It's Fun to be Crabby

           I have often said, that at my funeral nobody is going to say, “You know, she never complained.”

          But this isn’t about that kind of crabbing. It’s about my going off on a trip with some girlfriends 

and St. Bob immediately driving to San Francisco, to Hayes Street Grill.  And what was the urgency for this solo excursion?

          Soft Shell Crab, my friends. This man is crazy for it, and will drive hours and hours to get this delicacy. It’s hard to find (they’re from Maryland), so when he does, he pounces. The day he arrived, the restaurant was closed. So, he did what any sensible man would do—he came home, right?

Wrong. He booked a hotel room and reserved crabs for the following day (and they sold out while he was eating two of them).

          These crabs are lightly fried, and you eat the whole thing, shell and all. I plan never to do this. But Bob is a Foodie of extraordinary determination.

I had a great time with my pals, including the final day when we stopped at a casual restaurant with tables alongside a harbor. Suddenly I saw this sign:

Next time he decides to take off on a wild crab chase, I can save him some valuable time: Just ask moi.

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Death Knell Hotel

          St. Bob and I recently went to Salt Lake City to enjoy the General Conference of the LDS Church. That part went great. We also met up with dear friends and relatives. That part also went great. (You know what’s coming.)

          But we stayed in a terrible hotel. Unfortunately, we invited some friends to stay there as well, and their experience was equally dreadful.  We felt responsible because we were responsible.

          It’s fun to watch St. Bob’s irritation grow with each blunder, but then I’ve stayed in such awful hotel rooms that I find them funny now. He does not.

          First, the thermostat was wonky and unpredictable. The shower leaked onto the floor.  Then there were ultra noisy people above us. In the middle of the night. 

          Next, they turned the lights off in the breakfast room, while we were still in there. Then the microwave didn’t work. Then the refrigerator didn't work. Then the ice machine didn't work. Then the television didn’t include the channel they advertised, on which we were hoping to watch said Conference. Then the phone to the front desk didn’t work, on which we were hoping to report these problems. 

           We ended up watching two Conference sessions on an iphone. St. Bob was ready to pound the counter and possibly the managers. Luckily several Conference talks were about avoiding contention, a timely message that kept us from visiting something called a precinct. So it was a lovely time for all.

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