OK, so in my dream, I had moved into a new house. But it wasn’t a house really. It was a trailer. A very crappy trailer. I remember noticing that the living room floor was sagging down rather sharply on one side. In the dream I stood there for a moment and made a mental note of this observation…as if it was somehow important. Sagging floor? Check.

Then I turned and walked to a nearby record player that was built into one of the walls. A record player. You know, that ancient device that would spin large discs filled with music at approximately 33rpm’s. The one in my dream looked sort of like this:

The record player had been hinged to the wall somehow, so that it could be tucked away when not in use. This sounds like something I would indeed do…if I lived in a trailer. You know, as a space-saver. Again it seemed important. Record player? Check.

So anyhoots, I put a record on the record player and music started to play. But I couldn’t figure out what song it was. And as I was standing there, listening, and trying to figure out what song I was hearing, Johnny Depp walked in the front door. There were 3 other people in the room, one of whom was my husband, but the other two were faceless (clearly they were friends from the trailer park I must be living in while in the dream–though they weren’t significant enough to me to have faces…and they were carrying spatulas for some reason).  Johnny smiled at the Hubs and all but ignored the two faceless friends as he walked past them. He was heading straight to me.

Johnny stopped right in front of me. I said, “Hello,” but he didn’t speak. He just picked up my hand and kissed it. Then he walked to the record player and started tapping his foot in time to the music. Obviously he knew the song, so I asked him what it was. But naturally, he didn’t answer. Apparently sexy celebs don’t need to talk in my dreams; they are there purely as eye candy. Natch. After he listened to the tune for a bit he walked over to a nearby piano. Why there’s a piano there I really don’t know because I don’t play, and neither does anyone else I know. But Johnny does, in my dream at least, and so he did. Imagine this, if you will…

Johnny played a song on the piano…again, it was unrecognizable to me. The faceless friends just stared. The Hubs offered him some spaghetti. What else would you offer a celebrity in your dreams, after all? And I do make darn good spaghetti, if I do say so myself. He declined the spaghetti though with a simple shake of his head and finished his song. Then he got up and walked back over to me. He looked me dead in the eye, and he smiled. Oh my gawd, his smile was beautiful. And with absolutely no control over my own facial muscles at that point, in the presence of this famously fabulous and not-too-hard-on-the-eyes male being,  I smiled right back.

Then Johnny opened his mouth to say something. I was mesmerized, and waited for whatever words were going to come forth from his lips, which were a mere 12 inches (or less!) away from me. He leaned in close…closer, and then he whispered to me.

“You had me at ‘Hello.’”

Cheesy but classic movie line from the hot celeb in my dream? Check.

Then I heard a microwave beeping and when I turned to look in its direction, Johnny disappeared. And then I woke up. Stupid microwave. As if it doesn’t annoy me enough in my waking moments, it has to taunt me in my dreams as well. Who knows what might have happened next, if that damn microwave hadn’t started beeping!

On the plus side, I learned some important things as a result of my dream-state brush with fame.

1. That a sagging living room floor might seem important in a dream, but it’s really not.

2. That old record players can be tucked away into walls with the proper ingenuity and carpentry know-how.

3. And that cheesy movie lines are just as effective in dreams as they are in the movies, especially when uttered by the one and only Johnny Depp.

Who says you can’t learn anything while you sleep, eh?

]]> http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/my-night-with-johnny-depp/feed/ 0 http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/passive-aggressive-much-tina/ http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/passive-aggressive-much-tina/#comments Mon, 15 Aug 2011 19:03:17 +0000 Tinalicious http://www.tinalicious.com/?p=2077

There’s a blog I subscribe to called Passive Aggressive Notes. It’s so hilarious. They post photos of passive-aggressive notes people have written and posted online. I love reading them. But imagine my lack of surprise when I wrote my own passive-aggressive note to the Hubs recently. I wish I’d taken a photo of it, but it was nearly 2am when I did it (I’m a night owl, in case you didn’t know) and taking photos at that hour is not something I aspire to do too often. Go figure.

Anyhoots, the A/C had been on for over a month straight, but it was finally, FINALLY, cooling off outside. But I wanted to be sure it was cool enough for the A/C to actually get turned off and put the fan in the window. So, I headed to the front door to open it and get a feel for the temp outside. Or so I thought. But I couldn’t unlock the door. Again. Our front door lock for some reason doesn’t like to open in the summer. This, I might add, is something the Hubs knows and could actually fix (not for lack of nagging reminding on my part numerous times), but hasn’t yet done. So after several failed attempts to open that damn door, I decided to give up and write the Hubs a note as a pleasant reminder that the lock still needs fixed. And it went a little something like this.

Please fix the lock on the front door so that I can open it, before I either take a hammer to it and fix it myself, OR before I decide to remove the hinges, and then the door, lay the door in the alley, and drive back and forth over it repeatedly with the truck. Love, Me.

Is the lock on that door fixed yet? No. But that’s just a little taste of how things go with The Hubs and Me. It could be worse, right? I mean, a little passive-aggression is healthy, no?

]]> http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/passive-aggressive-much-tina/feed/ 1 http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/smurftastic-monday/ http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/smurftastic-monday/#comments Mon, 08 Aug 2011 19:39:34 +0000 Tinalicious http://www.tinalicious.com/?p=2060 How can a blog post be boring if it’s got the word ‘Smurftastic’ in it? That’s my theory anyway, and I’m sticking with it. This Monday for me is a blogging day…and multiple blogs means multiple blog post duties. But here at Tinalicious I thought I’d wax nostalgic about my weekend. That really ought to make for a Smurftastic Monday blog post, now shouldn’t it?

The weekend was interesting for The Hubs and Me. We spent much of it with our grandson, Dylan, as our daughter got ready for her graduation party to celebrate her graduation from Cosmetology School. Yay! And I don’t just mean that because I can now get free haircuts for life. No, seriously. But clearly that’s a perk. I am not going to deny it.

Anyhoots…on Friday we took Dylan to the Asian Buffet. We occasionally spend our Date Night at the Asian Buffet. This is particularly true when Dylan joins us for Date Night, because he loves that place. The Hubs and I can only take Chinese food so often…I mean, you know, we just have to be in the mood for it. But Dylan is always in the mood for it. And he always eats the same exact things: meatballs, big giant football-shaped bread rolls, and lemon jello.

What? What’s that you say? That’s not Chinese food? Yeah. We know. But that’s what he wants to eat at the Asian Buffet, without fail. So he eats that while we eat the real Chinese food, which we consume in quantities befitting two hogs at their Chinese trough. Isn’t that what buffets are for? To be sure.

So after we stuffed ourselves on sweet and sour shrimp, fried rice, and General Tso’s Chicken (who the heck General Tso is I really don’t know–but his chicken is damn good), we awaited the best part of the meal: the fortune cookies. Now, I seldom eat the fortune cookie, the Hubs never does, and Dylan only occasionally does. We just want the “fortune” that’s inside it, which I seldom actually consider to be fortunes because, to me, fortunes should tell you something that is going to happen. But those little paper “fortunes” don’t often do that. Rather, they just say something ambiguous or metaphorical and it’s supposed to be somehow profound.  But most of the time they just make me laugh, or shake my head. Still, they’re fun to read, and after all, what is a meal of Chinese food without a fortune at the end of it? And my fortune was actually, amazingly, and weirdly spot on for once.

It read, “Great! You’re ready for a party!”

Since my daughter’s graduation party was the next day, that fortune couldn’t have been more accurate. For once. So what if the other 100 or so fortunes I’ve gotten in my life were nowhere near accurate, or even true “fortunes” in many cases. This one was absolutely dead on. So after I reveled in the amazement for a few moments, the next thought that came to mind was that if my fortune is going to be right for like, the first time ever, why couldn’t it have said this:

“Great! You’re going to lose 50 pounds, gain a financial windfall that will make you debt-free and give you financial freedom for the rest of your life, and you’ll finally understand all the mysteries of LOST!”

Now that would have been a great fortune! But oh well. Moving on. We took Dylan to see the Smurfs movie on Sunday. I absolutely loved the Smurfs when I was in high school. They were all the rage back in the day. And what’s not to love?

They are just as cute now as they were back then. Maybe even cuter, considering the state of movie technology these days. We loved the movie too. Fun story, lots of laughs for kids and adults, and lots of cute little blue Smurfs.

And oh yeah, before we left the theater I used the restroom. Little did I know that yet another “fortune” would be waiting for me there, taped to the back of the stall door. Now I don’t know who’s idea it was to post these things on all of the stall doors, and I’m not sure why they would either. I mean, it’s not like a person wants to linger too long on a public toilet. But then again, I guess it can’t hurt to have some reading material in there either. So anyway, here’s the toilet stall fortune that awaited me:

“The elevator to success is broken. You’ll have to take the stairs. One step at a time.”

So it was kind of profound, I’ll give it that. It gave me something to think about, which is never a bad thing when you’re taking care of business. And hey, it gave me something to blog about on this Smurftastic Monday.

]]> http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/smurftastic-monday/feed/ 0 http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/the-turn-on/ http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/the-turn-on/#comments Sun, 03 Jul 2011 19:29:21 +0000 Tinalicious http://www.tinalicious.com/?p=1992 OK, so Friday nights are usually dining out nights for The Hubs and Me.  It’s just a ritual, since we always go grocery shopping that night, and since I don’t wanna have to grocery shop and cook. As if! So we eat out before we hit the grocery store.

Well this past Friday night we went to a great Italian place in town, one that really has the best prime rib around.  An Italian place? With the best Prime Rib? Yeah, go figure. But it’s really, really good.

So as I was ordering, I couldn’t remember if I usually get the small or large cut of prime rib. My mind was leaning toward the small, but since Friday night always includes specials on prime rib, the larger cut actually works out to be the same price as the small. So I figured I’d just get the large cut and take home any leftovers.

As we waited for our meals to arrive, I ate a lot of their fabulous garlic bread, which is the best garlic bread around.  No joke, I could sit there and eat just the garlic bread and be quite a happy carb-filled girl. It’s that good. But I was anxious for that yummy prime rib to get to the table too.

Well, I wasn’t anxious for long, because when it arrived it was so damn big. I mean, huge. We’re talking jumbo sized beef here, people. I immediately knew I’d never gotten that large cut before. I sure as heck would have remembered getting a monster portion of meat this size. And I would have just as easily remembered that there would be no way in hell I could have eaten something that big.

Reasonable Facsimile of the Prime Rib

I immediately told the waitress, “the next time I come in here, do NOT let me order the large cut again.” Seriously. It could have fed a small country. I actually felt sorry for the cow that was sacrificed so that I could have that meat sitting on a plate in front of me. Just what I need: cow guilt.

I knew going in I wasn’t going to be able to eat even half of that damn prime rib, but I was definitely going to enjoy whatever I could eat. And so I did. So I was eating some prime rib, and alternating with the pasta Alfredo that came with it–which is actually NOT the best around. Sorry, but Olive Garden still holds that title for me.  So I’m cutting and chewing and trying to decide when I was going to be full, and wiping the Au Jus that was running down my chin, as Au Jus is wont to do.

And then out of nowhere, so very randomly and matter-of-factly, the Hubs looks at me and says, “I think we should have sex tonight.”

Um, WTH?

Hold the phone here, mister-I-love-my-wife-but-she-could-stand-to-lose-a-few-pounds! Because this really begged the question, “Are you telling me that watching me consume large quantities of prime rib, pasta and garlic bread…is some sort of turn on to you?!”

He just laughed and kind of shook his head no and said, “no…just wanted to give you something to think about.”

Um, OK.

Men are seriously weird creatures.  One minute they’re conjuring up as much sensitivity as they can in their completely inept male way to tell you that your weight “is an issue” sometimes [while they stand far enough away to be out of striking distance]. And the next minute they’re watching you attempt to eat the biggest hunk of prime rib on the planet and telling you they want to have sex with you.

Go figure.

Let’s start with our frugal fashionistas, shall we? One lady I saw was wearing white capris, with patterned underwear. Am I the only person who just knows that you should never wear patterned underwear under anything white? I mean, hello? The print shows right through to the whole entire world. Duh. And even if your ass is hot (hers wasn’t, btw), no one wants to see your multi-colored flower-print undies through your pants.  Wouldn’t it make more sense to wear either white underwear…or perhaps a thong is in order?

[On second thought, maybe a thong isn't such a good idea.]

Then there was another gal wearing white pants. This was, how shall we say, a “large” gal. And she was clearly proud of her ample supply of cellulite…which, of course, looks magnified under white fabric. Why, oh freaking why, would anyone voluntarily choose to make their cellulite-filled ass look even bigger? I have a big ass myself, so I know what I’m talking about here, and you will never see me in anything white. Ever.

White Pants + Cellulite = Plus Sized Fashion Disaster. Seriously. I just can’t stress this enough. I preach it. And I live it.

But the classiest fashionista of the day was the older lady wearing a pink tee, jean capris (clearly it was the day for capris too) and sparkly tennis shoes. I’m guessing that was her way of blinging up her casual summer outfit. She was was wearing silver hoops for ear bling, so perhaps she wanted to tie into that with some silver sparkle foot bling. Because, you know, who doesn’t want a little foot bling while they’re shopping at Sam’s?  I so badly wanted to get a photo of her. I was just about to get my shot but the Hubs was trying to figure out the zoom on his phone’s camera at the same time. And stupid me,  I tried to help him and lost my photo op moment all together. Urgh.

Anyhoots, enough about those fiercely scary dressed fashionistas. My other shopping observation of the day occurred in the restroom. And let me start by saying that I don’t like public restrooms, so I use them as seldom as possible. And when I do use them I just want to get in, take care of business, and get right back out. It’s not a place I want to have, say, a telephone conversation. But the lady in the stall next to me had the exact opposite agenda. Her phone rang, she answered it, and she began chatting away like crazy, completely oblivious to the fact that she’s…urinating.

Seriously. When did talking on a cellphone while peeing become OK? And how important is it that you have a conversation during the urination process? Like, really? It can’t wait 3 minutes?

This was not a business deal or a family emergency this lady was talking about. She was just chatting about various mundane things. And she never stopped. She washed her hands…or one of them anyway…while still talking on the phone. And she left the bathroom still talking, bumping me on her way out because she was so absorbed in her phone conversation. Though she did manage an apology in between giggles with her cellphone BFF.

The cellphone urinator at least gets some points though. She was wearing, guess what? White capris. And she was a “large” gal too. But at least she had a shirt on that covered her cellulite, and any potentially otherwise visible flower-patterned underwear. So even though she failed miserably at bathroom etiquette, she wins my prize for fashionista of the day.

Take last night for example. The Hubs and I were out to eat at Applebee’s. Not  exactly my favorite place to eat, but since our choices are rather limited in this town, it’ll do when everything else just screams suck-ville to me.

Anyhoots, I ordered a margarita. Whoa, hold the liquor-filled phone just one minute! Did I just say I ordered a margarita?! Why, yes, yes I did. Those who know me know that I am not really a big drinker. I mean sure, I spent a brief period in my 20′s enjoying the benefits of being “legal,” partying with friends on the weekend, and throwing back one too many rum and Cokes on occasion. Who didn’t?!

But that is ancient history. I’m just not overly fond of the effects of alcohol, so I seldom drink. And when I do, I just don’t drink much. But yeah, Applebee’s was having a special on margaritas. And since I had never tried one, I thought that at 44.9 years it was high time I did. It was quite tasty too.

So I was sipping away on my sale-priced libation and enjoying my over-priced Cajun Shrimp Pasta while the Hubs ate his steak, when I noticed him stop mid-chew and stare intently and quizzically at a restaurant patron seated at the table diagonally behind us. Now of course, I couldn’t see the person that had so captured the Hubs’ attention. So my first thought was, she must be hot. But I was so wrong. So very, very wrong.

I asked the Hubs what he was staring at, and I was ill-prepared for his reply.

“That guy over there,” he said matter-of-factly, “is clipping his fingernails…at the table.”

“Um, excuse me?,” was my puzzled reply. Surely I must have misheard him. Nobody clips their fingernails at the table…in a restaurant, right?  Au contraire, mon frere (I was French in another life, btw). Apparently, some people in fact DO clip their fingers at the table…in a restaurant.

I mean, really?

WTH?! As if.

I mean, just when you think people can’t be anymore gross. You pop into Applebee’s for an innocent meal and a watered-down (but tasty) margarita, and you end up checking your pasta for stray fingernails.

You know, they call it personal hygiene for a reason.

But anyhoots, it was sunny out for the most of the day with only clouds in the distance, so we decided to check out the festivities before the weather took its predictable turn for the worst (which it did later that day). Lots of nice little arts and crafts for sale. And I must say, tutus must be the “in” thing right now, as just about every other craft booth was selling tutus. But my only purchase  of the day was a hand-thrown ceramic bowl with a spout, made by a potter I went to college with. It came with a whisk and I thought it would be the perfect scrambled eggs mixing bowl, so we bought it. Yes, folks, I do get excited about scrambled eggs. That’s not weird.

After the festival we decided to head to Fort Wayne for dinner, since I needed some things from Sam’s Club anyway. Neither of us had eaten by 2pm, so Olive Garden was sounding mighty tasty to us both. And since our town has little in the way of decent restaurants, we almost always have to drive an hour to get the good stuff, as it were.

So we got seated immediately at the OG, which was odd considering it was Saturday and it’s usually pretty packed. But who am I to complain [listening to my husband snicker in the background]?! And then our lovely waitress offered us some booze, er, wine. I’m never one to turn down free liquor [did I just say that...'out loud'?], even in small quantities, so we said sure, we’ll have some. And then came the question that caused a great deal of cognitive dissonance to both the Hubs and me.

“Can I see Your Id?“

Um, hold on just a tick. You want to see my what now?

Perplexed, I just asked the waitress, “are you serious?”  And she told us that yes, it’s a new law in the state of Indiana that requires them to ID everyone up to age 50.

But seriously…WTH?

I can see carding someone up to age 30 or so, because there are plenty of 28-year-olds that look more like they’re 20. So there’s room for doubt in that age range. But as much as I like to think I look quite young for my 44.8 years, I don’t think there’s any mistaking the fact that I am well over the legal drinking age of 21. Know what I mean?

But apparently the law is the law, and that means everyone up to age 50 is gonna get carded in Indiana, no matter how ridiculous it might seem to us ignorant Ohioans. Seems like a giant waste of time to me. But what the heck do I know?

On the plus side, I told the Hubs, we should look at it as a compliment. I mean, if she carded us, at least it means we don’t look over 50. So I guess I can reserve any righteous indignation for the day when I don’t get carded in Indiana, because that will mean I do look over 50. And then I guess I’m gonna need the free booze at the OG to soothe my shattered ego.

Things were good in the land of Tinalicious. The Hubs and me, we were, you know, carefree and happy to be heading to Fort Wayne for dinner and a little shopping.

So we mozy’d on out to the car.

But then I decided I’d like to grab a Michael Jackson CD from my studio outside. After all, road trips are always better with some MJ tunes playing.

So I went into my studio, and headed for my stereo and CD’s. But WTH?!
My stereo was GONE!

I don’t think I have to tell you what I did next…

Needless to say, I was so ticked. I was having bad thoughts about the low-life thieves who went into my studio, touched my things (EWW!),
and then took my stereo!

But I knew I had to calm down. So I took a moment to pause and collect myself. And I needed to figure out what to do to replace my stereo, which was almost brand new.

Then it kind of hit me. I knew what to do. I bit my lip, I was so excited.

I am sick of CD’s, AND my cell phone is eligible for upgrade in just a few weeks.  So the solution is really quite simple: mp3 player + phone = iPhone! Yay!

So the Hubs is gonna get me an iPhone.
This calls for a Happy Dance, don’t you think?

And now all is well in the land of Tinalicious once again.
And the moral of the story, boys and girls?
Thieves are pathetic losers and they may make you SCREAM.
But sometimes you may end up with a new iPhone.
And maybe even a lollipop.

(All photos are from the Michael Jackson short film, Scream. )

Well guess who decided to go to the movies with the Hubs and me over the weekend? As if it’s difficult to figure out, considering the aptly named title of this post. Yep, it was my psychotic friend, Mr. Murphy, who clearly had nothing better to do.

Now I should have known what the weekend might have in store for me, after waking up on Friday morning completely nauseated, and yet heroically trying to convince myself that I was not going to throw up because I had to baby-sit and I had to get groceries that night and a million other mom-like-things to do. [And yes, I realize that is one seriously pathetic run-on sentence but I'm too lazy hyper-focused on this blog post to fix it.] But within 5 minutes of standing upright I knew that whatever was down was going to be coming back up in relatively short order. So, I dashed to the closest vomit receptacle, cleverly disguised as a toilet, and took care of business.  And being that I’m never one to do things half way, I took care of business a second time.

Needless to say, all my plans for Friday were flushed down the vomit receptacle as well, and I spent all day in bed. And I do mean, ALL DAY. I slept for a total of 10 hours between 6am and 4pm, and then fell back to sleep at 7:30pm.  I don’t appreciate the stomach flu, Mr. Murphy. Just sayin.

After enduring Murphy’s melee on Friday, I was surprised to feel relatively good on Saturday when I got up. So I decided I was going to see Red Riding Hood, which the Hubs had already promised to take me to see. After surviving that stomach bug, I was sure that Mr. Murphy would leave me alone.  Reasonable expectation, one would think.

But it didn’t take too long to realize I wasn’t getting off that easy. The Hubs and I decided we’d go potty before the movie started, because who wants to do the ass shimmy and shake to get out of a row of movie theater seats in the middle of a movie to go to the bathroom? Let’s face it, whether you are on the giving or receiving end of the ass shimmy and shake, it ain’t fun. So the Hubs went his way and I went mine and I took care of business.

But as I reached up to the dispenser so that I could finish my business, the horror of realization hit me.

There’s no toilet paper.

And there was no one on either side of me in the bathroom to come to my rescue with a few random squares of toilet paper either. So I had to do a different kind of ass shimmy and shake in a pathetic attempt to finish my business, sans tissue. Clearly, Mr. Murphy likes to follow people to movie theater bathrooms too. All I can say is it’s a damn good thing it was only a number one situation, if you know what I mean.

I made my way back to the Hubs, who’d gotten our snacks, and we grabbed our seats in the theater. I shared my toilet paper terror with the Hubs and he just kind of rolled his eyes. He clearly has no idea how lucky he is that he can pee standing up. I mean, seriously, if they can’t appreciate that gift, they don’t even deserve to have it.

But anyhoots, the previews got rolling so I settled in to enjoy the flick and to start eating my salty soft pretzel, my favorite movie theater snack. And there it was again. Murphy’s Law. Right inside my “soft” pretzel, which wasn’t soft at all. It was actually almost hard. Who the hell wants a hard soft pretzel, I ask you?! Really, Murphy. Really? The stomach bug and the missing T.P. weren’t enough? You had to sabotage my salty soft pretzel too? Is there no end to your sadistic madness? Sigh.

So in case you’ve lost count, that’s Murphy–3, Tina–0.

On the plus side, Red Riding Hood was pretty darn good. If that movie had sucked, Mr. Murphy would now be on my hit list. Or at least, as my Nana used to say, my shit list.

I had planned a surprise overnight stay for the Hubs and me at a Holiday Inn about an hour away; it’s called the Holiday Inn French Quarter, not because it’s in New Orleans (far from it, it’s near Toledo, OH), but because it has a French Quarter theme and decor inside. It’s a really nice place and affordable for cheapskates frugal wives like myself. And let’s face it: that’s as close to the actual French Quarter as I’m ever gonna get.

Anyhoots, our reservation was for Saturday night. The Hubs had an all day class in Toledo anyway, so I figured I’d surprise him and tell him to meet me at the French Quarter for a little Valentines getaway. Of course I needed to get to the hotel early and get unpacked and settled in. I figured the Hubs would be hungry after a full day of plumbing-learning (his class was for his license renewal) and wanted to be ready to take him to dinner when he got in.

I got there at 4:30pm and naturally I couldn’t remember what time his class would be over. It was either 5pm or 6pm, so that meant I was either gonna have a very short wait for him or a kind of long one. So to be sure I had a way to keep myself busy, I brought along my laptop. I’ll begrudgingly admit, I’m practically joined at the hip to both of my computers since much of my life is spent online or computing in some form or another. [There are worse things I could be doing!] I was looking forward to a break from them actually, but was glad to have the laptop to surf the web a bit instead of having to watch TV.

But no sooner than I sat down to start surfing I started to hear a voice…a man’s voice…a loud man’s voice…coming from the room next door. Seriously. The dude was L-O-U-D, and that was WTF moment number one for that evening. The guy was talking on the phone about various things, and my first thought was, damn, I hope that guy is not gonna be that loud all night long. It wasn’t exactly going to be conducive to the romantic ambiance I was trying to create for the night. And it was annoying!

As his voice grew increasingly louder, I could hear, word-for-freaking-word, what he was going all megavolume-rantic about. He had a brr up his butt about the Super Bowl. More specifically, about Christina Aguilera singing the National Anthem at the Super Bowl…and more specifically still, about how she flubbed the lyrics of the National Anthem at the Super Bowl.  He made several obnoxious statements about this, basically heckling Ms. Aguilera after the fact.

1. He said that Christina Aguilera was a hack.
2. He said that she didn’t deserve ANY of her grammy awards because she has no talent.
3. He said that it’s the “stupid American public’s” fault that she has any grammys in the first place, so basically it’s our fault she F’d up the National Anthem Lyrics. And yes folks, he was also an American, the irony of which was in no way lost on me at that moment.

He was going on and on and on about this. Apparently, it was a serious problem for him. Probably not as serious as the ear damage he was inflicting on the person on the receiving end of the phone call, and on those of us unfortunate enough to be stuck in a hotel room right next to him with very thin walls, but still, a problem. I was on Facebook at that time and all I could think was “WTF, Dude?! Shut up already, you loud-mouthed, judgmental, holier-than-though-heckling-A-hole!” And geez, give the girl a break. At least she wasn’t lip syncing. Or grabbing her crotch. Or having a wardrobe malfunction. She flubbed some words.  It happens. Ever make a mistake, you big fat jerk?!

So yeah, that was WTF moment number two for the night. As I was griping on Facebook about this idiot, he finally got off the phone. I choose to believe that the person to whom he was speaking finally wised up and told him to find something a little more important to bitch about and then hung up on him. One can only hope. But then all was quiet…for a moment or two anyway. Until…

SLAM!

And then the guy next door yelling, “THAT’S IT, SLAM IT!”

And that was WTF moment number three for the evening.

But no one had slammed a door, not intentionally anyway. There were doors at each end of the hallway on our floor, the Concierge Floor. Those doors were very heavy and they pulled closed automatically when someone walked through them. And of course, they didn’t exactly close quietly. Annoying? Yes. But as obnoxious as the guy next door yelling, “SLAM IT?” Um, no.

This actually happened 2 more times…each time that idiot thinking someone was slamming the door to their room, and each time he’s over in his room yelling, “SLAM IT!” A to the H to the OLE! And just as I was about to  lose my passive-aggressive cool and go over there and give him a piece of my mind which never would have happened, the Hubs arrived. Thank God.

I went down to meet the Hubs, since I had both of our room “keys.” And by the time we got back, as I was talking his ear off the whole time about the jerk wad heckler next door, all was quiet on the hotel room front. Until the Hubs used the bathroom, of course, at which point that hallway door slammed once again and he made sure we were aware of it. I was kind of laughing when the Hubs came out and told him about it. I decided it was better just to laugh it off than to let it ruin our weekend. After all, if it got really bad, we could always ask for another room. And I told the Hubs I had an alternate solution, if push came to shove. I simply suggested that we make love, AS LOUDLY AS POSSIBLE, as a means of protest and justified noise retaliation.

His reply? “Happy Valentines Day to Me!”