kicking puppies is bad

A long time ago I made a promise to myself. I swore that I wouldn’t turn into one of “those” vegetarians. You know which ones I mean: the ones that suck the life out of every party like a vacuum cleaner. The ones that throw temper tantrums when there is nothing at a restaurant they can eat. The ones that make it impossible to plan anything because they shoot down every restaurant suggestion you make. The ones that discuss the inhumanity of eating poor baby cows while you try to enjoy your steak. I promised I would do that. And I generally don’t. I smile and go to cajun restaurants with my friends knowing that I will be eating an overpriced side of rice – because even in San Francisco cajun restaurants don’t have vegetarian choices. I split the cost of appetizers that were ordered for the table – even when I can’t eat them. And I’ve never given someone the “I’m better than you” lecture (at least not about my vegetarianism).

This past weekend, a friend of mine had a swanky birthday party. This particular friend refers to herself as a “fabulous socialite” (which should give you some insight into her personality. What kind of person actually calls themselves a “fabulous socialite”?). I was *not* looking forward to this dinner.

The evite said the dinner reservation was at 8, and people should make sure they arrived on time. I did. Only one other person (are pretentious lawyers really people?) was there. A half our later, the birthday girl arrived. Then other guests started to slowly trickle in. At 10, our “fabulous socialite” host decided we should go ahead and order food, even though six people had not yet arrived. I ordered the “cous cous with vegetables a la carte” ($24.95, the only vegetarian option on the menu). Eventually, the waiters brought everyone (meaty) soup ($8) and (meaty) appetizers ($10) and unlimited champagne ($?).

I still had an hour drive home. And at this point it was midnight. I wanted to go home. The “fabulous socialite” and her “fabulous friends” had drained every ounce of social stamina I had – and if I stayed I probably would have committed some sort of unacceptable social faux pas (like tasering the pretentious lawyer sitting next to me). Of course, there was no bill. And this group has the obnoxious habit of splitting the bill equally. So I added up $24.95 meal, $8 soup, $10 appetizers. Given the amount of champagne the table had consumed (I’d seen at least 6 bottles come out), I figured $18 wasn’t an unreasonable amount to assume for drinks (even though I’d only had one). $60.95 + 25% for tax and tip = $76.15. So I left $80.00, assuming that would cover me. And walked out to my car. Since it took two hours to order, I had stayed considerably longer than I was expecting. My parking cost $25 (stupid San Francisco parking). I spent $105 dollars on cous cous.

I got in my car and started to drive home – when a wave of nausea passed through me (followed by unbelievable cramping). I’d like to think this was my body reacting to the shock of paying $105 for cous cous. But it was much worse than that. Yes, the $105 cous cous gave me food poisioning. I didn’t think I would make it home. And when I arrived home, I spent a considerable amount of time expelling the $105 cous cous from my body in a very uncomfortable manner.

I’ll never actually tell the birthday girl how miserable her party was. I won’t mention to her that I spent $105 on nasty cous cous and vegetables. She won’t know that the $105 cous cous spewed from both ends of my body in a very uncomfortable manner. And next year, I will probably attend a very similar birthday party for her.

But perhaps when my birthday rolls around next year, I will plan two parties. I will have a chill party for my cool friends. But for the friends that served me $105 cous cous that gave me the shits (or did similar inconsiderate things), I will have a swanky pretentious party at a vegan raw restaurant, where I will be the only person enjoying myself. I will hire a bag-piper and accordian player and have their services added to the bill (which will of course be split evenly). I will make sure there is no alcohol at the restaurant, but order $10 bitter organic tea and $15 raw carrot appetizers for everyone. And I hire people from PETA to pretend to be my friends, and intersperse them throughtout the table so they can spend the entire (at least five hour) party lecturing my “guests” about the evilness of their swanky leather Louis Vuitton boots.