Don't Be an A-Hole

It's been awhile since I've written a Friday Flip Offs post. I like to save them until I have something happen that made me legit want to flip someone off. I think sincerity is important even when flipping someone off. Virtually or otherwise. Well this week, a couple of things happened that definitely warrant a virtual flip off, so here we are. 

I'll preface this by saying that I realize driving can be a pain. We all have lives we're trying to get to [or away from, as the case may be] or things we're just trying to get done. I get that. But the one thing I abso-freaking-lutely do not get is why some drivers have to be a-holes.

Case in point...

On Wednesday, I had just left the Wally World parking lot, turning right onto the main street in our town and heading south. It was going to be dinner at our favorite Mexican restaurant for the Hubs & Me, so we were on our way to meet there. I got into the left turn lane and there was an SUV in front of me. I patiently waited the customary annoying length of time for the light to change so that I could turn onto the road that leads to the restaurant. Then we get the green arrow. But the SUV doesn't move. It sits there immobile for what seems an eternity before finally changing from his left turn signal to his right. Ummm...

WTF Wednesday Meets Murphys Law

I never really thought I'd be cross-categorizing my posts, but hey, that's just the kind of gal I am. And while this blog post didn't really occur to me when I was crying--yes, CRYING--over a broken cutting board today, it will at least serve as a reminder that Murphy's Law can never be escaped. 

Even on WTF Wednesday.

So I was in the kitchen, putting the final touches on dinner: rice, green beans, and pork roast. It smelled yummy. And I was really hungry. So I can only assume that it was my always-overactive appetite and food-fueled excitement that led to the catastrophe at hand.

I lifted the lid off of my cast iron pot that contained said pork roast. 

I moved my hand to the right of the stove, toward the cutting board that always sits on the counter there, with the lid in hand--so that I could put the lid on the cutting board. It was hot, after all, and I needed to protect the counter.

Well apparently that was the precise moment that Mr. Murphy decided rear his ugly head just long enough to make me to drop the cast iron lid...breaking my cutting board.

So what's the big deal, you ask? It's only a cutting board, right?

Um, No. A thousand emphatic and pathetically tear-covered NO's!

This was my only cutting board--and it was a cutting board I've had for over 27 years. It was made by Corning--an all white rectangle of kitchen counter-protecting perfection. It used to look like this:

Until I dropped that stupid cast iron lid onto it and silently screamed in what seemed like slow motion...WTF?!

I can't even show you the AFTER photo--it's too horrific to share. It was just lying there, shattered into shards of white Corning shrapnel...as Mr. Murphy sat in the corner and laughed his evil and deeply disturbed ass off. 

Oh yes, I cried. And I'm not ashamed. That cutting board has a history. They don't even make those anymore! Which of course is why I'm bidding on another one on Ebay as I type this! I loved that cutting board. It was perfect, and never scratched or anything. Even my mom loved it--she commented on it often when she would visit me. And on more than one occasion she mentioned wishing she had one.

Which reminds me: last year the Hubs and I went to a garage sale. We've been to a lot of garage sales over the years, and in all these years I never, ever, not even once, saw another of these Corning cutting boards at one. I always figured that if I did, I'd get it and send it to my mom. But I never saw one. Until. Last. Year. I actually cried at that garage sale too--simply because my mom passed away in the year prior, so I had no need to find one anymore. And I just couldn't understand why I would finally, after all of these years, find another Corning cutting board AFTER my my mom passed away. Something tells me that not-so-dear old Murphy had something to do with that too. Sick bastard.

Anyway, my aged-to-perfection, pristine white Corning cutting board is now dead and awaiting a proper burial [also known as trash pick-up day]. But if I'm lucky, I'll have a brand new, old Corning cutting board in my position again soon, with a little help from Ebay and company. The new one probably won't be white though. I couldn't find an all white one, but I did find one that has a little bird motif on it. It looks like this:

And why that one, you might ask? Because that little motif is the exact motif that my mom's very first set of Corning Ware had. So whenever I use it, it will make me think of her...instead of this awful WTF Wednesday, brought to my kitchen courtesy of Murphy's Law.

Take that, Mr. Murphy.

I Blame the Y Chromosome

Why oh why is it that men don't seem to be able to find anything in the house without help? They'll look for something and look for something, but it's amazingly never to be found. That is, of course, until the woman of the house walks right in and finds it.

I can recall numerous instances of the Hubs and Me involved in this exact type of scenario. He asks me where something is, I tell him where it is, he "looks" for a bit, but he never seems to be able to find it. Then I'll walk right in and find whatever it is in no time. This happens at home on a semi-regular basis, but it also happens when we're at a store looking for something.

I used to think it was just the Hubs--but then I saw other men do it too. Like, a LOT. And one time when my grandson was at the store with us, he couldn't find something that was right in front of him--and the Hubs couldn't find it either.

That's pretty much when I figured it out: It's a man thing. Yep. Absolutely a problem affixed to the male of our species. And I totally blame the Y Chromosome. Clearly it messes up their radar. Or their vision. Or both.

Just the other night the Hubs couldn't find a certain pair of shorts he has. I asked him why he wasn't wearing them and he said he "couldn't find them." It went kind of like this...

Me: Did you look for them? I mean, really LOOK?

Hubs: Yes, I looked. Where could they be?

Me: They can only be in your dresser or on the shelf in your closet--it's one or the other.

Hubs: I looked both of those places.

Me: So what do I get when I walk in there and find them?

Hubs: *shrugs*

Me: *walks to bedroom, checks closet, no shorts. Looks on shelf in closet--bingo, there they are.*

Me: Found 'em.

Hubs: Where were they?!

Me: Right on top of the shelf in your closet, plain as day.

Hubs: I looked there.

Me: Obviously.

And all of this really has me wondering too, could it be the Y Chromosome that also makes men unable to ask for directions when they're lost? Perhaps it's also the reason that men don't seem to notice when the toilet paper roll needs to be changed--or why they can walk past a sink full of dirty dishes or a pile of dirty clothes, seemingly oblivious to the vast amount of household real estate they occupy, even when they are directly in front of it? 

Hmmm. A lot of men can't seem to find a woman's G-Spot either. Coincidence?

 

Yeah, until proven otherwise, I blame the Y Chromosome.

People Let Me Tell Ya Bout My Best Friend

So the Hubs and I were sitting on the couch last night, watching the black box o' fun. I was kind of browsing FB on my iPad at the same time because it was commercial time, when I heard a familiar song. It went a little something like this...(click it to hear it):

People let me tell ya 'bout my best friend...

And I was like, HEY, I know that song! So I looked up to see what was on and it was a Bank of America commercial. And they were playing the theme song from one of my favorite shows as a child, The Courtship of Eddie's Father. I used to love that show. And I loved Bill Bixby too--whose character was a widow taking care of his only son. My parents were divorced at that time, so I guess I fantasized a lot about having a full time dad in the picture. And Bill Bixby was so sweet, and cool, and full of 70's awesomeness. What's not to love?!

Anyhoots...I said to the Hubs, "HEY, that is so wrong of Bank of America to be using that song in their commercial, don't you think?"

And he was drawing a complete blank. He had no idea what song that was or what it was from. And being that I know his memory is about as long as a ladybug's foot, I showed him a picture.

And his reaction was pretty much:

He was clueless. And suddenly, just like that, the man I love and married almost 30 years ago (this June!) became an enigma. Like, how can a 51 year old man NOT know The Courtship of Eddie's Father?! It's classic television. I question his very humanity in this moment! And all he could say in his defense was that "it sounds like it was a chick show."

A chick show? WTH?!

OK, so then I had to ask..."but you've seen The Nanny and the Professor, right?"

"What about, The Ghost and Mrs. Muir?"

"My Three Sons?!"

Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner, folks. The Hubs has actually seen My Three Sons! And he looked just like Ian Somerhalder when he shook his head, yes.

OK, I might be lying on that last point.

But I still think my quasi-righteous indignation was totally justified at his ignorance with regard to television shows that entertained me in my youth. I mean, it isn't that he'd never watched them--it's that he never even HEARD of them! Seriously, that's just all kinds of weird.

And it's also very weird that Bank of America is using the theme song to The Courtship of Eddie's Father as its commercial accompaniment.  I mean, the tune that brings to mind images of a widowed father, his son, and their sage Japanese housekeeper, Mrs. Livingston, doesn't exactly seem relevant to marketing a bank. But hey, at least it inspired a blog post, right?

5 Things I Don't Understand About the Hubs

Let's face it: there are a LOT of things I don't understand about the Hubs. About men in general really. But that's OK because, you know, ignorance is bliss and all. But sometimes I get to thinking about things the Hubs does, and I just feel compelled to turn it into a blog post for a small but undoubtedly hip portion of the whole world to see. And maybe some of you will be able to relate. And then we're like...bonding. Or something.

So here are 5 things I don't understand about the Hubs.

Why does he put his dirty clothes on the bedroom floor before he showers--when the laundry room is but a few wee steps from the bedroom? I mean, he can literally take 3 steps from our bedroom door to the laundry room door--and just another 2 steps to hit the laundry basket. Why is that so difficult? He does usually get it there eventually, but sometimes the clothes sit there for quite awhile. Taunting me. It's like he knows I have just enough OCD tendencies that I'll be forced to pick up the dirty clothes and make that laborious-five-step trek to the laundry room on his behalf. It's dark. Sinister really. Like some evil Jedi mind trick or something.

Why must he use multiple napkins at every single meal? I can get by with one napkin--or even no napkins most of the time. But him? No way. He always uses more than one napkin; usually three or four. And I just don't understand the need for that many napkins. Seriously. How many trees must be sacrificed on a daily basis all in the name of him wiping his face 133 times per meal? One. Is. Enough. Just put the napkin down, fella.

Why must he wear socks to bed? I'll never understand this. He says he doesn't like the feel of the sheets on his feet. And no, it's not the sheets--because he's done this with every single set of sheets we've ever had--no matter the cost of them or the thread count. And what's worse is, he frequently gets hot and/or sweaty in the night--fall, spring, summer, winter...makes no difference. I tell him it's because of the socks. The socks trap heat in. He doesn't believe me, of course. But no matter, I just don't understand the whole smother-your-feet-with-socks-in-bed-and-get-all-hot-and-sweaty thing. I'd never wear socks to bed. Unless...

Why does he sneeze through his nose? He's always done this for as long as I've know him. It's one of his greatest mysteries. I don't understand how or why he does that. It's not...normal. We've debated about this for years, to the point where he even asked the doctor about it, who said it was fine that he did that. It may be 'fine,' but it is not normal. I've told him before (not that he remembers) to look at babies and children sneeze. How do THEY do it? Through their mouths--like A-CHOO. Why? Because that's N-O-R-M-A-L. It's automatic. We don't have to stop and think about it, it just happens that way. From. Birth. But not with him, no. And I'm sorry, it's just weird. Whenever I see him do it, I'm just...

And finally (at least for today), Why does he use sour cream on his baked potato whenever we eat at a restaurant, but when I have sour cream at home he never uses it? It's just not logical.

But hey, my mental confusion about the Hubs has at least allowed me to use Michael Jackson and Spock Reaction Gifs in the same blog post. So really, it's all worth it in the end. Right?

Un-American Cheese at Captain D's

Do you ever have one of those moments where you say to yourself, 'now I've seen everything?'

Well, I sure do. And if you'd been out to dinner with The Hubs and Me on a recent excursion to Captain D's, you'd have had one too. Now of course let me preface this all by saying that I'm under no false illusions about the menu fare calling itself "seafood" at Captain D's. Most of it is really only slightly better in quality than frozen dinner seafood at any neighborhood supermarket. But when you're hungry, and you don't want a burger and fries, and you're too cheap to spring for a real meal out and too--ahem--lazy to cook on a Sunday evening, Captain D's looks pretty darn good. So on occasion, the Hubs and I make our way to the ever-so-sea-scaped interior of the local fast seafood eatery and get our grub on.

But on a recent trip, the Hubs asked for a baked potato. This, in and of itself, is nothing new for said Hubs. He loves a baked potato when we dine out. But he also loves it with some shredded cheese on top, and for reasons I'll never quite be able to fathom, he can't quite eat a baked potato without said cheese. So he asked the counter person for some cheese for the spud and neither of us thought much more about it. Until...our food was brought to us and said cheese was nowhere to be seen.

So, the Hubs went back to the counter and asked for said cheese. And upon his return, imagine my horror when I saw this:

Do you see it there? That yellow-orange square of American cheese? On. The. Potato?!

OK, hold on just a tick, people. You can put American cheese on all sorts of things.

Hamburgers.

Sandwiches (grilled or otherwise).

Crackers.

But you cannot, I repeat, NOT, put American cheese on a baked potato. I'm sorry. But no.

That's just wrong. And gross. And un-American.

But dude (sometimes I really just like to say, 'dude'), the Hubs ate it anyway. He totally did. And I totally gagged.

So I guess the moral to this
pointlessstory should be, always specify that you want SHREDDED cheese when you're at Captain D's.

It's the, um, American thing to do.

Please Pull Over, Mister

Let me start this post by saying, unequivocally, that I love my husband. Some might say I even adore him on a good day. He's my love, my friend, my hero, and the never ending totter to my teeter.

Friday evening was just such a time.

The Hubs and me (and yes I'm aware of the grammar error here--I'm acting the linguistic rebel today) were driving home from the store and the Hubs was waiting for a call from someone, and he had a list of questions standing by that he wanted to ask when he got the call. So finally the phone rings and he answers the phone.

OK, so he's driving with one hand, with his phone in the other, and he needs that list of questions. So what does he do?

He switches his phone to the other ear, grabs the paper with his free hand, and then there's just the small matter of...

how to hold that pesky steering wheel!

Method of the Hubs' choice? His knee. Yes, you heard me. His KNEE. And it's like he's completely oblivious to the clear and present danger of DRIVING WITH NO HANDS!

WTH?

So, in the calmest voice I can muster, I say to the Hubs, "Please pull over, Mister."

And as he begins to do so, he's telling the caller, "Hold on a sec, the wife is freaking out because I'm on the phone."

Um, wait just a freaking minute there, fella. The wife is not "freaking out" because you're "on the phone."

She is freaking out because you have a phone in one hand and a piece of paper in the other--which you are reading from as you steer the car with you freaking knee!

Earth to man, hello, is anyone home? Because I'd like to arrive there alive and in one piece! I think my "freaking out" is totally justified under the circumstances. I also think that driving with at least one hand on the steering wheel is somewhat of a good idea. Call me crazy, but I'm thinking that's kind of a law or something.

Needless to say, we did survive the no-handed-driving-while-talking-on-the-phone ordeal. And I got a blog post out of it, and an excuse to use a Brad Pitt gif to express my feelings about the incident in question. So all in all, I guess it was a worthwhile experience in the end. Pretty much.

Creative Advertising for Dummies

OK, I just want to preface this post by saying that I am not a dummy. I'm an educated woman--and I have over $70K in student loan debt to prove it (and will gladly accept donations in my never-ending quest to pay off that debt before I die--though that is far from likely to happen).

Anyhoots, point is, I'm not stupid. But I do have those moments where I just wanna kick myself in my highly educated ass.

Case in point: spent the day shopping in Fort Wayne on Saturday with the Hubs for our 29th anniversary weekend. And as we were driving around, I saw a gas station with gas prices that appeared to be over 20 cents cheaper per gallon than what they were back at home. Gas was $3.69 when I'd looked Friday evening at home. And the price on the sign at the FW gas station appeared to be $3.42 a gallon for Unleaded, and then $3.57 for the mid-grade.

(Notice that I've said 'appeared to be' twice now?)

So it seemed a good idea, since we had less than half a tank of gas, to just go ahead and fill up so we could save over 20 cents a gallon by doing so.

It appeared to be the logical thing to do.

So we stop at that gas station and as the Hubs starts to pump the gas, I run into the store to grab an overpriced beverage. And upon my return, the Hubs sees me and says, "you should read that sign again...carefully." And so I do, and then I see the problem. Can you see it?

See the problem there? The $3.42 price is NOT the price of regular unleaded by itself--no, it is the price if you also buy a Car Wash. Now seriously, that is some creative advertising. But...

Granted, the people of Fort Wayne are probably onto this gas station's tricks, so this kind of creative advertising isn't for the locals; it is for us dummies from out of town, who will drive by and happen to see that $3.42 price at the top and ASSume that is price of unleaded gas, and then be stupid enough to start pumping before we realize our mistake. And interestingly enough, there was another gas station right across the street from this one, with the same exact type of advertising tactic going on. But nowhere else in FW did we see this happening. So clearly, the one gas station did it, and then the guy across the street said, 'dammit, why didn't I think of that?!,' and decided he should start screwing the out-of-towners too!

Seriously? I mean, come on. You can screw with me in a lot of ways and I'll just let it go. But in this day and age, when filling up a gas tank costs about the same as going to the doctor, this kind of screw-the-consumer tactic is just beyond unacceptable. It is...

Consider me schooled though. I learned my lesson and will pay a lot closer attention to gas station price signs from this point forward. But as for you 'creative advertisers...'

Or maybe not so quietly.

I'm Not Sleeping

Do you have one of these in your living room?

If you do, then I'm guessing you also have one of these:

This is NOT my Hubs, but you get the idea.

Picture this, if you will, which is a fairly regular conversation between The Hubs and Me.

It's 9:30 or 10pm at night. The Hubs is in his recliner and I'm on the couch, when I hear his breathing change--a telltale sign that he has fallen asleep, yet again.

Me: John

Hubs: *breathing and not responding*

Me: (louder this time) JOHN

Hubs: *still breathing and not responding*

Me: (louder still) JOHN!

Hubs: What? What the? What?

Me: You were sleeping.

Hubs: No I wasn't.

Me: Yes, you were. I called your name three times. Three. Times.

Hubs: Whatever, I heard everything.

Me: Um, OK. Why don't you go to bed?

Hubs: *glances at clock*  It's too early to go to bed.

Me: But you were sleeping.

Hubs: Whatever. No I wasn't.

Me: Whatever. Yes, you were. Why can't you just admit you are tired and go to bed?

Hubs: It's too early to go to bed. If I go to bed now I'll be up at 4am.

Me: What is the difference between sleeping in your chair and sleeping in bed?

Hubs: It's not the same thing, and I wasn't sleeping.

Me: It IS the same thing--the only difference is in the geography. You were sleeping. If you're tired just go to bed.

Hubs: Whatever. I wasn't sleeping.

Me:

Until the next time he falls asleep in the chair.

Punishing the Boss

The Hubs just got back from a 3-hour class a bit ago, and I figured, hey, why not use it as fodder for my blog ramblings. It seems only the Tinalicious thing to do.

Anyhoots, the class the Hubs went to was the result of one his employees being a careless idiot--like, a year ago--and cutting his hand while on the job. And see, this makes perfect sense, does it not? Careless idiot cuts his hand, so his boss is required by Workers Comp laws in Ohio to attend a class.

WTH?

And that's not even the best part. I mean, aside from the fact that this careless idiot no longer even works for the Hubs, which should, in my opinion, negate the need for the Hubs to attend some sort of class caused by someone else's carelessness, but the class the Hubs attended makes no sense.

It was a CPR class.

A CPR CLASS?

Yes, a CPR class.

I hate to sound like a broken record
unless it makes for good blogging,but um, WTH?

So let me get this straight.

1. Former employee cuts hand--like, a year ago.

2. The Hubs, as the employer, is required to take a class. A CPR class.

3. Careless former employee has to do...NOTHING.

Seriously, only in America.

Put the Fork Down, Mister

So the other night, The Hubs and me (yes, I know that's bad grammar--I'm a rebel like that) went out to eat. We tend to have interesting experiences when we dine out; sometimes it's like Dining With Farm Animals. But, hey, at least that keeps it interesting.

Anyhoodle, the other night we were eating at a local eatery, and we were doing our requisite chewing and what-not, minding our own biz--a.k.a. people-watching the other restaurant patrons, when all of a sudden the Hubs somehow managed to drop his fork on the floor. No bigs. I mean, it's not like the restaurant doesn't have thousands of other forks around. So as I begin looking around to find our waitress, I spy out of the corner of my good eye, the Hubs, picking up his fork off the floor. No bigs. I mean, he's just being polite and picking up the fork so that the waitress doesn't have to, or so some small child doesn't get impaled by the bacteria-covered, pronged object that is begging to be stepped on at any moment.

Then, in the blink of that good eye, it all started to get fuzzy, and time began to move in slow motion, as I watched in horror as the Hubs had fork in hand and was moving it toward the food on his plate. That's right, people, he was going to EAT with it. Apparently I live with a farm animal too!

So, after regaining my ability to speak, in the most restrained, disgusted voice I could muster during the slow-motion shock and horror of it all, I yelled firmly commanded that he, "Put the fork down, mister."

And he was like, "What?"

And I was like,

And then he smiled and was all like,

And really, what could I say at that point?

Yes ladies, that sexy beast is my hubby.

Jealous?

My Night with Johnny Depp

I recently spent the night with Johnny Depp. In my dreams, that is. This was totally unintentional on my part, mind you. I do love Johnny Depp, but I'm not overly-obsessed with him or anything. I think he's very talented and, yes, HOT. But that's about it as far as my fandom goes. And before you get your dirty mind running amok on you, please note now that this was not a nocturnal sexual rendezvous with said celebrity (dammit!). But it was rather enjoyable to see Johnny for a little while, even if the dream was completely bizarre in every other way.

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?

Passive Aggressive Much, Tina?

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 ofsurprise 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?

Smurftastic Monday

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.

The Turn On

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.

Sam's Club Shoppers

So The Hubs and Me, we had some more Shopping Misadventures over the weekend at Sam's Club. It really kind of amazes me sometimes what people wear in public. Even they're not at Wally World (but OK, Sam IS Wally's father). And sometimes the things they do are a little bit bizarre as well.

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.

Dining with Farm Animals

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?

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.

The Saturday Scream

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. )