long as it was battered and deep fried.

The stars had really aligned in favor of the Filet-O-Fish.

I met John and our friend Kim in the parking deck and we walked to the downtown Atlanta McDonald's. I laughed as they weaved in and out of traffic, through parks and on sidewalks I'd never seen before; they walked with purpose as if we were headed to claim some grand prize, and the prize was a McDonald's value meal.

This was the first time I could remember ever being out in downtown Atlanta at lunchtime; I had no idea there were so many people out and about. Business people, elderly people, homeless people, kids and parents filled the streets.

The same people filled McDonald's too. The restaurant was packed and loud. There were adults shouting, kids crying, homeless people talking nonsense; perhaps everyone was interested in trying the Filet-O-Fish that day. The lines to the registers were long and didn't seem to be moving very quickly.

John, Kim and I got in what appeared to be the shortest line and observed the insanity going on around us for a little while. I told them about my regrettable encounter with Whynatte the night before, and Kim confirmed that she really is the busiest person in Atlanta. When the line we were in didn't really move after 15 minutes, we considered either changing McDonald's, or going somewhere else entirely. Thankfully, Kim and John knew I had a mission to accomplish and exercised patience, but none of us could ignore that we were witnessing truly some of the most inefficient employees we'd ever seen. A manager jumped in to help expedite the process, but the lines still just creeped forward.

The slow-moving lines allowed John to share the story about how the Filet-O-Fish was created. According to him, a franchise owner in Cincinnati came up with the idea for the fish sandwich after suffering low sales during Lenten season from the heavy Roman Catholic clientele who didn't eat meat on Fridays. His idea got entered into a contest against another man's idea for a grilled pineapple sandwich. The rules of the contest were that whoever sold the most sandwiches on a particular Friday would have their sandwich idea added permanently to the McDonald's menu. The Filet-O-Fish won in a landslide. I checked John's story to see if what he was telling me was factually correct, and short of a few details, it was. Here's the real Filet-O-Fish story.

I don't know how John knows this much information about all of the food that he eats, but his little anecdote helped kill time before it was time for me to order one of my very own. I both proudly and reluctantly ordered the Filet-O-Fish value meal.

The three of us sat down next to a window and out of the chaos. I unwrapped my sandwich and fries, and laughed that everything I was about to eat was golden brown, fried to perfection. Regardless of how it tasted, there was no denying that this meal was the exact opposite of the colorful food nutritionists encourage people to eat.

John picked up his sandwich and showed me that he went for the double fish filet, so he had two fish patties on his bun. The smile on his face could not be tamed, and he happily dug right in.

Kim opted for a Happy Meal, apparently as scared as I was by the idea of fried fish from McDonald's. I guess she'd prefer to be scared by the scary dolls that they are putting in Happy Meals these days. She gave me the doll and I've kept it at my desk since that day as a reminder of our little outing.

With nothing left to do or talk about, I picked up the sandwich and took a bite, under the close watchful eyes of John. I find eating in front of someone who is waiting for a response terribly awkward. They are waiting for you to react or say something.

I chewed slowly and smiled at him, trying to find the words to accurately capture how I felt. Nothing came to me. I wasn't utterly disgusted like I thought I would be. But my world didn't really change for the better either.

I can say that all of my negative commentary about the Filet-O-Fish was misguided and unfair. In facet, I don't know that it's worth so much attention, positive or negative. I mean, it's a fish stick on a bun for goodness sake, with tartar sauce and a slice of cheese. I'm not sure I understand the cheese, and tartar sauce in general kind of sicks me out if I think about it too much, but I ate the whole thing. I'm quite certain that had nothing to do with the Filet-O-Fish, though; I would've eaten just about anything deep fried on that day.

I support John and would be happy to accompany him to McDonald's anytime he needs a fried fish fix. But I think I'm going to have to keep any of my fish purchases grilled and not served in a cardboard box.

If that makes me a snob, then so be it.

Day 339: Why Natte?

On Day 339, I met Maribeth for dinner at Corner Tavern in Little 5 Points. Our friend David met us as we were finishing dinner to have a few drinks.

The purpose of David joining us was so that he could deliver my items from our glassblowing class. They had to be left at the studio to cool and the instructor advised us to come back and get them in the next week or so. David picked up mine for me, and since I had been out of town the weekend before, I just told him to meet me after dinner.

That way we could follow through with our plan to make Day 339's thing we've never done before to ask the bartender to serve us drinks in our very own glasses.

The way I saw it all transpiring in my head was that we'd present the glasses, very nonchalantly, as if we were those quirky people who insist on drinking out of their own glasses. I wanted to appear natural, cool, laid back about the entire request.

But of course, I was neither cool or laid back. I instead, unwrapped the glass from the paper it was wrapped in and handed it to the waiter. He knew this was my first time making such a ridiculous request and if he didn't, I think I probably told him, in an obnoxious I'm-trying-to-be-charming way that, "I MADE THE GLASS MYSELF! IN A GLASSBLOWING CLASS! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?"

Yeah, that sounds more like what happened.

The waiter smiled, seemingly willing to comply with my request. He asked me what I wanted to put in the glass, and I fell silent. I hadn't really thought about what I wanted to drink, only that I wanted to drink out of my new glass that I made.

I fumbled for a second and I think he saw my uncertainty as an opportunity to pitch their featured drink of the day, one that incorporated the coffee energy drink "Whynatte Latte."

He said it tastes a lot like an Irish coffee and I didn't ask any more questions. I said, "Sure!" adding another first to Day 339.

He returned with my glass, which miraculously does hold liquids without leaks. I really made a glass! And it's functional! I took a look at the Whynatte concoction, which looked like a latte on ice and then I took a sip. The waiter was right, the drink tasted like a minty Irish coffee.

Good, if I was snuggled up on a couch in front of a fire place in someone's mountain home in December.

Not good if I was playing trivia in a loud bar in Atlanta where temperatures had yet to dip below 90 degrees despite it being September, which is exactly where I was.

The drink turned warm quickly and then it was like drinking super sweet, thick coffee. I don't want to make any sweeping judgments here, but I think there is something wrong with pre-blended coffee drink in a can. And even more wrong when the drink is served with alcohol in a bar.

I had no choice but to finish it because it was in my glass that I intended to take home with me. I should've followed David's lead and simply ordered a liquor drink.

Until trying this terrible concoction, I'd lived my life with a "Why not?" kind of attitude. But now, I have to associate my once-favorite phrase with this horrible excuse for a coffee beverage.

The next time someone asks me, "Whynatte?," I'm afraid I'm going to have to say, "Because it tastes terrible and makes you feel like shit the next day."