Tinalicious » WTH?

Befuddled Blog Post

Tinalicious — Sun, 04 Sep 2011 18:12:16 +0000

I thought I’d start September with a cleverly named blog post. I challenged myself to use a word in the title that I had not used before, and “befuddled” fit the bill, so there you go. It’s a good word, no? And it aptly lends itself to my mood and should serve to set the tone for this entire post about the many Things I Don’t Understand for today. So let’s get right to it, shall we? Come on, don’t try to mask your enthusiasm.

First, I don’t understand Hoarders. Not just the show, which is a never-ending lesson in redundancy (let’s face it, it’s the same show every week, where only the faces and location have changed), but I mean, the hoarders themselves. I can’t wrap my brain around how someone can literally amass mountains of clothes, household items, trash, animal feces, and/or other piles of poo in some form, and NOT understand that they have a slight problem. Or if they do understand, they get pissed when they have to start getting rid of their crap. Heaven forbid you throw away that empty toilet paper roll–Lord knows how much sentimental value you must have attached to that. Not trying to sound harsh, because I really do feel for those people. But I will never, ever, understand them.

Some other randomness of things I don’t understand…

19 Kids and Counting. Seriously. Don’t get me started.

Toddlers in movie theaters. I mean, really?

Cowlicks. OMG (and I don’t wield those OMG’s haphazardly!). I have one, my daughter has one, and my poor grandson has one. They both blame me, of course. But who am I supposed to blame?! They are stupid cranial annoyances with even stupider names. Cowlicks. As if it’s not bad enough to deal with on my head, I have to feel like I’ve been licked by a cow too.

White clothing that cannot be bleached. WTH did they do to it to make it non-bleachable? And WHY?!

Why Heidi has to introduce the judges on every single episode of Project Runway. Come on, Heidi. Those of us who have watched the since the beginning know who the judges are, and the newbies really don’t care.

Rubber testicles that guys hang off the back of their pickup truck. Dude, you’re not fooling anyone. We know yours aren’t that big, and the fact that you hang them there for all to see pretty much tells us all that you’re probably coming up short in that area. Is that really the message you wanna send?

Why The Boob Lady (a.k.a. Giada, a Food Network chef), pronounces all of her food words with an Italian accent…but speaks normal English for everything else.

When Facebook friends post something that says you should post it as your status for an hour, to support some sort of “cause,” and then basically infer that you’re scum if you don’t do it. Exactly how is my posting a paragraph of text doing anything for anyone on any day by any stretch of the imagination? And if you’re my “friend,” why are you trying to humiliate me into doing something in the first place?!

The God channel on TV. You don’t get bonus points for watching it, you know.

And finally, neighbors who let their dog crap in my yard. My dog is dead, so I know he’s not crapping there. So they shouldn’t be surprised when I lose it at some point and start throwing all that crap back into their yard where it belongs.

Nikki and Paulo on LOST

Tinalicious — Sat, 20 Aug 2011 04:59:44 +0000

You know, LOST was one of my all time favorite shows. Loved it. Adored It. Couldn’t get enough of it. And I’m still pissed off that it’s not on anymore! Luckily, there are DVD’s to be had, so that I can get my little LOST fix whenever I feel like it. But there’s one thing that always puzzled me about LOST. Well, I mean, aside from all the major stuff that puzzled me about LOST. Specifically, I’m talking about Nikki and Paulo. I mean seriously, WTH?

So I made this sort of Motifake poster for my Macro Mania collection. Fellow LOSTies like myself will surely get the humor. If you’re not a LOST fan, it’s definitely going to be LOST on YOU. Ahem. But I’m posting it because I have been re-watching the series and they popped into my head as a result.

And if you didn’t watch LOST, might I suggest that you dive right in, if only to join us in appreciating the mystery of Nikki and Paulo. Who am I kidding, they’re not a reason to watch the show. But if you do need a reason…one word: Sawyer.

Any questions?

ABCs of Baggy Pants

Tinalicious — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 00:03:56 +0000

Obviously, there are many Things I Don’t Understand. That’s a given. But one thing that really gnaws on my nerves is baggy pants on guys. It’s so annoying. These guys have what I call the ABCs: Ass Butt Crack Syndrome.

I mean, seriously. WTH?!

Baggy pants do not a fashion statement make. And surely Coco Chanel would agree.

I know I may be old. And I don’t exactly keep up with the fashion trends of the day. But I mean, come on, people. What is cool about your exposed underwear? Or worse yet, in some cases, your butt crack? It’s NOT cool! It’s not, I tell you. It’s weird. It’s sloppy. And it’s ass-inine.

Let’s face the fashion reality that even un-trendy old gals like myself can understand: baggy pants are S-T-U-P-I-D! They don’t make you cool. They don’t make you hip. And I can prove it.

Exhibit A, Elvis: Cool King (Never wore baggy pants!)

Exhibit B, James Dean: Cool Rebel (Never wore baggy pants!)

Exhibit C, Johnny-You-Wish-You-Were-This-Cool-Depp (Oozes cool even when he’s a pirate and doesn’t wear baggy pants!)

If that’s not proof enough, answer me this, guys. Are you trying to hide something? I mean, back in the day, lots of men used to wear tight pants. And their tight pants, you know, showed stuff. And people thought it was just so tacky to just flash your jewels, so to speak. But at least we knew they had some jewels then. With baggy pants who the hell knows? So are you trying to just disguise the fact that you are, um, short-changed in the jewels department? Because honestly, that’s what I think when I see baggy pants on a guy–he has to be hiding his shortcomings.

Newsflash, guys: girls like to see the shape of your ass; they don’t want full view of your underwear. And they certainly don’t want to walk beside a guy who is so “cool” that he has to hold up his pants while he walks. As if. Girls want a guy with SWAG. Not bag or sag. And if you have baggy pants on you cannot have SWAG. E-V-E-R.

The Turn On

Tinalicious — Sun, 03 Jul 2011 19:29:21 +0000

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.

Dining with Farm Animals

Tinalicious — Sat, 04 Jun 2011 18:20:56 +0000

You really have to wonder about people these days. Particularly, people who eat in restaurants who also act as if they were raised in a barn. No manners. No common sense. No self-awareness.

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.

Can I See Your Id?

Tinalicious — Sun, 15 May 2011 18:58:46 +0000

So it was a day out for The Hubs and Me yesterday. We decided to head uptown to check out the Lilac Festival, something we don’t always get to do because for some reason, Mother Nature decides to send rain almost every year for that local event. It’s like the curse of the Lilac Festival or something. Although if you are wanting rain, then you can plan on it happening that day and you’ll be quite the happy and soggy little camper.

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.

Meat Department Madness at Wal Mart

Tinalicious — Sat, 02 Apr 2011 18:44:16 +0000

OK, so I can’t really post this without also exposing the ~~sad and pathetic~~ truth that I occasionally shop at Wally World. So I’ll accept all the judgment this entails just to be able to share the madness with you that I encountered while shopping there recently.

The Hubs and I were were grocery shopping, and the grandson was along as well. That always makes for entertaining shopping misadventures right there. But things took a sharp turn into madness as we entered the Meat Department that fateful Friday evening. What we saw was simply shocking. Shameless. And seriously F’d up.

What was it, you ask? What got me so worked up in the Meat Department at Wally World that made me question not only their dress code, but also my faith in the future of America? Well, it looked a little something like this…

Reasonable Facscimile of the Wal Mart Employee

That’s right, people. It was an employee of the Wal Mart Meat Department. Stocking meat. In Saggy Pants. Boxer shorts laid bare for the entire population of Wally World to see.

Yeah, so this is what a former teacher such as myself would call a teachable moment, considering the 7-year-old grandson was along. So I turned to him, unashamedly pointed out the saggy pants offender (hereafter to be known as the SPO), and said, “See that young man over there? This is exactly how NOT to dress in public.”

Dylan looked a tad mortified at what he saw, which made me feel rather proud. And then he just kind of giggled, as if he was genuinely embarrassed for the SPO. Which is a good sign, of course; at least it shows that Dylan not only understands what I was so irked about, it also shows he has compassion for others.

But I honestly had no compassion for that SPO at all. He is old enough to know that dressing like that in public is not only immature, demonstrating a total lack of self-respect, but also a lack of respect for his environment and everyone in it. I mean, his pants were down. His boxer-shorted-ass was hanging out. IN THE MEAT DEPARTMENT. Are there not Health Department codes put in place to protect the public from this kind of thing? And does this young man not have a supervisor or some other superior who should be making sure that he is dressed appropriately for food-handling?

Seriously. WTH?!

Would you want to buy your meat there, with employees who are dressed like that? I think not. Granted, if the employee looked like my favorite vampire, perhaps I’d be a little more forgiving.

Who am I kidding. Twlight be damned. Even seeing RPattz stocking meat at Wal Mart with saggy pants would piss me off! It’s gross! (Though isn’t it funny ~~and yet predictable~~ how I can work RPattz into a blog post about the Wal Mart Meat Department?)

I just have to end this by laughing a bit, thinking about Wal Mart’s little blue vests that beckon…

Help US, Wal Mart? REALLY? You can’t even help yourselves.

The Saturday Scream

Tinalicious — Sun, 27 Mar 2011 23:45:50 +0000

Once upon a time, my Saturday started off like any normal day.
I was calm. Rested.

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. )

My Deep Purple Dreams

Tinalicious — Tue, 01 Feb 2011 13:33:05 +0000

OK, so when I woke up this morning, there was a song in my head. Does that ever happen to you? It happens to me every once in awhile, and the song is usually very…random. I don’t think I’ll ever understand how my brain works, or why some song I haven’t heard–or even thought about–for YEARS would just suddenly be inside my Tinaliciously twisted cranium, but whatevs.

On the one hand, I gotta love that my subconscious self clearly enjoys a good ole blast from my 1970′s-bell-bottomed past now and again. A little trip down memory lane, as it were. Otherwise, why would the words to Donny and Marie’s Deep Purple, circa 1975, be playing in my head? At 6:23am no less! WTH?!

On the other hand, this isn’t a sign of insanity or anything, is it? I mean, Donny and Marie? Before my feet have even hit the bedroom floor? Before I’m even conscious of what day it is? And before my brain is even capable of rendering a coherent thought?

I hope I’m not starting to lose it. Nothing against my favorite little-bit-country-and-little-bit-rock-n-roll-duo, but if my brain is going to get set on rewind I’d prefer to be in another decade. A little Bad-Era-Michael-Jackson is always welcome up there in the old noggin. [Guess I can scratch off "use the word 'noggin' in a blog post" from my Bucket List now.]

Anyhoots, it was definitely an interesting way to start my day. And who knows what tonight will bring…

Here in my deep purple dreams.

Movie Night With the Hubs

Tinalicious — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 06:29:55 +0000

Saturday night seems to be a regular movie night for the Hubs and me anymore. I love movies. Frankly, I could watch movies every single night and be perfectly happy. After all, I’ve been a movie fan ever since I can’t remember, and truth be told, I could have been a famous actress, rubbing elbows with hot vampires in Hollywoodland…had I so chosen. I could have had it all. The stalkers adoring fans…the red carpet…the fame…the fortune. But who needs that, right?

Well not me! No. I’m perfectly content to be the almost middle class, semi-ordinary, not-quite starving artist/blogger/former art teacher, who lives in the hideously boring flatlands of northwest Ohio with her husband, watching movies on Saturday night. Hollywood, Schmollywood. THIS is living!

But anyhoots…I was flipping through our vast array of On Demand video options for this evening. I saw plenty of flicks that I’d enjoy watching, but the Hubs? Probably not so much. And I saw plenty of flicks that he would enjoy watching. But me? Probably not so much. And that’s always the biggest challenge on movie night: finding a movie we’ll both enjoy watching.

So he suggests Terminator: Salvation.

And all I can do is roll my eyes and I sigh.

I mean, the only salvation I’ll get from a Terminator movie is if I don’t have to watch it. The first one rocked. The second one…it was OK. The Third? Yawn. But damn. Let the machines die already.

Then I suggest the rom-com, The Back-Up Plan.

Surely a chick flick about a single woman who gets pregnant with twins via artificial insemination, only to meet the man of her dreams on the very same day, that has to have some redeeming quality in the Hubs’ eyes, right? Doesn’t Jennifer Lopez’s ass count for anything?

Apparently not.

So it was clear fairly quick we weren’t going to agree on a movie via On Demand. And I wasn’t much in the mood to wade through my library of all my favorite DVD’s. But then I remembered that I had recently bought a special edition of the Tom Hanks movie, Big and hadn’t yet watched it.

It’s been years since we’ve seen that, but it’s a great movie, a classic, and has something for both sexes, to be sure. So I gave him a choice.

“I guess I can either let you pick something on TV (which in reality is just code for him flipping channels for two hours), or we can watch that DVD of Big that I just bought.”

His reply? “Isn’t that movie kind of…OLD?”

“Um, it’s from the late 80′s. That’s not that old. It’s in color and everything,” I told him.

And he just rolled his eyes and sighed.

But then he shoots back a counter offer: “I say, you can put Big in, or we can watch that DVD of Close Encounters you bought me for Christmas.”

Dammit, man. Where is that crappy memory of yours when I really need it? He can’t remember what we had for dinner last night, but he can remember that I got him the collector’s edition of Close Encounters for Christmas–two weeks ago?! WTH, dude?! And like I can really say no to letting him watch the movie I’d given him as a gift. Man, he’s good.

And so I just rolled my eyes and sighed.

But on the way to the DVD player, I did have to point out one very important bit of cinematic trivia to the Hubs.

“You do realize that this movie is OLD, don’tcha, fella? It’s from all the way back in…1977.”