More things that irritate me...

First, there's a clip show of the Dateline series "To Catch A Predator." This series bothers me on several levels. First there are the nagging questions about law enforcement and journalistic integrity. Is it entrapment? Is NBC News too far into bed with the people-- Perverted Justice-- that they're supposed to be covering? These are not questions that are likely to be resolved in my lifetime. At least not before I lose all interest in the subject.

And then there's the extra added fear that, against all odds, I'm going to see someone I know on there. Someone I used to date-- I don't have a great track record for spotting and avoiding the criminal element. What if it's my dad? Or my brother? Or a friend I've known since childhood? Am I being ridiculous? Maybe. But these shows actively prey on and encourage this kind of thinking. They promote the idea that the people we think we know best, we don't know at all. That our loved ones might be leading some kind of secret life that we're completely unaware of. And, I haven't had the best track record of spotting that kind of thing in the past either.

So it may be ridiculous to think that I might see someone I know on this train wreck, but I also think that's the desired effect. I don't like it. It's feeding into a culture where we're all already afraid of our own shadows.

And then there were the fish and chips. I like to eat fish and chips from Legal in my jammies while I watch scary television. I like the feeling of simultaneously experiencing my arteries hardening and my brain cells dying all at once. This is also why I enjoy beer and cheese fries.

We ordered from a new delivery service, which I'll keep anonymous. The stuff arrived an hour and a half late, and very cold. The Suz's grilled calamari was half eaten. My fish had no chips and no malt vinegar-- and without malt vinegar there's not much point to the fish or the chips. Then there was this scary-looking soggy salad in the bottom of the bag that both of us were afraid to touch. The IsCats are, of course, averse to vegetables in all their many forms.

So I called the delivery service. I didn't yell, but I was firm in my position that these are all problems that need fixing. The guy said he'd call the restaurant and call us back. To his credit, he did call me back, with this explanation: "Mistakes were made."

How did he know that's my favorite phrase?

They're supposed to be delivering the remaining calamari and my chips. It should be, oh, another hour or so.