Cheesecake Hell

I'd never heard of the Cheesecake Factory until about a year ago when I visited my dad for Christmas and, to my horror, we ate there. I say "to my horror" because as a New Yorker, I am trained to hate all massive, giant-portioned, grossly slick chain restaurants. Now, we live across the street from The Grove -- an amusing, terrifying yet convenient mall -- in which a Cheesecake Factory in housed. Matt and I ate there last night -- at my suggestion. I figured it's close, cheap and easy. But halfway through our meal I was overcome with a nearly uncontrollable urge to run out of the restaurant. A huge family was milling around next to our table, scooping their heaping leftovers into boxes; the air conditioning was set on full blast; my grilled chicken was dry and overcooked. It took every once of willpower I possess not to jump up and run out screaming.

I've actually had this feeling a lot since moving to L.A. I'm not comfortable anywhere. Everywhere I go is too cold, crowded, unfamiliar, loud or whatever. I'm constantly wanting to leave wherever I am to find a place where I feel at home. That might take a while.

After the Cheesecake Factory ordeal -- poor Matt had to talk me down from my freak out -- I cam home and passed out on our mattress with all the lights on and still wearing my glasses.

This morning Matt summed it up best: "We probably shouldn't be eating at places that have the word 'Factory' in the name."

Cheers to that.