Well, I can now proudly say I’ve jumped right into solo dining with both feet. I would call myself a pro, but I want to retain my amateur status in case they add this event to the Olympics. Although, technically, I did get paid. Not for my time, but for the meals at least.

The very same evening after I had my Denny’s lunch experience, I had dinner on my own at the little restaurant in the Holiday Inn, where I was staying. It has a fabric tablecloth, cloth napkins, and a menu with the paper that gets tucked into the little leatherish corners.

I’m not sure if it counts, though, because everyone else in the restaurant was also a solo diner. About nine in all. But they were all men, and all reading newspapers, so I still felt out of place with my short story anthology and my breasts.

Since that fateful evening, I’ve also dined alone at the Mexican restaurant in the Doubletree (where I got moved from the Holiday Inn—long story). This time, I also had a folding menu and cloth table linens, plus I was the only loner in the place. The restaurant wasn’t very busy, so it was just me and a few tables full of two or four people.

Still, it was a hotel restaurant, and you have to imagine single diners aren’t rare in places like that.(As a side note, not part of the progression here, I did have breakfast by myself at the Denny’s among a gaggle of cheerleaders. Unpleasant, but I survived.)

Okay, so then I took the leap. I went to a real restaurant unconnected to a hotel. The Doubletree is across the street from Lloyd Center (Oregon’s largest tax-free shopping mall—whee). And attachd to Lloyd Center is a Stanford’s. It was Saturday night, and I ventured out there. Alone. And more than a little nervous. I mean, what would I do if there were a big waiting list or something?

I only had to wait a few minutes, which was good. I did have to announce myself to the hostess and tell her I was a party of one, in front of the other waiting customers, but it wasn’t so bad. When my table was ready, the hostess asked me if I’d like a magazine (you know, to keep me company, since I’m so lonely and pathetic). I declined. I was shown to my table, which was in a room filled with two large parties in the center and the surrounding booths filled with cozy couples or bustling families. I felt a little self-conscious when I sat down and they whisked away the other table settings, just to announce to the world that I was indeed eating alone and not just waiting for someone.

But I survived. In a real restaurant. Alone.An interesting thing I noticed is that servers are very friendly when you’re dining alone. Maybe it’s a pity thing. Maybe it’s a Portland thing. Or maybe they can focus on you more when you’re alone rather than in a little grouplet.

Previously, I’ve had anxiety about doing things alone. All kinds of things. Ordering takeout by myself causes a little stress, as does hanging out in the library or bookstore for any length of time. The prospect of walking down the aisle of the airplane once it’s in the air is enough to make me hold my bladder for six hours. But maybe I’ll be a little better now.

I know in one part of my brain that none of the strangers out there in the world give a crap about what I do. They’re not even paying attention to me. And even if they are pondering what a loser I am, so what?

I actually liked eating alone. It was nice to not have to carry on a conversation or be witty or sociable for a change. I got to just sit there and read my book and take in the scenery. I could order whatever I wanted and not feel that envy and regret when I see the delicious-looking plate on the other side of the table.

So maybe I’m on my way to being more independent, more comfortable in my own skin.

I’m not saying I’ll be going to the movie theater by myself anytime soon, but it’s a start.

Well, not really a big fear. And I’m not sure I totally overcame it. But I took a step, and I guess that’s good. And enough.

I ate alone in a restaurant with a folding menu.

I’m doing a show in Portland, so I’m eating on the expense account money. This is usually a problem, because I’m afraid to eat alone in a real restaurant that serves real food, so I end up getting fast food, which is bad. But I determined before this trip that I would bite the bullet and sit by myself at a table in a restaurant that had a folding menu instead of a light-up menu. A place that took your order at the table rather than at the counter.

And today I did it. Granted, it was Denny’s, but it still counts.

Next step will be to dine solo in a restaurant whose folding menu is not laminated. I’m toying with the idea of trying the hotel restaurant, but I’m not sure if I want to go overboard all in one day.

Plus, I’ve been annoyingly un-hungry lately. The thought of eating is vaguely repellant most of the time, but I know I have to eat or I’ll get a huge headache. Or even worse, I feel hungry but at the same time feel like I’ll hurl if I eat anything. Sure, this is better than the times when I’m famished every hour, at least better for my waistline, but it’s so frustrating.

Maybe I’m just un-hungry when it comes to the options I have available to me. If I had a personal chef to whip up exactly what I wanted, I’m sure I’d think of something I felt like eating. But when I imagine the kinds of foods I’ll likely find at various establishments within walking distance, blech.

Specifically, I want an Outback salad. And an Outback baked potato. And some Spaghetti Factory broccoli. And maybe some cream of mushroom soup, from a can.

But I digress. At some point this evening, I’ll have to decide on a place to eat, and I don’t wanna. But maybe I’ll have the courage to sit there by myself and eat rather than getting it to-go.

I’m going to eat that taco, and I’m going to live to tell about it.

But that’s not all.

Then I’m going to travel around, eating at all the taco buses I can find, and write a comparative study on the subject.

Then the world won’t be so afraid of taco buses. Maybe I’ll even get a government grant. I’ll write articles about it. Then books. Speak before the United Nations. And of course I’ll get tax-deductible trips to Mexico for research purposes.

Taco bus franchisees will line up around the block to thank me for causing their sales to skyrocket.

The smell of refried beans will spread to all corners of the earth and soar to the heavens. The juice of pico de gallo will fill the halls of justice and stain the ancient monoliths with its piquant glory.

I will be worshiped by connoisseurs of Mexican cuisine, and they will carve my initials in their bumpers and their chests. I will be known as the savior of taco buses everywhere, and the whole world will know of the good I have done.

Just you wait.

10. An array of more food than could ever be consumed by a small army. But there are surprisingly few leftovers. Oink!

9. Grab a plate from one of the many tables set up (each with a different themed table setting) and chow down at the buffet-style meal. Grabbing a plate saves your seat. And the kids’ table is the cool table.

8. Eat around 1:00pm, lament the inability to close the top button on your pants, and then continue to graze for the rest of the day.

7. Cranberry sauce from the can. The smooth kind of cranberry sauce.

6. Tons of black olives to stick on your fingers and then eat.

5. Layered salad. Good to have some greenery in the diet. Even if it is slathered with mayo and coated in cheese and bacon.

4. Pumpkin spice cake — a new addition this year (actually a birthday cake, but luckily birthdays happen every year too), and it’s mighty tasty.

3. Sneaking bits of crispy turkey skin. And brazenly snatching whole hunks of crispy turkey skin.

2. Gravy served in a soup tureen. A really big soup tureen. Or a coffee pot.

1. ADS! Must spend hours poring over the various circulars, making notes, comparing prices, re-checking ads for deals that may have materialized since the last time they were read, debating the value and inconvenience of rebates, and developing a plan of attack for Black Friday.

So there I was, sitting at a Mongolian grill, eating my baby corn cooked before my eyes in my own selection of vegetables and oils, when it occurred to me for about the thousandth time that I don’t know what baby corn really is. Is it corn that just hasn’t grown up? (And if that’s the case, why? Is it a Peter Pan syndrome on the part of the corn, or maybe some kind of cruel corn-puberty-prevention ritual?) Or is it some kind of vegetable not even remotely related to corn that just happens to look like corn, and hence was named in its honor? Or is it a weird variety of corn that naturally grows up to look like a Munchkinland version of a summertime BBQ favorite?

Perhaps you have pondered the same weighty question — I wouldn’t be surprised. Well, today is the day we wonder no more!

Turns out, baby corn actually is baby corn. Immature corn. Plucked from the vines while still young and crunchy, before the cobs get too hard to eat. Not a masquerading tuber. Not a genetic mutation. Just plain old baby corn.

Educate yourself in a small way: Baby Corn a la Wikipedia

Or Educate yourself in a slightly bigger way: More than you probably want or need to know about baby corn, unless you plan to become a baby corn farmer, which you can apparently learn at such backwater universities as WSU

DIY Blogging: Insert some witty Children of the Corn reference here.

There are three types of people who annoyed me at the pho place today.

1. Guy who’s eating alone, but chooses to sit at a table for six so he can “spread out with the newspaper.” I can guess why he’s eating alone. Eventually, the place got so crowded, he was forced to share two seats with a mother and child, while he still occupied the space of four place settings. I left before the mother and child got their food, but I’m hoping the little boy splished noodle juice all over Mr. Considerate’s newspaper.

2. Group of dudes who sit and chat about football long after they’re done eating, despite the crowd of people waiting for an open seat. Makes me wonder if they’re rude because they like football, if they like football because they’re rude, or if there’s some third factor that contributes to both rudeness and football adoration.

3. Three people entering the restaurant while I’m trying to leave, but can’t seem to actually get all the way through the door. There’s a whole restaurant in there, folks! Plenty of room for standing! Move along! I can’t really get out while you’re shuffling around in the doorway!

That is all.