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Time to Get a Cat

31 Jul 2010 | By Tinalicious

OK, yeah, I think it’s time to get a cat.

Not like I need a cat or anything. But I do love cats and have in fact had many a feline companion in my day.

My first cat, at least the first one that I can recall after pouring over the vast recesses of my aging mind, was named Brutus. Not because I liked the name Brutus or anything. Let’s face it: I was like 10 at the time, and what 10 year old would come up with a name like Brutus? It was because my mom named the cat. Guess she figured that since she was letting me have a cat in the first place, it’d only be fair that she get to name him too.  Mom has always loved books and history, so I think the name was born out of that. It was a cool name. And much better than anything I’d have come up with (he was a black cat, so I think I was wanting to call him Blackie. So unoriginal).

Oh, and my sister got a cat that day too. His name? Waldo. Although, come to think of it, I think my mom actually named him something else, but my sister decided to go with Waldo instead…after Waldo Kitty, you know, the star of the ever-so-popular 70′s cartoon, The Secret Lives of Waldo Kitty. How’s that for cat-naming efficacy? Or maybe Mom did name him Waldo? I’m not even sure anymore. Stupid brain anyway.

Later on, long after Brutus and Waldo were gone, when my sister and I hit our early teens, we got two Siamese cats. And yet again, Mom chose the names: Cleo and Patra. I don’t think any name explanation is necessary there. They were both awesome and beautiful cats. Cleo was the best though,  with his chocolate face and darker coat and bright blue eyes–and his friendly disposition, he was a shoe-in for the fave. And he was Mom’s personal favorite too. She didn’t much care for Patra, and made no secret about her feelings either (though I don’t think Patra much cared either way, and they just each kind of avoided the other).  I always considered Cleo to be my cat, since he pretty much lived in my room, and you could usually find him perched atop my television, right between my Garfield and Odie stuff animals.  But Mom also considered Cleo to be her cat. So that was interesting.

Siamese Cat

[She also considered my first car, a 1966 Mustang that my dad bought me, to be her car, even though Dad pulled me aside after buying it and told me it was, um, mine.  But I digress.] ;)

So fast forward to many married years later, and we arrive at the era of Miss Kitty. She was a stray that arrived at our back porch one day and my daughter asked if we could keep her. So then I was forced to choose between my one and only child–asking me with those huge, sad puppy dog eyes that no mother can refuse–and my husband, who just happens to be allergic to cats. And even though I’m a logical, rational, semi-intelligent woman, who realized in that very moment that allergies must always trump the puppy dog eyes, what did I do? I let my daughter keep the cat. Lucky for me, the cat lived outside most of the time, so the allergies were a non-issue. But it could have turned out very…ugly. Anyhoots, one day, true to her stray cat nature, she strayed away again, never to return. *sniffle* And we never got another cat again.

But what exactly is the point of my random stroll down cat memory lane? Well it’s like this. After Miss Kitty left, I pretty much told the Hubs that since he was allergic, and since it’d be difficult to find another cat that either he wasn’t allergic to, or that would live outdoors most of the time (which kind of defeats the purpose of having a cat, in my opinion), then he’d not have to worry his allergen-and-angst-ridden little head about having a cat ever again.

Unless…

He pisses me off.

Not that he doesn’t piss me off from time to time or anything, because he  certainly does. [What husband doesn't?] But not usually in any manner severe enough for me to want to get a cat. So that’s been my ongoing battle cry  lo these many cat-less years since Miss Kitty’s departure. And it usually goes a little something like this…

Me, to the Hubs: Don’t piss me off, dude. (Oh yeah, I do indeed “dude” him!)

Hubs: Or what?

Me: Or I’ll get a cat!

So the Hubs pissed me off last night, true to his Y-chromosomal-predisposed-and-genetically-challenged nature. (Dang, I sound almost smart there!) The content of the fight isn’t even the point, so I shan’t air his our pathetically stupid problems here on the blog.

But let’s just say, yeah, OK, I think it’s time to get a cat.

Or two.

Tina Siggy

Category: Rantics, The Hubs and Me  Tags: , , , ,  8 Comments

7 Questions for Olive Garden

11 Jul 2010 | By Tinalicious

This is the start of a new feature here at Tinalicious…either because I’m incredibly clever and inspired, or just bored out of my mind. You decide. But the premise is simple: 7 Questions for…whomever or whatever I feel like targeting in a given post. And why 7 questions? Well, that’s simple too. 10 questions is too many, and 5 just ain’t enough. ;) So here goes.

The Hubs and I ate at Olive Garden this evening. Strangely enough, it seems that many a blog post is born for me at a restaurant. Does that mean I just eat out too much? Perhaps. But at least it usually makes for fun reading too.

Anyhoots, here are my 7 Questions for Olive Garden…

Olive Garden

  1. When bringing us our oh-so-fattening-and-full-of-garlic-and-other-bad-stuff-breadsticks, why do they always start us off with 3 breadsticks? There are two of us at the table. So it would seem logical, at least to me, to bring either 2 breadsticks, or 4.  But not 3. Not. 3. What gives, Olive Garden? Are all of your waitstaff that mathematically challenged? Or do you actually think we’ll eat less of them if you only bring us 3 to start with? Um, think again. If you don’t realize by now that most people go to the OG for the breadsticks and salad, then you need to wake up and smell the carbs. We’re there for the breadsticks and salad. Everything else is just marinara on the ziti.
    Breadsticks
  2. Why do you insist on asking us if we want cheese on things? “Would you like cheese on your appetizer?” “Would you like cheese on your salad?” “Would you like cheese on your pasta?” Yes, yes, and yes. Hello? This is the OG. We want cheese! Who doesn’t want cheese?. Yes, I do want cheese, if you please. There is no such thing as too much cheese.  [I think I just had a Dr. Seuss moment there, sorry.] Olive Garden Cheese
  3. How come all your sweeteners are in paper tubes instead of rectangular packets? Is that how they do it in Italy, or are you just trying to be different? And don’t you realize that because those tubes are never more than half-full, when we open them the sweetener inside has twice as far to travel on its way out, which results in the need to shake it a lot more to get it to exit the tube, which then results in at last  half of the sweetener ending up on the table and/or in our food. We don’t want sweetener in our food, OG. And if you really wanna enhance the table setting, set out some shakers of parmesan cheese that we can have at our complete disposal. We’re Americans, we want cheese. [See number 2, above, lest there be any lingering doubt.] Olive Garden Sweetener Tubes
  4. Why is there never enough seating in the waiting area? This one really boggles my mind. Has anyone ever been to an OG where they didn’t have to wait for like half an hour or more to get a table? Or is that just my  own personal karmic punishment for being a carb junkie? Regardless, you know it’s going to be busy, so how about forking out a few bucks for some extra seating? It is not fun standing oh so close to complete strangers (some of whom have nasty B.O.) on fake-Tuscan-style-cement-covered-floors for long periods of time as we wait for our little buzz boxes to start vibrating. And hey, how about passing out some breadsticks while we wait? Or how about some string cheese? That’s Italian, right? Olive Garden Buzzer
  5. In what way does music from the Rat Pack era equate with Italian cuisine? I’m always hearing some Frank Sinatra or Dean Martin music when I’m at the OG. And while I am admittedly old enough to remember Mr. Sinatra and Mr. Martin, and have absolutely nothing against them, I just don’t get the connection. S’plain, please. Rat Pack
  6. Why do you have a dessert menu? No, seriously. I have never been able to eat dessert after dinner at the OG. And I’ve never personally witnessed any other restaurant patrons having dessert either. Who has room for dessert after all that cheese and carbs?  Olive Garden Dessert
  7. How is it possible that all the waitstaff aren’t completely obese? They have to eat there, how could they not? It’s the Olive Garden! So between all the salad and breadsticks, the pasta, and all that damn cheese, and lets not forget those awesome Andes mints that I’m sure get pocketed by staff on a daily (if not hourly) basis…how is it possible they’re not all complete porkers?

Olive Garden Andes

So those are my 7 Questions for Olive Garden.

And somehow, I suddenly have a craving for cheese.

Tina Siggy

Category: 7 Questions, The Hubs and Me  Tags: , , , ,  2 Comments

The Coffee Pot Curse

05 Jun 2010 | By Tinalicious

I should have known.

Back on our wedding day, June 23, 1984, the Hubs and I received some wonderful wedding gifts. They ranged from the practical (crock pot, tea kettle,  mixing bowls, wok) to the elegant (crystal stemware, silver photo frame) to the just makes you wonder (stuffed teddy bear) categories.  It was quite the haul show of generosity from our loved ones.

John and Tina Wedding Gifts

However,  the running joke that day (outside of the fact that our organist never showed up, leaving me to walk down the aisle while guests hummed the Bridal March), was the fact that we received not one, not two, but three coffee pots. And why is that funny, you ask? Because neither John nor I really drank coffee at that time. We were happy to get one, since we have plenty of family members that drink coffee. And what happy little house frau doesn’t want to be able to offer her guests a good ole cuppa joe, eh? So even though it was rather funny to get 3 coffee pots, we made the best of it: we kept one, and exchanged the other two for other things we still needed.

So fast forward quite a few years. The lone coffee pot I kept stayed in my kitchen cupboard, only to be pulled out when we had family over. So really, it was still a good coffee maker, even after 17 years or so. But then I started drinking coffee, and eventually John did too, and over time that old coffee pot got slower and slower, despite regular cleanings and proper maintenance. So even though it worked (very s-l-o-w-l-y), I decided to get a new coffee pot.  I saved my old coffee pot, just as a stand-by, for many years, before finally selling it a garage sale.

And that, my friends, was the dawn of the Coffee Pot Curse.

It seems that as soon as I got rid of my 20+ year old wedding-gift-keeper-stand-by coffee pot, and got the first brand spanking shiny new coffee pot, it just didn’t take long before it died and went to crap appliance heaven (also known as the county landfill).

Apparently, that old coffee pot cursed me on its way out the door, after I so coldly and brazenly disposed of it like, well,  an old wedding gift. It was pissed. And as a result, I was doomed to suffer the coffee pot curse, which meant having to repeatedly buy coffee pots, only to watch them die before my very eyes. Seriously, it’s like they’re all in this together. Are they really  just dying? Or are they actually killing themselves in some grand gesture to stand in solidarity with the coffee pot I so callously disposed of years ago? Hmmm.

So earlier this week, my latest coffee pot, which is less than a year old, decided to join its fallen comrades and bit the dust. And naturally, just to mock me, I’m sure, it did so before I could even make the morning coffee! So I put the dead appliance in the garbage at the curb (it was trash pickup day, after all), and put the glass carafe in the recycle bin (it was the decidedly green thing to do) before I left for the morning.

The Hubs and I went up to Wally World later than evening to pick out a new coffee pot. I wasn’t going to go another morning without my coffee–curse or no curse. And as if the latest kamikaze coffee pot death wasn’t bad enough, I got an extra little surprise went I reached the coffee pot aisle and saw the following notice taped in front of the same model as my dead coffee pot:

Safety Recall:

Hazard: The coffee maker can overheat, posing fire and burn hazards to consumers.

Incidents/Injuries: Walmart has received 83 reports of overheating, smoking, melting, burning and fire, including three reports of minor burn injuries to consumer’s hands, feet and torso. Reports of property damage include a significant kitchen fire and damage to countertops, cabinets and a wall.

And then naturally, there is also a notice that consumers are to return their coffee pots to Wal Mart for a full refund of the purchase price. Yipee! I can get a full refund for my dead coffee pot…I can use that money to buy my shiny new coffee pot…I can…I can thank the damned coffee pot curse for allowing me to throw my dead coffee pot in the trash that morning, which the trash collectors have already taken away, along with any chance of me getting a full refund of the purchase price.

Yep. It’s a official, that stupid curse is real and no one can convince me otherwise.

And I should have known.

Tina Siggy

Category: Have Blog, Will Babble, Rantics, The Hubs and Me  Tags: , , , ,  2 Comments

Adventures in Shopping with Goobs

12 Apr 2010 | By Tinalicious

The Hubs and I decided to take a trip to the Big City yesterday–also known as Fort Wayne, Indiana. {OK, now, it’s not like we live in the sticks or anything, but our town is small compared to FW. } I needed some stuff from the Big Box Mothership–also known as Sam’s Club.  So we decided to make a day of it, hit a few stores, grab some grub, and just enjoy a day out of the house. And boy, was it ever the adventure!

I’ll say right off, I’m not one that gets into shopping all that much. About the only place I enjoy shopping at is Hobby Lobby or Michaels…and I can spend a couple of hours in either of those places rather easily, losing all track of time. And they were both on the itinerary for the day. But even then it still tests the limits of my physical and psychological endurance when I’m there, especially when I encounter the kind of goobs–also known as morons who shop–I did yesterday.

First up: the Texting While Shopping Goob.

Texting Shopper

In this day and age, where we do almost everything at the touch of some sort of keypad, these goobs are becoming more and more commonplace. But I don’t get it. Why must one text while shopping? Geez, I thought people who actually talked on a cellphone while shopping were annoying goobs, but these texters are downright maddening! Especially considering that they do so at the absolute peril of everyone else in the entire store. The guy I saw yesterday was walking and texting at the same time, and his eyes never left that phone as made his way down the aisles, texting at warp speed. And when I last saw him, he was heading down the Aisle of Glass–also known as the center of Hobby Lobby, where a butt load of breakable glass, and not so must have decor items are displayed, and he was totally oblivious to the shatterable shelves that surrounded him on all sides. Earth to Goob: you break it, you bought it have any kind of meaning to ya, fella?

Next we have the Shopping Cart Aisle Blocking Goob.

Shopping Cart

We have all been a victim of this goob at least once: you’re walking down the aisle, looking for the beer low-cal salad dressing, and all of a sudden you’re stuck at a 2-way shopping cart road block. And why? Because some people can’t fathom that someone else may also want to come down that same aisle, at the precise moment they park their cart to one side, and walk to get something on the other side of the aisle, which is also being blocked by someone else! Now, I know there is no Etiquette Guide to Shopping Cart Maneuvers for Dummies, but dammit, there ought to be! And to make matters worse, my powers of invisibility always kick in when I’m stuck at a shopping cart road block. What else could explain the fact that I stand there…waiting…and waiting…and no one seems to see me trying to get through? I mean, do they think I’m just there to watch them debate over  which can of tomato sauce has the prettiest label?  Sheesh. The Hubs always tells me, “just say excuse me and they’ll move.” But I don’t think I should have to…I’m not a small gal, and I’m not difficult to spot, even from a distance. They have to be able to see me.  But just you wait. One of these times I’m just gonna FART as loud as I can when I’m stuck at one of those shopping cart road blocks. Yeah, I bet somebody will notice me then.

And last, but certainly not least, we have the Thongs Are Wrong Shopping Goob.

Thong JeansThere are a lot of things I want to see when I’m shopping for groceries. Sale prices. Buy One Get One Free specials. Checkout lines with no waiting. But one thing I absolutely do NOT want to see is the butt crack business of some skinny biatch wearing her favorite striped thong as she bends down to get something, all the while pretending to be totally unaware of the fact that her thonged ass is on display for the entire shopping world to see. Don’t freaking tell me you don’t know what’s happening either,  goob, because feigning ignorance catapults you from goob to idiot status in the time it takes me to gag at the view. You know! And it begs the question: what are you really shopping for? Sugar? Sugar Daddy? A man-whore with a thong fetish? Show some class. Put on your big girl panties and go shopping like a lady. And then maybe, when some obsessed texting guy knocks over a fruit cup sample right behind you, you won’t have to pick pineapple and grapes out of your butt crack.

So that was my Saturday, folks. A day in the big city. A nice meal in the afternoon. And adventures in shopping—also known as shopping with goobs.

Tina Siggy

Category: Have Blog, Will Babble, Rantics, Shopping Misadventures, The Hubs and Me  Tags: , , , , ,  2 Comments

The Flies of March

10 Mar 2010 | By Tinalicious

So I was sitting on the couch the other night, watching TV with the Hubs. OK, well, I was actually semi-watching the Oscars. During the awards that I don’t really care anything about (does the entire planet really need to know who did the best sound editing or makeup?), I was surfing the Web on my laptop. Let’s face it: the Oscars telecast is far too long. And even though I’ve been watching the Oscars ever since I was a little girl, the older I get, the less patience I have for a 3-hour show.  It could be shortened to an hour or less if they would just televise the best actors/actresses and film awards.  Or at least save all of those awards for the last hour, then I’d just tune in for the end. But, I’m sure they need all the extra advertising dollars to pay for the sparkling sets, the unnecessary dazzling dance numbers,  and the coveted, shimmering statuettes, so they’re never going to cut the show down to a tolerable length. So be it.

Anyhoots, as I was sitting there surfing away, I saw something out of the corner of my eye. I asked the Hubs if he just saw something, and he said, no. Bear in mind, this is the same guy who can see a hawk flying high up in the sky…from inside a moving car…on a rainy day, and yet he can’t see something that I just saw in the house. Whatever.

I know I saw something. My first thought was that it was a fly. But it’s March. And yeah, it was a nice, spring-like sunny day, but there is still some snow outside my house, melting though it may be.  So, with all logic and common sense in place,  I dismissed the idea that I had just seen a fly and went back to my laptop Web adventures.

But then I saw it again. Up by the ceiling fan. Sure enough. It was a fly.

I’ll say it again, it’s March. Too early for flies in the house, in my twisted opinion. But as puzzlingly disturbing as that is to me, I decided to just ignore the Musca domestica Linnaeus (that’s the scientific name for “house fly” BTW…I totally looked it up on my laptop) and get back to some serious surfing and semi-Oscar-watching.

But then I saw it again. Right there. On my keyboard. The fly.

I turned to the Hubs and not so subtly made him aware of my unwelcome laptop hitchhiker by yelling, “the fly is on my damn keyboard…gimme something to kill it with.” The Hubs just laughed as he looked around, befuddled. I could tell what he was thinking. Shall I just pull a flyswatter out of my butt?

So it was all up to me. With my deft physical agility and my ninja-like reflexes [insert laughter here], I took my one and only shot at the winged menace staring up at me from the keyboard…taunting me.

S-M-A-C-K

Dead Fly

“I got him!” I told the Hubs. He just laughed as I stared at the fly carcass laying there on my keyboard. He had it coming. If he’d stayed up on the ceiling fan, that fly would probably still be alive to pester me today. Landing on my laptop was his choice, and his final, fatal one at that.

May he rest in peace.

DISCLAIMER: While a fly was harmed and killed before making this blog post, he was not harmed and killed for the sole purpose of making this blog post. That would just be wrong.

Tina Siggy

Category: Have Blog, Will Babble, The Hubs and Me  Tags: , ,  Leave a Comment
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