In typical spaz fashion, I managed to embarass myself in front of the technician that came to my house this evening to hook up my internet. He was messing around on my computer, and I was petrified to leave the room for fear that he would somehow discover the fact that I have a Miley Cyrus karaoke song in my iTunes library. Because you just KNOW these computer technicians love to sneak around on people's computers. It's like going through a medicine cabinet - only you probably won't find videos of people having hardcore sex in a medicine cabinet.

Computer files are much more incriminating than any medicine cabinet. Ever notice that when a celebrity's computer is lost or stolen, their nude photos and sex tape are immediately on the internet? Of course, the celebrity in question is usually a no-name attention whore looking for their 15 minutes of fame, meaning they probably released the sex tape themselves. And sometimes it works. Hell, if we all prospered off a sex tape like Kim Kardashian has, most of us would have tripods at the foot of our beds.

Anyway, as he's sitting there at my computer, and as I stare at the screen in paranoia, he says:

"You know, you should really delete this Ask.com toolbar."

Me: *nervous, exaggerated laugh, thinking he was making a joke about finding porn on my computer* Ass.com?! Ha, what are you talking about? I've never been there.

Him: Uh, no, AsKUH.COM. See? *pointing to the toolbar*

Me: Oh, I see now! Ha! Ask.com, yeah.

That was my cue to walk into the other room and pretend to do something. Of course, now I'm really curious to find out what's on Ass.com. It's such a common word for a domain name. It'd be like getting the username "the" on Twitter. The utter simplicity of it fascinates me.

Those are usually the last words I hear my step-father say before he lures me and the rest of the family into a restaurant that provides remarkably substandard goods and services. But due to his childlike optimism and passion for saving money, no one has the heart to go against his penny-pinching wishes.

“Fifteen percent off two spaghetti dinners,” he’ll announce as we’re leaving, while the rest of us telepathically sigh to one another.

I’m also fairly certain he uses his choice of wardrobe to avoid any possible disputes, as I have found myself speechless on more than one occasion while staring at his blue suede slip-ons. The fact that I’d prefer Chinese is far less important than the apparent mental illness my step-father is suffering from, which has depleted him of any reasonable taste when choosing footwear.

The coupon collecting started with newspapers and magazines, where I’d find massive holes taking the place of dramatic news stories about murder and various other forms of mayhem. There had undoubtedly been an offer for a free burrito on the opposite side of these stories, and I always felt a little sorry for the reporter in these cases. Their talent and pursuit for a hard-hitting story was overlooked and destroyed by my step-dad and dozens of other people due to an unfortunate choice in page design. People don’t want to read about how Sally killed her baby. They just want a burrito.

Then his coupon obsession moved to the internet, where he would forward me the coupon and ask me to print it out. Oh, awesome! I get to eat at a shitty restaurant AND waste my printer ink? What a deal!!!

Finally, he’s come across this “local offer” that sells $50 certificates for $15. I’ve never asked, but I’m assuming this is the coupon equivalent to dealing drugs. He probably drives downtown after work and sneaks into some dark alley behind the pawn shop where an off-duty lady of the night sells restaurant certificates out of her crusty thong.

At least that’s where it feels like the certificates come from, considering the place we ate at this past weekend. I won’t say the name of it because we used to go to church with the family that owns the chain, but let me just say it has the word “Steakhouse” in the title. That right there is a complete turnoff for me. To me, the word “steakhouse” is synonymous with “nursing home cafeteria”. In this case, a nursing home cafeteria with some skank to it.

I could feel the piercing, geriatric stares when we walked in. We were interrupting their regularly scheduled meal with our vibrant youth. I felt like we were a group of flappers about to start a food fight.

"Suck it, old-timers! To the buffet, ladies!"

After I finished my baked potato and ate five bites of shrimp so deep-fried it might as well have been human thumbs, I made a snide remark about the quality of my food to my parents. I knew they couldn’t do anything about it, but I wanted to voice my complaint. This was the second time coupons had brought us here, and it was just as atrocious the first time. My parents simply mumbled their condolences and continued devouring their steak.  

My six-year-old nephew, however, looked up from his corndog and gave me this advice: “Throw your food at the waitress and tell her to burn the building down.”

He said it so innocently that it almost sounded like a cute idea.

But then I thought better of it and figured excusing myself from the restaurant was a safer alternative, so that’s what I did. I had never abandoned my family in a restaurant like that before, but I literally could not take one more minute of being there. It was the epitome of everything I don’t want to become - boring, generic, old, greasy, routine, bland, etc.

I just walked around outside the restaurant for about 20 minutes or so until they were done. When they came out, I told them I’m never coming with them to this restaurant ever again. I wasn’t mad or trying to sound spoiled; I was just making a stand.

It felt great, too, and now I feel confident enough to make more decisions for the good of the family.

Next step: Burn the blue suede slip-ons.