I have a granddaughter, Destiny, who is not quite 2. Destiny loves Elmo. And Destiny loves Elmo DVD’s. So every time I’m babysitting, we watch Elmo. Over, and over, and over. But even though I personally wouldn’t watch Elmo if I were by myself [no, seriously], the repeated watching of said Elmo DVD’s is not what’s annoying me.

What IS annoying me is the way my DVD controls get hijacked at the beginning of some Elmo videos, so that I can’t fast forward through the stupid FBI piracy warnings and other pointless previews, in order to get to the main menu and push Start. WTH is up with that, man? Why must my not-quite-two-year-old granddaughter be forced to wait for Elmo to appear? Do these people not realize how impatient a not-quite-two-year-old can be?! And do they really think a not-quite-two-year-old is going to pirate their freaking Elmo video? More importantly, do they not realize that a not-quite-two-year-old CANNOT READ?!!!

I cannot be the only person in the world who fast forwards through the B.S. at the beginning of movies to get to the movie itself. Nobody wants to see that stuff. We know it’s there. And we know that under penalty of law we can’t legally pirate your precious video. And we also know that other movies are coming out that your previews will detail. But guess what? If I wanted to be force fed previews, I would be sitting in a movie theater where I could be posting rants via my iPhone on Facebook about all the stupid changes they’re always making, while eating popcorn and Goobers, to pass the time until the previews are over. I do NOT want to see previews on a DVD. And neither does my not-quite-two-year-old granddaughter.

If this were an adult movie, I could deal with this madness. But it’s an Elmo movie, people. And when Destiny is looking up at me with her sad little pouty face, saying, “Momo, Momo, Momo” (that’s how she says “Elmo”), every precious second counts! I want to FF and then hit Start as quickly as possible. Like, RIGHT NOW.

Heartless bastards. They have no common sense at all.

Luckily, not all her Elmo DVD’s are like this. And luckily I have enough patience to not rip the offending DVD’s from the DVD player, take a hammer to them, shattering them into tiny pieces, which would result in my granddaughter’s guaranteed need for years of costly therapy. Grandparents really shouldn’t be the cause of their grandchildren’s therapy, after all. That’s their parents’ job. *wink*

I think the only thing I can really do is send a message to the big meanies who manufacture these DVD’s. So this is it, from Elmo, and me.

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?

]]> http://www.tinalicious.com/lost/nikki-and-paulo-on-lost/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.

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.

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.

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. )

Other times, I feel like I’m exactly my age. F-O-R-T-Y + F-O-U-R. That’s mostly when I’m paying bills, or cooking dinner while trying to wash some dishes and sort through the day’s mail all at the same time, or jamming to some classic Michael Jackson (what can I say, his music spans the ages). It’s not so bad being 44, right? I mean, there are worse things I could be. Like 84. And I like what my 44-year-old brain knows. There’s some  occasionally-whacked wisdom up there. There’s knowledge. And there’s that whole “knowledge-is-power-thing.” I wouldn’t trade all that for all the big hair and leg warmers of my youth, or for all the vampires named Edward in the world.

[Um, well, maybe that's taking it a bit too far there.  One can't be too hasty where Edward is concerned.]

But there also times when I feel O.L.D. And you know, not in the good way. Yesterday was a perfect example. I had gone to the bank to open a new checking account. Naturally, one of my former students was helping me, which automatically  makes me feel old.  Unfortunately, it didn’t stop there.

I was debating which kind of checking account to open. Apparently, there are like seven different kinds, all with different requirements, and as “Annie” rattled the requirements off to me I was feeling a bit overwhelmed.  So “Annie” was trying to help me narrow it down, but she kept pushing for the Merit Plus Checking. She mentioned it several times, so I was thinking it must be good and thought I might go with it. But being as that I am a visual person, I wanted to see the requirements on paper, so “Annie” gave me a brochure to help me in making a visual comparison, again suggesting that Merit Plus would be a great choice for me.

And then there it was. The moment I felt older than I’ve ever felt in my forty-four-year-old life. Right there in black and white…the second requirement for the Merit Plus Checking:

Must be age 50 or better.

WTH? This girl thinks I’m 50? Or “better?”

I am so not kidding when I tell you that I had to choke back at least one tear right there in the chair of that glass-enclosed cubicle that apparently has the heinous power to make banking customers look older than they are.  I. Was. Mortified.  Do I really look 50 years old? Is this girl for real?

That photo was taken about 6 months ago. And trust me. I can’t have aged that much in six months. That’s how I looked then. And that’s how I look now. I know I don’t look 20 or anything. But 50? Really?

And to make matters even worse, when I told her I wasn’t yet 50, it didn’t phase her at all. There were no outwardly signs of embarrassment for having aged me six years right in front of her. No apology for the arrow through my heart. Nothing. Unbelievable.

You know, I don’t really have a major problem with getting older. I don’t welcome it with open arms. I don’t celebrate every new gray hair. I don’t worship my ever-increasing wrinkle count or the skin that now sags in places that are more and more difficult to conceal. But, I don’t obsess about the aging process either. I’m getting older. I can’t stop that. Time marches on. And as Miss Truvy (a.ka. Dolly Parton) said in Steel Magnolias, “eventually you realize it’s marchin’ all over your face!”

Amen, Truvy. Amen.

But that being said, I certainly don’t want to be 50…before I am actually 50. Lord o’mercy. Let’s not freaking rush it.

So that was my dose of reality checking for yesterday. 50 for a day. What an F’d up interesting way to bring 2010 to a close, eh?  Should be interesting to see what 2011 brings.

]]> http://www.tinalicious.com/twilight-a-holic/reality-checking/feed/ 0 http://www.tinalicious.com/wth/glue-tubes-suck/ http://www.tinalicious.com/wth/glue-tubes-suck/#comments Fri, 16 Jul 2010 16:07:33 +0000 Tinalicious http://www.tinalicious.com/?p=761 OK, so here is what I discovered is a pet peeve of mine, and that irked me so much I had to go all bloggy about it:

Glue Tubes Suck!

I can’t be the only one who has encountered this problem. You buy a tube of expensive glue and use it for a special project. You put it away when you’re finished, to use at a later date. But when said later date arrives and you try to use the tube of expensive glue, you can’t, because it’s clogged. WTH?!

The offending glue tube in my case is E-6000.

This stuff is billed as “industrial strength adhesive;” it’s also something that many crafters use because it is supposed to work so darn well…which is why I bought it. At $4 for a tube. This is despite the fact that it states clearly on the package that it contains chemicals that are known to cause cancer in the state of California. Well, hey, lucky me, I don’t live in California! So I should be safe enough, no?

Ahem.

And yeah, it is a good, strong glue. Looks all pretty in the package, too does it not? The marketing team has done an excellent job on its packaging too. We know that it’s Flexible, Waterproof, Non-flammable, and Photo Safe, and all of these things are very important to wanton craft addicts like myself. But what it should also say on the tube is this:

Will clog after first use, rendering the tube unusable,
and the consumer pissed off and $4 poorer!

And then it should also have a picture of how the tube will look after you’ve spent half an hour trying to unclog it, causing it to become all wrinkly and misshapen, and so cracked at the sides that the glue begins to ooze out of it all over your hands and your craft project, so that you have to wrap it with masking tape to get it to stop.

And don’tcha find it funny how the top of the tube says, Amazing?! Yeah, it’s amazing, all right. Amazing that I spent $4 on it. Amazing that it clogged after the first use. Amazing that I actually devoted a half an hour of my life trying to get it unclogged. Amazing that wrapping it with lightweight masking tape actually stopped this industrial strength, cancer-causing-to-Californians adhesive from oozing completely out of the tube and creating a sticky puddle on my work space. And equally amazing that I just spent another half an hour of my life creating this blog post about it.

Yep. That’s pretty amazing.

{We’re nothing if not predictable consistent.}

The restaurant choices around town are not that exciting, which is proven by the fact that most of our residents consider the local Applebee’s to be fine dining. Ahem. So when we want something different, we usually hit the Asian Buffet. How can you lose with all you can eat Fried Rice, Tacos, and Crab Legs, all in one place?! Now that is exciting! But hey, it doesn’t stop there. Nosiree. We had all sorts of excitement this evening at the Asian Buffet.

First up, and never a surprise at any restaurant in this town, it was COLD in there.  Why are restaurants always so damn cold? In the winter, I literally have to eat with my coat on for the entire meal. And this time of year, I simply want to eat with my coat on for the entire meal. What gives anyway? Doesn’t this defeat the purpose of serving supposedly hot food to customers? It ain’t gonna stay hot for long when it feels like it’s 60 degrees in there, people! And if their plan is that making me cold will somehow make me want to spend more money, well, their plan fails miserably on every single dining excursion. Being cold makes me want to leave, and nothing more. So, note to restaurant owners: turn the A/C down, folks, and with the money you save, maybe you can finally afford some real Sweet-n-Low, instead of that pathetic pink impostor you think people don’t notice is a crappy cheap substitute for the real deal.

Next, we were unfortunate enough to be seated right behind a family with one of “those” children. You know the ones I mean, right? The ones who are constantly standing up in the booth, turned around to look at you, and making all sorts of noise. But we can’t really blame the munchkin-sized terrorists children for their behavior, now can we? When they’re bouncing up and down in the booth, dropping food over the edge, or repeatedly asking, “what is her name, what is her name, what is her name?” it’s not really their fault, is it?

I’m thinking, I’m thinking…

OK, no, it’s the parents’ fault. Because they are the ones in charge of their child’s behavior, no? So what does this far-cry-from-mother-of-the-year-parent do?  She tells the kid in some sickly, sugary sweet tone, “Kyle, sit down…time to turn around and sit down.” She must have said that 4 times in under 5 minutes, with the same conviction I’d use if I was trying to get my grandson to eat some broccoli (no really, honey, it’s good, try it, you’ll love it!). And I guarantee you what the child actually heard is, “Kyle, you can sit down if you want, but I’m not gonna do anything if you don’t, because I really don’t care, so please continue to harass the couple behind you while I finish my egg roll.”

WTH?

I’m just gonna say it, and you can lambaste me if you want to: Some people should NOT procreate. Send in the flaming arrows. Go ahead. I’m ready.

OK, and I also need to talk about the wait staff at the Asian Buffet. I seriously think they have Ninja training or something, because they move in so swiftly, from seemingly out of nowhere, and then they are gone just as quickly. No sooner have you eaten the last crumb of food from your plate than they are sweeping in to take said dirty plate away. Tonight, the Hubs had just put his last bite of food in his mouth and his fork was still in hand and in a downward motion, when our waitress swooped in and grabbed the plate just as the fork touched down. And then she was out of sight. Ninja skills. Seriously.

Finally, after enduring the cold, and the noisy display of bad parenting seated behind us, we finished our meal and awaited our parting gifts: the fortune cookies. I mean really, who doesn’t love fortune cookies? OK well, we don’t, but we do love opening our fortunes. When the ninja waitress returned with our cookies, there was just one slight problem though. We each got a fortune cookie package, but one looked like this:

For real…it was totally empty! I don’t know about you, but I’m thinking that is some sort of karmic message or something. Hmmm, so either our future is empty…or maybe it’s just our bank account. We don’t exactly need Confucius to tell us that, now do we?

The Hubs did get a replacement fortune cookie, and his fortune was (as is often the case, in my experience) not a fortune at all. I mean, isn’t it supposed to tell you something about the future?  But they never really seem to do that. His fortune was just a blatant rip off of the Golden Rule…do unto others, etc etc. That is not a fortune, if you ask me. That’s just common sense. And a lesson learned…from good parenting.

But anyhoots…I got a fortune too. And at least mine was funny.

(Click to Enlarge)

You are the crispy noodle in the vegetarian salad of life.

And guess what? I totally agree. I don’t wanna toot my own horn or anything, but I  AM the crispy noodle in the vegetarian salad of life.

(And I’m Tinalicious too.) *wink*

Take care all, and Happy Mother’s Day to all the other crispy noodles in the world.

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