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…

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.
   
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.]
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.]
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?
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.
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? 
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?

So those are my 7 Questions for Olive Garden.

And somehow, I suddenly have a craving for cheese.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

There 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.

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

“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.

Now before you go and get your undies in a bunch, let me assure you that you should not take my post title literally. I’m only out to entertain, not to offend. ;o) So let us begin…

I was sitting at my desk, minding my own business (literally, I do have online businesses that I must mind on a daily basis), when whom should appear in my doorway? OK, yes, there’s only one other person that lives in this house, so logic alone would dictate that it was most likely the Hubs. He was smiling, and leaning up against the door frame in his usual I’m-just-here-to-make-my-presence-known sort of way.

We chit-chatted for a moment, in our typical old married couple  brand of shorthand.  No need for small talk, right?

He said: Hey

I said: What?

(Let’s face it: after 25 years of marriage, we can cut through most of the B.S. that couples of a younger generation so aptly call “conversation.”  As if.)

So then he says:  Guess what I did today?

Again, my succinct and ever so appropriate reply: What?

And then he holds up his hand, which clearly is adorned with a freshly adhered band-aid, and wiggles his fingers. So I’m thinking, he must have gotten a splinter, or perhaps cut himself on something, or any other number of infinite possibilities when you’re talking about a man who does plumbing and construction for a living.

But he says: I drilled a screw….into…my….finger.

Now as I’m picking my lower lip up off the floor, the Hubs proceeds to tell me that he not only drilled a screw…into his finger…but he drove it almost all the way in. And at this point, thinking that this story could certainly get no worse  and in no way more disgusting (that was, as always, a lapse in my own judgment—it can always get worse!), well…

He says: It was really hard to get out too; I had to…unscrew it…all the way out!

Now he is standing there, smiling, through this entire narrative, people…calm as a cucumber and seemingly pleased as punch. While I, on the other hand, have covered my mouth with my hand, developed a severe case of the heebie jeebies, and seriously considered emptying the contents of my quivering stomach into the nearest trash receptacle!

It’s the visual that kills me…the one I get in my head as he tells me the story, the one where I see him unscrewing a screw from the depth of his bleeding finger. It’s G-R-O-S-S!

And that’s the point. That’s why he’s smiling. For the effect that the story has on me.  Just picture him: he has the screw in his hand. He’s holding it up, and smiling at me. It just gives a whole new meaning to the phrase…

Wanna Screw?

And just as a final aside, after I typed that phrase, I decided to click on my Ask Edward widget while that question was still in my head (seemed appropriate at the time). Know what his reply was?

Keep dreaming. Not if I live a hundred thousand years.

Seriously, Edward. You know how to hurt a gal. Maybe it’s time I switched to Team Jacob.

(A little bit of shirtless vampire eye candy didn’t  exactly hurt either.)

I finally settled on the videos posted at Twilight Guide. It’s one of my favorite resources for anything related to the Twilight Saga. There are two clips on the link below, and both include English Subtitles. That’s actually kind of a good thing, since even though they’re speaking English, the sound quality isn’t the greatest. It’s obviously just fan footage of the sneaks peeks shown at ComicCon. But hey, that’s alright with me. Any little previews I can get of this Fall’s most anticipated movie premiere are OK with me. And these really are the best quality vids I could find.

The first video is clearly for those of you on Team Jacob. And the second, totally Team Edward. Personally, I’m Team Edward all the way and I love that video clip (the screaming fans at ComicCon undoubtedly agree with me). It’s from one of the most vivid scenes I recall from reading the book, so it was great to catch a glimpse of it on screen. All I can say is, Run, Bella, Run!

Hope you enjoy them both.

Twilight Guide’s New Moon Sneak Peeks

Got a later start than the Hubs would have liked. I was up late the night before (because I can NEVER sleep, and he knows this!), so I didn’t get up until 10:30. I had told him I’d planned to leave sometime between 10am-Noon. Ahem, it was 11:54 when we hit the road, so was I wrong?! Anyhoots, he was miffed that we were not on the road at the crack of dawn. (Murphy is about to rear its ugly head.)

Headed over to the gas station to gas up the rig, something I thought had already been done. But nope, we were on a quarter of a tank with a 227 mile Mapquest journey ahead of us. That, to me, says fillerup! So, before we could hit the highway, we did just that.

Then we started up to town toward the highway, and I asked the Hubs if he had checked my tire pressure. I had two tires that were getting low, and I had asked him a minimum of 3 times over the previous two weeks to please check my tire pressure before the trip. He had taken my car the night before we left to vacuum out the inside and get it looking as glorious as a Pontiac Grand Prix can possibly look; so one would think he would have A) checked the tire pressure, and B) filled up the car with gas! But since that didn’t happen, and since I was not going to travel that far with low tire pressure, I made him stop at another gas station to check the pressure. He was beyond unhappy about that, and we had a little spat about it…yes, about tire pressure! Apparently, the lack of tire pressure in the tires was my fault, because I didn’t get out of bed until 10:30am! Yes, I can see the logic there, for sure.

We traveled for the first 45 minutes in absolute silence. That’s always fun. Heaven forbid you are the first one to speak after a tiff, because that would make you look guilty or something. But since I was playing my usual role as navigator, I had to speak to direct our way. At any rate, we were fine at that point, up until we got close to our destination of Muskegon, Michigan (romance capital of the world, to be sure). That’s when we got lost, courtesy of Mr. Murphy, and Mapquest instructions that were not exactly accurate!

We arrived at our lovely, old Victorian bed and breakfast, after driving through some questionable neighborhoods in our search for the right road, which was situated right next to an old folks home, and some other facility that catered to “very special people.” (I can only guess as to what kind of “special” they were talking about, and I figured we were better off not knowing.)

The B&B was beautiful and perfectly matched the description and photos on its website. We were greeted by the owner, Barb, and her adorably chubby Yorkie named Oscar. We were taken to our room, which was just as the website pictures had depicted it. And it was the largest room in the B&B. It was my 25th anniversary, after all, and I wanted the best room. Everything in the room was just as described, and perfect in every way, except for one thing: the air conditioning was not working. (Hello, Mr. Murphy!) We were on the second floor, people, and it was a very warm day–and the Hubs gets hot very easily when indoors (though he can work outside all day in 90+ heat and not complain), especially while sleeping. So the A/C wasn’t exactly a minor issue. We were not pleased. The owner was very apologetic, though not quite sorry enough to offer us a discount on the room that I had fully paid for upon arrival!

We tried to put the A/C issue aside and headed out to explore Muskegon. I had researched the tourist attractions in the area so we’d be sure to have plenty to do, but my first stop when we are on a trip like that is always the same: The Lake! I grew up on the west coast, so I love the water. And whenever we go on vacation, I always want to be near water. So we headed to the beach that was only a mile or two away. We headed out onto the sand, in bare feet, of course, toward the jetty in the distance. Got half way out on the jetty and, Murphy’s Law strikes again, it started to rain. Not just sprinkles, mind you, but the kind of rain that sent everyone that was on the beach racing toward their vehicles! So much for a leisurely walk on the beach.

While in the car, I checked a couple of tourist spots that we might want to check out, but we discovered that most tourist attractions in Muskegon were only open between Noon and 4pm. WTH? It was after 6pm, so we were S.O.L. at that point, so we headed back to the B&B. We were both getting hungry, so we wanted to figure out where we’d go for dinner.

After careful research between pamphlets and a quick websearch (I’m nothing if not practical: I did bring my laptop, after making sure that our B&B had wireless before I even booked the room!), we settled on our fine dining experience for the evening. 25 years of marriage certainly merits an expensive dinner, don’tcha know. So we changed clothes and made our way out the door, right into the pouring rain. Luckily for me, I always travel with an umbrella in the car, and had taken it to the room with me after the rain started on the beach. I just knew we’d need it again. Take that, Murphy!

The map of tourist spots provided to me by the B&B owner, which she claimed was “the best map,” got us lost on the way to the restaurant. Between one way roads (I curse the man who thought up that gem), faded and illegible street signs, and streets that were not existent on “the best map,” we ended up in a part of town that can only be described as SCARY! We were fortunate to spot two police cars (I’m sure they’re no stranger to the neighborhood we were in), and they were kind enough to point us in the right direction. The street we were looking for turned out to be directly across from the parking lot we were in while speaking to the policemen, but since the letters on the street sign were almost completely faded, there was no way to read them in the dark. I’m sure the policemen thought it was kind of funny, but I was beyond stressed by this time, and was rather hoping for a police escort to the restaurant!

We finally arrived at the restaurant, and the events of the entire day just kind of hit me all at once in the car. The stress poured out of me, in the form of tears and sobs, which was beyond my control for at least 5 minutes. I was at my limit of the perfect 25th anniversary getaway by this time, so I just had to let it out. All the Hubs could do was wait it out. Poor guy. Things were bugging him too, but he handles stress far better and less girly than I do, to be sure.

The restaurant was a 5-star eatery, if I recall correctly, and it had the prices to match. Everything inside was very nice, and the food selection was so complex that you could tell this was not the neighborhood diner by any stretch of the imagination. Good thing I watch Top Chef, so I could figure out what some of the food choices were. I settled on ordering a steak and crab cake dinner, with potatoes gratin and asparagus. The Hubs ordered some sort of fish (we were by the water, after all). We enjoyed a wonderful salad and some tasty parmesan garlic rolls, and waited for our entrees to arrive. But naturally, Murphy had other plans, which became painfully obvious when the waitress came to tell me that they were out of not only my crab cakes, but also my potatoes gratin! I looked at my husband, whom I am sure knew what was coming before I did: TEARS! I struggled to hold back the flood gates, pretty much in vain, while the waitress stood and watched, dumbfounded. She must have thought I was crazy, crying over crabcakes?! OK, I was not crying about the freaking crab cakes, people. It was just one more crappy thing added to an already crappy Murphy kind of day! Sigh. I had to choose a substitution for my two missing meal items, which I did. And I ate less than half of my meal; sorry, but by this time I had completely lost my appetite. At least the waitress was nice enough to deduct 10% off our over $50 bill. And the chef even gave us a card good for a free dessert on our next visit, which we left in the lobby for someone else who has better than a snowball’s chance in hell of ever returning to Muskegon, let alone the restaurant. But it was a nice gesture, nonetheless.

We went back to the B&B, relieved that the rain had managed to keep the room from getting super hot. But it was still muggy, which is never comfortable. We turned on the ceiling fan, and opened the French door (which led to the private balcony) and the room’s two windows. Barb had said we’d get a nice breeze that way, and we did. That is, until the rain started puddling up on the sills, and looking to head with Murphy to the new wood floors. So we had to close the windows. We showered, and watched a bit of TV, and then discovered that Murphy had jumped into bed with us, in the form of a very squeaky mattress. This, of course, precluded doing anything but sleeping in that 25th anniversary bed, since there were guests across the hall and one one side of us, and I sure didn’t want to be their late night entertainment. So we went to sleep.

The next day, knowing that I’d had my fill of Muskegon, we hit the only few important tourist sites I had wanted to see, along with a wonderful coffee shop that managed to restore my faith in humanity. Yes, coffee can actually do that for me these days. And we made the decision to leave the non-refundable two-night stay at the B&B, and head south to Michigan City, Indiana and its Blue Chip Casino. It was reasonable to think that perhaps we could elude Murphy, who would be left at Michigan’s border, no? He certainly couldn’t follow us all the way to Indiana, right?

Surprisingly, Murphy did stay behind in Michigan. We spent the day and night just gambling and eating good food. I won nothing on the slots, which of course is all I’m brave enough to play. But the Hubs loves the Roulette wheel, so he got comfy there alongside Lady Luck, and managed to win back all but $200 of what we’d spent out of pocket on the trip. I’ll just point out that the hotel and the B&B went on the credit card, and he didn’t win enough to cover all of that–lordy, that would have been too sweet! But between meals and gas and coffee and souvenirs…and gambling, we had spent quite a lot of cash. And it was nice that he could win back most of that.

25th anniversaries are supposed to be special, and I can’t say that ours really was. But it was memorable, to be sure. And if nothing else, I can at least say that I’ve been lucky enough in love to make up for the crap that is Murphy’s law that went with us on our vacation! I have the best husband in the world, and he actually loves me after 25 years, one unruly adult child, debt, jobs given up, broken dreams, gray hairs, tantrums, a “little” extra weight in my midsection, and everything else that makes me slightly challenging to love on occasion.

Here’s to the next 25, baby!

(No pics to post yet..will add a link when I get them online!)

The Hubs and I went out to eat this evening, and we had our grandson Dylan along. It started off just like any other Family Friday at Friendly’s (a local eatery). You know, exchanging unwitty banter about our day, deliberating over the menu that we should have memorized after eating there at least 75 times, and listening to our grandson sing the lyrics of his favorite new song, “I’m squishing up my baby bumble bee,” the perfect song to accompany any meal. Food arrives, and we begin to eat. Dylan is having his usual, popcorn chicken. I’m having grilled chicken. And the Hubs, the oddball, is having Fish N Chips (at least it wasn’t Smelt this time). Nothing too out of the ordinary at this point. Chew and chat, chew and chat…ask Dylan a third time to stop singing that song until we’re done eating.

Then, a little more than half way through the meal, the Hubs somehow manages to drop an entire piece of his heavily fried fish onto the floor. And, being the considerate guy that he is, naturally he picks up the fish. After all, he doesn’t want someone to step on it, so he does the right thing and picks it up. And then, with little or no thought at all, he put the tainted fish off to the side of his plate…far away from the remaining fish and fries, so that he’ll remember why it’s there…and not…eat it. Great, smart move, my man. I would have put it on the table myself, but hey, whatever works for him. So we continue on to finish diner, chew and chat, chew and chat, and I listen to Dylan talk about how great ranch dressing is on french fries.

And then it happened. I turned back to the Hubs and glanced down at his plate. The tainted fish…has disappeared. WTH? It was just there a second ago–I saw it with my own eyes! But after a cursory look around the table, that freaking fish is nowhere to be found. Where the heck is it?

Yes folks, he…ate…it. {insert gagging noise here}

“OMG,” I half screamed. “You did NOT just eat that fish, did you?” And he pauses, glances at the plate, and kind of shrugs, as I wait for the look of horror on my own face to be mirrored on his. But it never happens. He’s slightly baffled by his obvious, um, mistake, but there’s no evidence of disgust at all, after having eaten something to which the 5-second rule can in no way apply, considering we’re in a public place–with a carpeted floor no less! All he can manage is, “I guess I did.” Allrighty then.

Dinner for 3 at Friendly’s: $34.95

Tip for the waitress: $5.00

Opportunity to tell the Hubs not to kiss me for a week, until I’m relatively sure that the Fish N Chips Incident isn’t going to come up to haunt us: priceless.

I had the Country Fried Steak. What’s that…do I mean Chicken Fried Stick? Well heck no, not this far north of Mississippi. Up here, they call it Country Fried Steak. And if you call it Chicken Fried Steak, it really confuses folks around here.

“It’s not Chicken, M’am, it’s, er, beef,” the waitress will say.

“Yes,” I say, “it’s beef…that’s fried…like Chicken.”

And while she walks away pondering the Chicken vs. Beef dichotomy, I’ll have a little chuckle at the inside joke that anyone who’s ever lived inside of the state of Texas is in on. We know what Chicken Fried Steak is, and it’s just kind of funny when it’s not listed correctly on a menu.

At any rate, this isn’t supposed to be about my dinner. No, no. It’s about the Hubs dinner. I guess he likes to live on the edge once in awhile, walk on the wild side, so to speak. So instead of having the Lasagna special, or the usual burger, he decides to order…Smelt.

Smelt?!

{What the hell is Smelt and why is it on a menu?!}

Fresh Smelt

Smelt is just a little fish, apparently fairly common in the Great Lakes area (how did I not know this?), that don’t get much bigger than 7 inches long–but that’s on a good day. The ones the Hub was eating weren’t any bigger than, well, bait. And seriously, that is what it reminded me of when he was eating them. And it really kind of grossed me out. There is something fundamentally wrong with eating a fish that most folks would use…to catch bigger fish. It’s just messed up. Think about it: would you eat a baby chick, instead of a full grown chicken? I think not. To me, the Smelt are no different, even though they’re basically full grown and fully capable of giving their lives for someone’s supper at The Cabbage Patch. But still, look at those little fishy eyes and tell me that doesn’t bug you, at least a little. Yuck.

His were fried, sans the eyes and fins, which is fortunate for both of us. Because had I seen a single eye in that pile of fried Smelt, I would have promptly projectile vomited my not-quite-Chicken Fried Steak.

Check, please!

John and Me 1983

Yup, that was us, 26 years ago, when our love was still in its infancy, looking so young and so sweet and so…80′s! Even without the “81″ on the Hubs’ T-shirt, it’s painfully obvious what decade we’re in here. Seriously, look at my hair! That was Farrah feathering at its finest! And those glasses–they’re half the size of my entire face. Whose brilliant optical mind of the day made those the requisite fashion statement for nearsighted young gals like myself? I can be excused, for I was young and knew not which look was right for my face! But the designer of those frames should be held accountable for the true spectacle they created! Oy.

For the record, regarding his ashen appearance, the Hubs is not a vampire (much as I might like to call him Edward when he’s just out of earshot). The camera was not very far from us when we took this photo, and the flash just made him look a lot whiter than he really is. On the plus side, his stark white face actually makes my face look a little darker than it really is, and helps to distract the viewer from the zits that are lurking below my lower lip. Ahhh, adolescence. Isn’t it a shame we don’t get to linger there just a bit longer?!

John and I were married within 6-7 months of this photo being taken. I was 17. He was 21. We got married 2 weeks after I graduated from high school. In just a few months, we will celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. If I’m feeling brave by then, I will post an updated photo of us for comparison. OK, well, maybe I will, maybe I won’t. There are just no guarantees in life, especially when we’re talking about the 17 year old girl, who is now 42, and not exactly Miss America. But hey, anything is possible. So just check back in June!