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.

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.

For instance, I went into the ladies room to, you know, take care of business.  There were two ladies at the sink, who were still there when I was ready to wash my hands.  One of the ladies was older and brushing her teeth, which is understandable considering what one’s mouth tastes like after an artery-blocking-carb-junkie’s fix of a meal at The O.G. But she has to hog a lot of sink time in order to take care of her oral hygiene, and that’s kind of annoying when you’re wanting to wash your hands.  And the other gal, much younger, was finished washing her hands, but was completely fascinated by the faucet that turned on whether the faucet was pushed in either forward or reverse direction. She thought that was the absolute coolest thing ever, and actually thought it was supposed to do that. The older lady asked me to forgive her young friend’s pre-occupation with the faucet.

“She’s from the country,” she told me.

And all I could think was: they don’t have broken faucets in the country?

My husband’s a plumber, so after I finally got the chance to wash my hands in that fancy city-fied faucet, I couldn’t wait to tell him about the ladies room loony I’d just met. But little did I know his adventure in the men’s room would top my own.

“The guy next to me, ” he told me, “was texting at the urinal.”

Now just hold on just one minute here, fella. You’re telling me that there was a man juicing his johnson with one hand…and texting with the other?

“Yup.”

Well, now I’ve heard everything. Granted, at least you can’t kill anybody if you’re texting while peeing at a urinal. But hey, you are putting other guys at risk of being saturated by your rogue stream should you lose your focus. And that’s just poor urinal etiquette, at the very least.

And what on earth is so important that you actually have to text someone midstream anyway? Trust me, fella, nothing is that important. They can wait a minute while you finish.

I also have to wonder…what if he left the bathroom without washing his hands? And what if he returned to his table, where his lovely girlfriend was waiting…to borrow…his…phone?

I think I’ve made my point. And hopefully it will make you think twice the next time your beau heads to the restroom with his cellphone, eh?

But just as a final thought on texting while peeing, here’s a snippet from an interview with Brad Pitt from Wired magazine, which includes his thoughts on talking on the phone and texting in the bathroom.

“No, you can’t talk on the phone!” Pitt tells the magazine. “Do you want the guy next to you to hear your entire conversation?

“That’s why you should only text in the bathroom. Just be sure you don’t hit the wrong button and end up putting a photo of your junk on Twitter. Trust me, you don’t want those followers.”

Amen, Brad. Amen.

]]> http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/seen-and-heard-at-olive-garden/feed/ 0 http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/7-questions-for-olive-garden/ http://www.tinalicious.com/the-hubs-and-me/7-questions-for-olive-garden/#comments Sun, 11 Jul 2010 06:10:34 +0000 Tinalicious http://www.tinalicious.com/?p=705 This is the start of a new feature here at Tinalicious…either because I’m incredibly clever and inspired, or just bored out of my mind. You decide. But the premise is simple: 7 Questions for…whomever or whatever I feel like targeting in a given post. And why 7 questions? Well, that’s simple too. 10 questions is too many, and 5 just ain’t enough. So here goes.

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

Anyhoots, here are my 7 Questions for Olive Garden…

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

So those are my 7 Questions for Olive Garden.

And somehow, I suddenly have a craving for cheese.

After Hobby Lobby and a nice meal at Olive Garden, we were heading past the mall to head home when I spied Barnes and Noble. Now I’ve only ever been to B&N online; I honestly didn’t know they even had “real” stores. This one had to be fairly new because I know it wasn’t always there at the mall. I’m not into mall hopping anyway…just not my thing. But since we were right there and in no hurry to get home, I asked the Hubs to pull in so we could browse.

Now I don’t know about you, but I love book stores, and I avoid them most of the time for that very reason. I could easily spend hundreds of dollars in there in very short order. It’s kind of like how guys are in hardware stores or anyplace that carries tools. If I see some I want, I have to buy them. I just love books! But since I seldom actually have the hundreds of dollars to spend in there (and on this day it was certainly no different), I just don’t go in book stores too often. But since I’d never been into an actual B&N, I figured this would at least be worth the effort.

After scouring the parking lot for a parking space–which is never an easy task at that mall so it’s something I do not attempt too often–and then squeezing our car into one of the undersized mall parking spaces, we headed to the doors of B&N. We got to the entryway, which had several people kind of milling about in it, and noticed it looked kind of dark in the store. As we tried to make our way past the people, a store employee stopped to inform us:

“I’m sorry, but we’ve had a power outage and we are not letting customers inside the store. We do, however, have staff members on hand who will gladly browse for books for you and…”

OK, I stopped her right there. While in my mind I’m thinking nothing more than WTH?!, I just shrugged her off, said “no thanks” and headed back out the door from whence I entered.

I mean, are they kidding me? They are going to browse for books for me? How does that work exactly? Were they gonna send an employee into the dark belly of the store, have her randomly grab books, hold them up and holler back at me with, “How about this one?” And then I would, in turn, yell back, “Maybe, could you read me a couple of pages to see if I like it?” Um, yeah, I don’t think so.

Book shopping, except for the occasions when you’re only in a book store to buy one specific book, is a very personal experience. It’s not something someone else can do for you, and I’d think B&N staff would kind of know this. Why else do book stores have chairs and coffee shops in them? Perhaps because people are going to spend a bit of time in there…reading?

Apparently, the store had been without power since a thunderstorm passed through FW earlier that morning. And from what I could gather from other folks who had been talking to the B&N employees before our arrival, the employees had been standing at the doors all day telling every customer who showed up the same things they told us. We heard another customer say, “that’s a long time to be standing in the doorway.” Uh, ya think?

So my question is this, Barnes & Noble: why on earth didn’t you just put a sign on the front door that explained about the power outage, thereby preventing people from going through the hassle of trying to find an undersized parking space in a crowded mall parking lot and making the trek from their car to your front door, only to find out that they could not even go inside?!

Hmm. Maybe they were just afraid that people wouldn’t want to read their sign…because, um, you know, people that go to book stores…don’t like to read.