ROOSTER REVIEW- Rants, Raves, & Plain Out Retarded.

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Written by Amber Garibay

Lunchbox Laboratory

1253 Thomas Street

Seattle, Wa

(206) 621-1090

CLICK HERE FOR MENU

I swear that it was the universe that made me eat the entire burger. I knew I was going to be devoured by flavor as soon as I saw the glisten of butter on buns. It beaded like honey drizzle sweat, until I felt the flush of wanting to eat it. They were golden to the brown of rolls, but soft like the squish of a potato bun, no seeds. I considered meeting the server half way except she was on it, putting my perfect burger down for the tackle. I would have clobbered her for a second more because I wanted to taste that burger so badly that I was chewing on myself. The tots I ordered looked like Scooby Snacks, crispy to the amusement of making me giddy like the up of a carnival ride. “I’m gonna eat that!” I knew it was mine as soon as I saw the server lift the platter from the window. It was a burst of color on the silver chalice tray. “What did you order?” Shawna asked.

Let me tell you what the menu says I ordered.

Hothead-Super Beef Patty, pepperjack cheese, bacon, and jalepeno-ranch dressing.

Rooster Review Cock Block- that description is retarded.

I ordered a Pothead (I am renaming it)

Pothead: This is a burger you can Cheech about, an actual account.I felt like the grub worm at the bottom of a tequila bottle just looking at it, and I was a munchie maniac as soon as that first bite hit me! Wow! It was like sucking on a Latin Lover, the meat was moist and the heat, the spice, “dame más” You are going to lust for this burger. It keeps your mouth moving through flavor and did I say bacon. I love everything made out of bacon, especially unicorns. This burger is not for the bland or mundane, the temperature will rise and you will like it. Jalapeno and the cool of ranch mingled with the combo of pepperjack. I want to lick something  just imagining the patty because it was a super piece of meat, succulent and large. Don’t expect to wrap your mouth around this monster because the Pothead has girth. You will be grateful for the size because when it’s gone you will be left with the craving ache of wanting more.

This burger is a RAVE and so is this review. Lunchbox Laboratory made me a city girl. I am now in love with South Lake Union. I hear there is one in Bellvue too and I encourage you to plan a trip to either because you have not lived until you’ve tasted this bliss.  The menu is out of this world, the people are fashionably forward, and the environment takes you back the the good old days of metal tin lunchboxes. The kind with Star Wars and such. The dining experience is memorabilia and it will earn a new favorite as unforgettable wimsy, the kind I like to call legendary.

Lunchbox Laboratory is legendary.

Lunchbox Laboratory on Urbanspoon

WINNING THE DAY

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Written By: Amber Garibay

This blog is dedicated to Tara Rene Jones

founder of Second Chance Warriors.

She survived cancer only to get fired from her job a week

after her last round of chemo. She decided that she wanted her

battle to mean something so she went back to the chemo unit

to reach out to another patient. Shawna Lane. People now know

that they use chemo to treat Multiple Sclorosis and that

orange it the color for that disease (purple for Hodgkin’s Lymphoma).

They know because she promoted and sponsored her first running event

as a fundraiser to help the family with medical costs and we all wore orange.

BE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD

I am pretty sure she broke even, or went in the red on that event.

The run was a success, but she fed everyone after with a BBQ!

and she was broke and unemployed!

I f*cking love you Tara Rene Jones. You crazy b*tch :)

Thank God you were hired

at the convalescent home.

You wanted to be super hero.

You are ….

(The blog below was written in 1998. I was in attending college & working as a waitress)

We all tell ourselves when we are young that we will not end our lives in a nursing home, that it won’t be us rotting away from bed sores, and that our skin won’t wrinkle and sag as a monument to our age. Yet, everyday the elderly meet that exact fate. The world goes on around them with the young seemingly too busy in their own lives to spare a moment for the condemned. I too am guilty, but not because I don’t have time to spare. I have on the other hand come to realize that I am afraid of growing old and it is that fear that leaves me frozen on the path of good intent so that those I long to help become the casualties of my own cowardice, the distaste of seeing my own future.

Sometime a short while ago I lost someone very close to me. Ironically it wasn’t until she died that I realized how dear she was. The lady was mean. She was the scowl of hell and never did she smile. She always ordered biscuits and gravy and so in tribute to her tradition I began calling her “The Biscuits and Gravy Lady.” I realize now that I should have called her a friend. She was a small thing, with a face all puckered into a frown and she had an iciness about her that made even the coldest winters seem warm. The smell of death was a rancid cloud above her table and I remember my nose flaring, like that of a rabbit, warning me of some hidden danger or scourge. That danger remained hidden until the day she touched me. Complaining that she was cold she took my hand in hers. Her bony fingers seemed to wrap themselves like serpents around my flesh, and lacking any warmth at all, I imagined I was touching a corpse. Nauseated, I tried not to pull away, for as I looked at her face I could see my reflection in years to come. I was terrified.

I believe that fear is one of the main reasons the elderly are shunned by our society. We live in a time where great lengths are taken to preserve the illusions of youth. Women often undergo cosmetic surgeries to enhance their youthful beauty, enduring horrible swelling and even the risk of disfigurement and permanent pain to elongate their appeal. Men are not as concerned, but neither are they comfortable; vanity is important to both sexes, hair transplants and penis pumpers are proof of that and who wants to imagine the consequences of outliving your body. The elderly are a constant reminder that despite our best technological efforts we too will grow old.

The only grandparents I have ever known are not related to me by blood. As a young child I did not understand that there are politics in such things; I only knew love. I didn’t realize until my mom divorced their son that they never really belonged to me as family, that I was in a sense borrowing them. One can imagine my confusion as a child when they were suddenly gone out of my life. I went back to see them when I was grown, if barely legal counts. I was just eighteen.  I was hoping that they still cared, that their love for me did not simply disappear as my step dad had. It had been years; Would they even want to see me? Indeed they did. They were glad to I was there but things had also changed. My grandmother’s face had taken on a skeletal appearance. Her eyes lay in sunken sockets and the whites had become a pasty yellow, like a yolk left to sour and crust. Her back was the arch of a Brontosaurus on the bend of extinct. My grandfather seemed at first glance to be faring a little better. He was sitting in his “special chair” and it wasn’t until I looked closely that I realized that he too had been infected with age.

His feet had become deformed and swollen, the gout of anything rotting or dead. His hands were riddled with bruises, adopting a greenish blue tint instead of the soft pink that I remembered. They talked to me of dying that day. They told me stories of their pain. My grandfather told me one about how he had fallen, and my grandmother being in the early stages Alzheimer’s, couldn’t remember how to call for help. He had been lying in his own waste for three days before a neighbor found him. I cried as I listened to my grandfather tell me the truth about dying and living at once. I promised them that I would help. I knew that I had to. I believed that I could. I failed.

I visited faithfully for about a month and then, choking on death. I ran. They didn’t see me again until I was twenty three.

Our society is quick to charge and condemn those who neglect and torture other human beings. Ironically, it is our same society that turns its back on our fathers and our mothers leaving them to to die alone and in pain. People that can afford the luxury of some humanity put their parents in nursing homes to be forgotten. Those of us who can’t afford that luxury simply turn our heads using time as a pacifier. “I don’t have time..” Our hearts are not evil and our intent is most often just. But, sadly we as a people are weak. We go into battle believing ourselves to be heroes only to discover that we are fools masquerading as saviors. We stand, proudly, in our armor of youth vowing to avenge the havoc of age. We race into battle only to find ourselves paralyzed by the carnage of war. The victims, those we love and swore to protect, are before us. Their faces eaten by the scars of time, withered bodies breaking down in decomposition still breathing. The only aide that we can offer suddenly seems so futile until we begin to question our own ability to fight. Could it be that in fighting this war we too will be infected by the haunt, the ghost of future? Age the plague that slowly tears away at the flesh, maiming…. killing.  Believing that the risks out weigh the benefits we adorn the masks of cowards and retreat, self preservation withstanding. It is simply too much to take, too much to lose, by a battle that can only end one way.

The last time I saw my “Biscuits and Gravy Lady” was around Easter. She made her way in the rain, walking because she could no longer drive. After discovering that she had never in her entire life received an Easter basket I decided to surprise her with one. I bought some Hershey’s Kisses and Hugs, creating a custom basket with a little stuffed bunny as a centerpiece for her to hug. When I gave it to her she did not make much mention, but I swear I thought I saw her mouth twitching to hold down her smile. She left that day with her basket all wrapped in plastic, to keep it dry on her long walk home. Her journey turned out to be longer still. It was her son that let me know she had died a few days later. We hadn’t met previously, but he thought I should know what I did for his mother. He said that she had told him about me on her deathbed and she asked to be buried with the gift. She was holding that small pink bunny when they covered her life with dirt.

My “Bisquits and Gravy Lady” chose to be buried with the last gift she had received. She had lived a long life and I imagine that she probably had a vast number of treasures to choose from. I believe that there is a lesson learned by her choice. We remember what has happened to us recently more vividly than we do our past. Knowing this we have a responsibility to our mothers and our fathers to make their last memories their best. It will be these memories that they will carry with them in death. We may not win the battle, but we most certainly can win the day.

RIP Grandma and Grandpa Sexton.

You are loved and I am glad I came back.

Even though it took me years and resulted in

my wiping your ass. I am better for it.

Quoted within text-

Be The Change & Winning The Day.

Not my original idea.

Does it need to be?

A LETTER TO MY EX HUSBAND ON FATHER’S DAY

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I couldn’t imagine my child with a father back when I dreamed of her, before she was real, before there was you. My dreams were Disney without a prince. I didn’t want a dad, and there was no happily after. She was suddenly just there, my immaculate conception, bathed in the sunshine of a canopy forest until the leaves haloed to hold us in safety. Every dream was the same homeostasis, mother, daughter, and no world.

There was no world until you, the father of my dream: our daughter. You took every star from the sky and built me a universe by the gift of her and then extended the magic further still by painting a world that included more. A life of family.

I’ve written some crappy things about you, EX husband, and you are a man like no other for taking it in stride because small pieces are not the whole picture and most of what I have written is heartbreak. I started my writing career at our darkest hour never realizing that our marriage would be ending. I thought that I could write the truth about what marriage is, about what it means to hold seventeen years, until the bottom fell out to the past. Documentation was a novel idea, except that if made for an impossible future because the reality was that we had lost our way as a couple, never realizing until my words gave it proof. Pandora’s box was a howling. My soul howled the torture of it ending, and it was. Our family was ending.

I am writing you today because I want you to know how important you are, needed. I have lived a life of independent, “I don’t need you’s,” and it’s a lie. Daughters need their fathers and every woman needs a man (sexual preferences withstanding). We are better for it, whole, and most who do not have it are forever seeking because when that something is missing it lingers. Some women argue contrary, “I don’t need a man to be happy.”  True, but does that happiness include longing? Mine does. I am happy without you until I am still enough to realize that there will never be another you and I don’t even know “him”.  I couldn’t imagine you in all the hopes and dreams of a young girl who believed in fairy tales; how can I begin to imagine him? The next guy, one that matters more.

What could matter more than the  father of my only daughter? Your role in my life is the most important one there is Ricardo and there is no “us” that can change that. We’re divorced and so it is that we no longer need to be anything to each other, but we are by our choice to do right by her as parents. I’ve written that our divorce was the the best choice I ever made and you handed it back to me later in sadness, “How could that be? Why would you say that?” My soul is the sick of seeing your sadness knowing that nothing I can say will make it right for either of us. Endings are always heartbreaking. I wanted to leave our marriage wearing the belt as an undefeated champion instead of an old boxer that stayed for one fight too many only to suffer a career ending blow resulting in brain damage to change the memory of the bout. We kicked some serious ass together my friend, and we beat the hell out of each other in training, but we won. Look at her. Our daughter is the product of all we have done right. She worries for nothing because she trusts that no matter what happens she will be OK, and that we will be there to love her. I asked her about what is hard, “Are doing ok? Does it bother you that your dad and I are not together anymore?” She was reassuring, but also honest. “It’s OK. I don’t mind, and there are some things about it I like. I miss us being together though. When I am with him and we are doing something fun I miss you. I wish you were with us like you used to be. You used to be with us…”

IF YOU ARE NOT WITH US YOU ARE AGAINST US

I am not against you and I will be with you always because I made that vow by marriage and it is sacred beyond legality, or choice of omission. There can be no departure from the honor of true love which is to do right by each other past selfishness. Our divorce was the right choice just as marrying you was the single best choice I have ever made. EVER. I look at the collection of my life and it takes my breath away because I had no example to lead me, only faith in you. I believed that you were an honorable man, good to the core of your soul, even when you gave it back to me, “No Amber. I’m f*cked up. Don’t you understand that you are too good for me?”

“Then be better…. You can be….”

I did not settle with you Ricardo. I chose you because you were willing to give me your best and when you couldn’t I could. I could be your best and I remember wanting to be. I felt the same way, the same kind of f*cked up. I didn’t grow up in childhood. I was born as an adult, facing the dragons that kings slay like a peasant boy in stolen armor. The first kill leaves a stain, but it is the screaming echo that keeps you frozen. How long did it takes us to get past that ice? Was our daughter the thawing because my memory paints it that way. We settled into each other through her, after five years of a turbulently new marriage, wanting her to have a life beyond where we came from until we denied there was a past at all.

You are not a past I will ever deny because I am proud of what we accomplished together and I look forward to seeing it extended in all the milestones we have yet to witness through her, our future. Sapphire Rain will be here long past our ending and our love still fuels the change we wished for by family. She has had eleven years of constant love with very little chaos, even through divorce. Think about what her life will be because of that foundation. You are such a good father that I have to run to keep up. I am competitive as a mother f*cker and you set the bar so damn high that I get tired of chasing it, and I do a happy dance when you mess up because it is pretty rare and I am always right. I am jealous of you. You should know that. I am jealous, and it is a good thing. Every accomplishment I have ever had since meeting you has been because I wanted to be better than you. It has been my goal since go to be “too good for you” because I wanted you to be the luckiest guy in the whole world.

Don’t ever think that you aren’t Ricardo. This thing that happened between us. It is some f*cked up sh*t. The kind of movie I go see only to walk out of the theater pissed because the ending was not even close to what I wanted. It can’t be any other way. I know it. I feel it. All I can say is let’s make the best of new beginnings, while counting the blessing that we got to live it at all. Let’s celebrate our kid, and how f*cking cool she is.  I promised Sapphire that I would set the bar higher than you and that could very well mean that I never marry again. I do want to know love again in my lifetime though, and I try for it. I have been single now for over  a year, not one boyfriend, because I haven’t found anyone that I trust or want close. I don’t want to allow anyone close enough that I might lose myself in the selfishness of simply not wanting to be alone. I don’t want to disrupt our daughter’s life with the bombardment of frequent and failed attempts so I am careful near to not trying. I think about her first Ricardo, and then I think about me and if I would be able to be my best with my choice. The best gift I can give you this Father’s Day is to let you know that you still inspire me to be the best mom I can be, and that I want you to be proud of who I am. I know you can relate to that feeling of being stronger back when we were unified. We are still unified Ricardo, the face just looks different.  You are family, beyond love.

Thank you for being the kind of dad who keeps every promise. Thank you for being the kind of dad who has never missed one single event. Thank you for being the kind of dad who would prefer to be with his family above all else. Thank you for being the kind of dad who is constant and stable. Thank you for being the kind of dad who tells his daughter that he loves her, the kind of dad that sits without needing to talk until the hours have gone. Thank you for being the kind of dad who is kind to everyone, the kind of dad who is always smiling, with  laughter soon to follow. Thank you for being fit and for running. She is chasing you so keep going. Thank you for being her hero, and mine. I can’t even stand to be around you and I still think you are great. Thank you for being the kind of dad that plans things to do, adventures she will climb from with memories. Thank you Ricardo Garibay and don’t expect me to say anything nice to you again for another year because you will never get over me if I continue like this. Thank you for loving me because I know what I should be looking for. You taught me love Mr. G. and I love myself enough to wait for it. Thank you.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY

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Online dating is like inviting a flood of potential until there is no potential because you got swallowed by the sea. It doesn’t matter how many fish there are to swim, especially when some of those fish are sharks that want to eat you from the inside out, until your chest becomes a cavity minus heart. How does one swim in open waters without winding up in the belly of the whale? Moby is a dick.

Posted on by
IT WAS May 17, 2013
HE WROTE TO SAY..

Sounds like your past walks with you.

Good luck negotiating things on that journey.

MY REPLY WAS SHORT..

Well, that’s something to suck on. I do like history… the buff ;)

TO WHICH HE REPLIED…

The tricky thing with personal history is the question

of whether it’s nostalgia, sentimentality,

or something more important.

Having said that and exercising my condescending muscle,

I’m always thinking about my history.

One difference is that mine doesn’t demand my attention,

as it seems you’re suggesting yours does.

Mine is a dear friend who’s always there for me,

but understands when I go elsewhere.

STILL THE LADY, THOUGH TRIED BY PATIENCE…

Well, good sir,
The only angst I see is your own judgement and perception.

I am quite well. Thank you for your concern and foreboding.

Clearly, your history is a more favorable ponder.

Enjoy your own thoughts, and do forgive me mine.

Take Care.

AND HE BOWED TO MY CURTSEY

OUT OF PLACE..

Mea culpa.

He says, rubbing his ego’s jaw.

Then, he says to his ego, “Who invited you, anyway?”

I don’t write as well as you. I write, and look at what I wrote, and say,

“Hm…not quite.” But you have to start somewhere.

Looking over my last line, it looks whiney and woeismeish.

What I should say is, “Good point.

I should learn when to shut the f*ck up.”

NOT MUCH MORE NEEDED TO BE SAID

AFTER THAT.. UNTIL HE WROTE TODAY,

NEARLY ONE MONTH LATER.

Well, last time we spoke I think I put myself in the “ignore” category,

and now I’m ignoring your interests and asking questions,

but I can’t figure something out. So I’m going to ask a question,

and it’s a personal one, and you will probably find a witty way

to put me in my place. But it’s in my mind,

and I’d rather just ask it than carry it around with me.

Then it’ll be done and I can move on.

“Your life seems like a continual manic episode.

Am I completely wrong about this?”

Well, maybe it’s your writing style. Maybe my pace is
w
a
y
t
o
o
s
l
o
w
.

Either way, hope all’s well.

LD

Kindest Sir,

What a splendid day it is that you were kind enough to write, so randomly,

fearing my interest. It is lovely that you’ve thought of me at all,

and even better that you’ve read. I can’t say that I have had

a single thought about you until just now, and believe me sir I have plenty.

Please take care to be quick. I see no kindness in coddling.

I fear you may have a fetish for the whip,

as you keep coming back for more. The only thing

I really want to tease you about is your initial. LD…

My Poor Man Has A

LD

Insert Sad face here.

Try calling yourself Brad instead.

BD

BD is SO MUCH BETTER THAN ld.

I crack myself the f*ck up.

Seriously.

Snot comes out my nose.

As to my mania. I understand you are tired good sir.

It is rude for me to run circles around you

but it is beyond my years to skip.

Cardio

and

Sweat

Keep

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