I’m difficult. I know this. I don’t think this makes me anything special or interesting as a human being … this is simply a long-overdue blog post blaming my parents for making me a pain in the ass. Also, the title is an homage to my favorite movie of all time, When Harry Met Sally. Goddamn that movie is fantastic (R.I.P. to the incomparable Nora Ephron).
Food & Drink
I really, truly dislike chain restaurants. I’m not trying to make a social statement about the evil nature of corporations or any other left-wing, indie nonsense; I simply know other, more delicious cuisine exists elsewhere. The obvious exception, of course, is Taco Bell. (I’m sure there are others, but for the sake of this post I’ll just go ahead and come clean about my love affair with Crunch Wraps and Cool Ranch Doritos Locos Tacos and be done with it.)
I find flaccid bacon absolutely abhorrent. And while we’re at it, raw onions; discovering onions hiding out in my food is an almost surefire way to ruin an otherwise splendid meal. I ask servers to “hold the onions” on pretty much everything … you can never be too careful.
I’m shamefully guilty of ordering off the menu at restaurants. In-N-Out employees probably rue the day I was introduced to their “secret menu.” But hey, I can’t help my love for soggy fries (fries light), burgers without meat (which is officially called a grilled cheese for all you vegetarians out there) done whatever “animal style” actually entails, and the fact that three flavors of milkshake (Neopolitan) in a single cup are more delicious and fun to consume than one. Besides, if they didn’t want patrons to order off that menu they should probably refrain from revealing these “not so secret” items on their website – just a thought.
I drink fair trade coffee – specifically that of the Latin American persuasion. However, this by no means implies that I have a personal vendetta against Starbucks. Over-roasted espresso beans aside, their baristas make killer dirty chai lattes. And let’s be honest, who doesn’t love their holiday drink menu?
I prefer craft beer over domestic. I just do. I live in far too entertaining a city to drink Blue Moon (sorry mom). On another alcoholic note: I strongly believe life is too short to drink well vodka. I will gladly shell out the extra $2 for a cocktail that doesn’t taste like hairspray, thank you very much. Oh, and wine of course … I’m undeniably particular about that, too.
Any bedsheets under 500 thread count just will not cut it. My mom is to blame for this – I mean, who buys nice sheets for a 10-year-old? I paid my 250 thread count dues during my semester in Madrid, where the comfortable bed trend apparently never gained traction. Moreover, I’m certain these six months of “slumming it” sleeping on a cot-like dorm bed and a few dozen hostels entitles me to a fancy sheet set (or three).
Despite it falling apart in every conceivable way at the moment, I still love my German car. The leather seats. The great sound system. The way it drives after a tuneup. I’ve put nearly 80,000 miles on it since 2008 and loved every minute. I do, however, wish someone had told me this five years earlier…
“European cars are sexy and rare and a terrible plan unless you have piles of money for maintenance. Or are the type of person who likes to date people that unexpectedly and violently melt down.” (credit: Kelly Williams Brown)
As pretty much everyone in my immediate circle of loved ones will attest, I am extremely affected by my geographical location. I need at least 300 days of sunshine, I hate hot weather (anything over 80º is the absolute worst), and I love knowing the ocean is just a short car ride away. Like most Los Angelinos, I couldn’t tell you the last time I went to the beach; however, knowing it’s within arm’s reach is enough for me. In the words of Bright Eyes, “I found a liquid cure for my landlocked blues.” Yes, I know Conor Oberst was talking about alcoholism, but for the sake of this post let’s just pretend it’s referring to my getting the f*ck out of Phoenix, AZ and working three blocks from Venice Beach for a few months.
No Me Disculpo / Closing Statements
Call me high-maintenance or what you will, but I’m a self-proclaimed member of the “finer things club” (credit: The Office) and see no reason to make excuses, apologies, or anything of the sort about my preferences. There are most certainly more subjects to touch upon on this topic, but I’ll cut myself off and simply say, in the paraphrased/completely revised words of the late Sid Vicious:
“… [I] know what I want
[and] I know how to get it.”
*(Again, I know this is a slight deviation from the original lyrics, but I love the Sex Pistols and I highly doubt they’d care.)