Not Your Average Wiener

As I was shopping at the grocery store the other day, I happened upon a jar of wieners.

What's that you ask? Did I just say a jar of wieners?

Why, yes, yes I did.

But they aren't just ANY wieners. No, no. They are Germany's #1 brand of "extra crunchy" wieners. [Is there any other kind?] That's right. Packed in brine and selling for the low, low price of $6.29.

Really? I mean, dare I say it...

WTH?!

Maybe it's just me, but I find this rather odd. And I'm not sure what is more disturbing to me: the fact that these wieners are in a jar; or, the fact that they are "extra crunchy" and packed in brine to boot.

Dude. Wieners should not be a jar. Nor should they be crunchy. Like, ever.

And come on now, $6.29? For FIVE crunchy wieners? 

Seriously. No wiener is worth that. None of them. 

But hey, it did make for an interesting trip to the grocery store. And a blog post. That's something.

Flip It - Flip it Good

It's been awhile since I've done any Friday Flip-Offs, so I figure I'm overdue. Please join me in my unnecessary rantics and acts of utter whinery, won't you?

1.  Flip Off, Facebook. Yeah, for being down today. It was a horror-filled few moments, I gotta tell you. I'm not sure how I made it through without a full blown panic attack. But at least I got a bathroom break out of it. It was scary though. For reals.

I do think this is a good opportunity to cast my vote for Channing Tatum to star in FACEBOOK DOWN: THE MOVIE.  Who wants to start the petition?

2.  Flip Off, New GE Dryer. Yeah, for your ability to cease functioning after only two weeks of use. I mean seriously, how does a brand spanking new appliance stop working after just two weeks. WTH is up with that?

It turned out to be a broken belt, and I was fortunate enough to have a repair man available the next day to fix it. But still. 2 weeks old and the belt breaks? Is this the appliance gods' way of telling me I should have bought a Maytag?! Only time will tell.

3.  Flip Off, Pizza Delivery People. Yeah, for keeping me waiting for over a freaking hour for my pizza delivery. In the name of all that is good and Holy--how hard is it to deliver a pizza to a starving, hormonal woman, who only lives 3/4 of a mile from your store? Has the world gone mad? Why am I tormented so?

OK, there's a chance I'm being a bit melodramatic here. But dammit, don't ever come between a woman and her pizza! It did have a happy ending though: I ended up getting the pizza for free because it took so long. And that almost made up for the near starvation of it all.

4.  Flip Off, Centipede. Yeah, the one that I saw out of the corner of my eye scurrying across the living room floor as I was reading book one of the Outlander series the other night. Claire was just about to be transported through a time portal  from 1945 to 18th century Scotland, and you picked that precise moment to appear in my field of vision?

Those over-legged, dastardly creatures are as annoying as they are creepy and fast. Even at my own full speed--which, granted, is not much faster than a jaunt--I couldn't catch that guy after I threw down my iPad and hurled myself in his general direction. He's still in there somewhere. Hiding. And waiting for the perfect moment to interrupt my sojourn into virtual Scotland once again. Bastard.

5.  And finally, Flip Off, DVR. Yeah, for always cutting off the last minute or two of every single show I record, so that I never really know what happens at the end of each episode. I know it's going to cut off every time I watch something. But still, every time...

OK, so I guess that's enough of my self-indulgent complaint-o-rama for today. It's good to purge though, ya know? Do you have any flip-offs for the week? Leave a comment and share them. :)

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?

Musical Chairs

OK, so I was sitting on the couch last night, watching TV in my polka dot pajamas. Not that it matters what I was wearing, but I'm trying to paint a picture for ya. It was late, very late, but I'm a night owl so it's just how I roll. When, at exactly 1:48am, I heard a loud noise on the porch, and I was like...

Yes, there was definitely someone, or something, on my porch. And since the Hubs was in bed, naturally I needed to go see for myself what was out there. So I went to the kitchen and opened the front door and then looked outside.

What did I see, you ask? I saw one of the chairs from the table on my porch...sitting out in the middle of the street. So I'm like, WTH?! And I was annoyed, and sort of freaked and wondering if the idiots who put the chair there were still around.

Obviously I couldn't leave the chair in the middle of the road. I needed to go out there, in my polka dot pajamas, at almost 2am, and retrieve the chair. I had to be brave. I had no choice. And after all, if necessary I could always use my special power to scare off any hoodlums or potential serial killers...

So I grabbed a jacket and my shoes and went out and got the chair, and assessed my porch to see if anything else was amiss. There on the table I found a No Trespassing sign, which I knew belonged to The Freak Next Door's house. So apparently my late night bandits had hit up my neighbor's house first, attacking some of his signs--because yeah, that'll teach them--before they decided to come over to my house and play musical chairs. Makes perfect sense.

The Freak Next Door doesn't even live there anymore (small miracle)--his brother does. But The Freak was an idiot and his overdone signage was just one of the many reasons he was long overdue for some karmic retribution--even if he isn't living there and didn't get to see it for himself. But me? What did I do? 

 Oh well, I guess I should just be glad that my chair was unharmed and there was no real damage, and nothing was stolen (for a change). Living in town is starting to annoy me more and more though, and the plans that the Hubs and I have to move to our farm property is becoming a lot more appealing. But until that happens, I'm just gonna have to hang in there and deal with this nonsense as it occurs. 

That being said, if I ever find the idiots who are creeping up on my porch at nearly 2am while I'm in my polka dot pajamas and minding my own TV-watching business, I will only have one thing to say to the police who will inevitably be called to the scene:

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.

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?

Is Unbloggy a Word?

Clearly, if unbloggy IS a word, then that's how I'm feeling lately. Unbloggy. You know, not-prone-to-blogging-much. Sometimes I feel like I'm just talking to myself here. Other times I just can't seem to think of anything to say. So I've resigned myself to the fact that I'm only going to blog if I really do have something to say. OR, if I have something LOL funny to share. Case in point...

Yeah, it took me a minute to find it too. And then I was all, OMG WTF?!

It's funny, no? Makes you laugh at least a little bit?

And you know what they say about laughter, right? Best medicine and all that.

Although sometimes, a good stiff drink will fix what ails you too. Ha ha. Just kidding.

Sort of.

Hijacking Elmo DVD's is Just Wrong

I really need someone to explain this to me. I'm so confused and annoyed by it, I'm almost speechless. And that doesn't happen often, as you well know. So here's the scoop...

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.

Befuddled Blog Post

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

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

Some other randomness of things I don't understand...

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

Toddlers in movie theaters. I mean, really?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nikki and Paulo on LOST

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

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

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

Any questions?

ABCs of Baggy Pants

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

I mean, seriously. WTH?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Newsflash, guys: girls like to see the shape of your ass; they don't want full view of your underwear. And they certainly don't want to walk beside a guy who is so "cool" that he has to hold up his pants while he walks. As if. 

Girls want a guy with SWAG. Not bag or sag. And if you have baggy pants on you cannot have SWAG. E-V-E-R.

The Turn On

OK, so Friday nights are usually dining out nights for The Hubs and Me.  It's just a ritual, since we always go grocery shopping that night, and since I don't wanna have to grocery shop and cook. As if! So we eat out before we hit the grocery store.

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

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

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

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

Reasonable Facsimile of the Prime Rib

 

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

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

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

Um, WTH?

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

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

Um, OK.

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

Go figure.

Dining with Farm Animals

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.

Meat Department Madness at Wal Mart

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

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

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

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.