Friday, June 29, 2012

Bikini Sighting: East, West and South

Now that I'm 50 and the tattoo is healing and the vacation is over and the celebration is grinding to a slow halt (one more weekend to go and then the partying's over), I've had time to reflect on all this fun. It was the best.birthday.ever.  And, I'm not just saying that:

It.was.grand.

I must confess there is one noticeable drawback to being 50.... my breasts are moving east, south and west. When I wrote in my previous blog that it is hard to take a self-photo of a tattoo located on the chest--even with those new-fangled cell phones--what I really meant was "my boobs have gone east and west and south and that distorted tattoo look in the phone photo is really the distortion of my breasteses (pronounced breast-est-es)."  I didn't realize how far things had "traveled" until I put my bikini top on in preparation for the tattooing.  I thought it a smart idea to wear my bathing suit to the tattoo parlor, taking into account the location of the desired tattoo.  I slipped the top tie over my head and hooked the back of the bikini into place.   I went to adjust the little triangles of fabric of which bikinis are made.....and was stunned--STUNNED to see how far the triangles were from each other.

Adding insult to injury, there was a whole lot of nothing going on between those two triangles of fabric.

I might as well have put the triangles of fabric over my armpits, that's how far things were off course.

Some might burst into tears, but I burst into laughter.  I called to the wife, "You have GOT to see this!" I don't think she was prepared for what she was about to see.  I mean, there is NO WAY you can see something like this and not burst into laughter.  It took less than 1/2 a brain cell to determine it was no longer appropriate for me to sport a bikini top of this caliber.

In case you are wondering, I wore a purple sports bra to the blessed event. Had I worn the bikini top, the 23 year old tattoo artist would have needed therapy for the rest of his life; in fact, he might have been permanently scarred.

In addition to the armpit triangles of bikini top trauma, I noticed that my gratitude tattoo is now:
GRAT  ti   tude
sadly sloping toward
                          the south 
                                  and east.   

The word gratitude used to be perfectly spaced and level. Not so much anymore.  I should have given the guy a bigger tip, as he was able to align the star with the sloping word with nary a snarky comment.

Soon, I'll have a falling star.  Ah  well, we can fix that when I turn 60.

Anyone need a new bikini top?

Sunday, June 24, 2012

Starring 50

Blogger's note: I had to change the title of this particular blog because the original title led unsuspecting internet users to my page.  They were certainly not looking for my blog.  I felt it only appropriate to save them from this and so I renamed the blog.  Sigh.  It was nice having like 4000 hits but if they are gonna find my blog by accident, they need to find one of the funnier ones.  Just sayin.'

Rest at ease, friends of the Addiverse—I have finally secured my “I’m Turning 50” birthday tattoo.  It was quite the challenge to figure out what to permanently ink into/onto my body.  I wanted it to be meaningful--even better if I could think of something with a multi-purpose meaning.  I wanted it to be well-done by someone who actually knew what they were doing. (Trust me, I am covered with all sorts of hideous, scratcher-made tattoos and paid a lot of money to look this bad).  I love cartoons but for this momentous occasion, I felt like I needed something different.  It had to be placed somewhere I could see it--most of my tattoos are on my back and I can’t see them.  While I purposefully put the cartoons on my back in representation of those who “have my back,” it kind of sucks that the wife has to look at them and I can’t.  (Such irony--the wife hates tattoos and she’s the one that has to look at them all.)  I have to give credit to the wife for agreeing with my design of choice and for talking me out of Minnie Mouse.

Those who know me know that I am a big, tacky nerd. Those who truly know me know that I am a big, nerdy fan of astronomy. (Surprised?) One of my favorite all-time Christmas gifts was a telescope--4th grade, in case you are wondering. Yeah for Santa Parents! I was able to see the polar caps on Mars with that thing, which was a delightfully delicious thing to a fourth grader.  I have made (on more than one occasion) a special “sun-viewing box” so I could safely watch solar eclipses. During my formative years, I was introduced to the annual Perseid meteor shower that always seemed to correspond to our annual vacations at “The Cottage”  (mid-August, for those whose interest has now been peaked). I can still clearly envision laying on the pier with my mother, sister and cousins, staring up at the sky, hoping desperately to see a shooting star.  I still go outside every August and take a gander at that meteor shower, not only because I love astronomy but because of the happy memories it brings back of those glory days.

(I also lay claim of my love of ornithology—but, that’s for another nerdy day.)  

Even today, I am always staring at the night sky, torturing the wife with my semi-pathetic celestial knowledge:  “There’s a satellite—see it?”  “Did you see that shooting star?” “That’s the North Star.” “Wow! Jupiter and Venus are aligned.  Look at that!”  I love the fact that the North Star doesn’t “move.” It’s always right there, saying “Hey! This is North, over here!” If you can find the North Star, you can find your way anywhere.

Back to my birthday tattoo. I chose a nautical star, an old-school, traditional tattoo design, best known for being found on sailors. (I'm not a sailor but my godfather was, so that should count for something.) 
  • The first and most compelling reason for my choice is that it represents a compass for life.  I can always use a little direction.
  • The design supposedly symbolizes protection, guidance and staying on course, a positive guide toward the future. Who doesn't need a little guardian angel action?
  • It’s all about finding your way safely back home. Since home is where the heart is, I figured putting it on my chest would be the perfect location.   (This was a bit bittersweet, as putting the star in that location meant I had to cover up my very first tattoo--a little dog with my nickname written over it.  You couldn't tell what it was or what it said anymore, so it really was the perfect place to put the tat, but it's still covering a piece of history.)
  • It's always a good thing to reach for the stars...while keeping your feet firmly planted on the ground.
  • In addition to being a compass for life, the nautical star somehow this image got tied to the Punk Rock scene, and I did love the punk rock of the late 70’s/early 1980’s.  I'm too old for the Punk Scene of today.  Punks of today need to respect their elders, so here's one for them.
  • What's not to love about Sailor Jerry, king of the sailor tattoos, a master of the nautical star?  A star for a star, that's what I say.
  • Maybe I could call it a "naughty-call" tattoo.  Or, not.
  • And, surprisingly enough to me and most definitely an unintentional bonus, the  star tattoo was used in 1940’s-60s so females leading “an alternative lifestyle” could identify each other.  "Often [they] would get the star tattoo done on the inside of their wrist where it could easily be hidden by a watch during the day but shown off in the evening when out on the town." 
I had no idea. 
(I'm sure that use of the nautical star pissed the sailors of WWII off, but it's probably all good now.)

So, I now have a nautical star tattoo.  I'd post a photo of the actual tattoo, but I've decided it's near impossible to take a photo of a tattoo on your chest, even with my fancy "facing toward me" phone camera.  Here's what a nautical star looks like, thanks to Photobucket.  Mine happens to have blue/green and yellow in it (the green was unintended, a by-product of adding the yellow). For the record, I think the wife likes it.

So, happy 50th Birthday to me and a happy day to you.  And, remember: if you ever get lost, wait til it gets dark, then find the North Star.  It's all good from there.

*****************************************************************
(Nerds can join me for the Perceid Meteor Shower....Active: July 17-Aug. 24, 2012; Peak Activity: Aug. 12, 2012. Peak Activity Meteor Count: Approximately 100 meteors per hour. See you in August!)

Thursday, June 21, 2012

One Year later....

One year ago, the wife and I were officially civilized. Where does the time go?

We celebrated by going to Sam's Club....we are in the process of buying vats of food products for my 50th birthday and couldn't avoid this most-tedious task.  Time is running short and it's not like we can let my family starve, can we? Unfortunately, going to Sam's Club is not the ideal romantic getaway for an anniversary celebration.  Worse, the wife and I never agree about how much food to buy.  I can't remember a time we tried to buy food for a party without having some form of argument.  (Wait, I take that back--we didn't argue when working with the caterer last year for the civil union party.  I trusted the professional.  It's when we are left to our own devices that we get into trouble. But, that is the only time we haven't fought over food.)


My motto is: you can never have too much.  I believe your guests should be sated when they leave. You can never have enough or too much. I would rather have a ridiculous amount of left overs than be short one pickle or bun.  


The wife's motto is: have juuuuuussssst enough so there is not one left over to be found. Not even a crumb.  She believes your guests should go home and eat a sandwich. Less is more.

This huge difference in opinion, as you can imagine, leads to cold stares, disagreements, muttering and even blatant arguing.  I am sure we are on some video camera, with a narration from the store security: "Lesbians fighting, aisle five."


We'll see what happens.  I am hoping I can redeem this tainted evening.  Damn you, Sam's Club!


I want to talk a little bit about lobster, as our most generous friends Dos Marias had a lobster boil in honor of the 50 year old triplets (I being one of the triplets). I do not eat lobster.  I don't eat anything that had a mother or has eyes.  It's a simple way of being.  But, since I don't eat lobster, it's pretty funny that I was part of a birthday lobster boil.


(I take my vegetarian ways quite seriously.  It has become a way of being.  Every once in a while I will try to envision myself eating some form of meat....and, it always ends up with me getting the creeps.  I don't know how I'll ever go back to eating meat.  But, I digress.)


So, the lobster man shows up with a cooler full of live lobsters.  He and his co-chef got to work immediately.  I went out to the van to see what was going on.  There they were....live lobsters....wiggling...moving.....oh my. I did my best not to grab the cooler and scream "BE FREE!" I took a gander and even gave one of the unsuspecting crustaceans a kiss:    


Yes, I am wearing a lobster hat.  If you are going to attend a lobster boil in honor of your 50th birthday, you should do so with style.

After the kiss, one of the hostesses escorted me into the building and stood in the doorway, refusing to let me out.  "You don't want to go out there."


I held up my camera.  "But, I wanted to take pictures!"


She gave me a stern look and remained in the doorway. "You're not going out there."


Her look said it all: there were lobsters screaming their scream of death out there


She probably saved my life....thanks to her, I didn't faint, puke or keel over.


I stayed in the house while the lobsters screamed for mercy. I stayed with the co-chef who was doing simple things like making corn-on-the-cob, cole slaw, garlic potato wedges.  He was also making clams and clam chowder (from scratch!).  I'm not sure if clams have moms or eyes but I thought it best not to eat one of those, either. Here's what the chef whipped up:


Here's the thing about lobster: it looks the same when it is served as when it goes into the pot, only a bit redder.  I mean, there are eyes staring at you.  There are tentacles waving at you.  They still have all those little arms and legs. You can see them all hanging out in a big pile in the lower left hand corner of the photo.  They pretty much look like they can still crawl off the plate.


....and this, boys and girls, is very traumatic for a long-term vegetarian.


I spent my entire meal looking down.  I couldn't watch the madness. The descriptions from the dinner mates were bad enough. I only looked up once and what I saw was enough to burn my retinas.  The horror, the horror!
Needless to say, everyone had a spectacular time and raved for hours--days--about the food.  Me? I should have pulled my lobster hat over my eyes.  Thankfully, all the other foods were amazingly delicious, so I had lots on which to focus.  Having my own little birthday cake helped things immensely. I'm sure a few sessions of therapy will clear up that PTLB (post-traumatic lobster boil) issue I'm having. 


Note to self: heavily medicate self if invited to another lobster boil.


In just a few short days, I will be fifty.  I am all good with it.  This has been an amazing two weeks, so I know it's going to be a great year.  I've got my AARP card and I know how to use it.  All I need is to get my birthday tattoo and life will be perfect.


I'm not sure what the tattoo will be, but I am darn sure I know what it won't be....




 *********************************************************************
Thinking of you, Spotted Owl and Ingabor Logjammer, at this most difficult time.  Godspeed to your furry friends.  
*********************************************************************

Friday, June 15, 2012

Have baggage, will travel

Lest you think I'm ignoring you, let me assure you that you were on my mind the whole time I've been gone.

Okay, this is a lie. I've been on vacation and didn't take a computer with me.  I turned off my work computer so I wouldn't be tempted to sneak in a little work via someone else's computer.  I didn't take my kindle nor did I covet the wife's iPad.  I stuck to texting and FB'ing on my new phone.  You can't write a blog via a phone.  Well, I can't.  Maybe you can.  My 50 year old eyes make it improbable.  And so, I just ignored you, knowing that we could make up upon my return home.

We went on vacation to Cape Code, thanks to Dos Marias who made the trip possible.Talk about generous and gracious.  These two take it to a whole 'nother level.  It was a very blog-worthy trip, of which only a smidgen of which can be captured in such a venue.  Although there were many a time one of us exclaimed, "that is SO blog-worthy!" there is only so much I can report.  We were invited on the trip so Uno Maria and I could turn 50 in style.  Two other "turning 50" people were also guests of honor.  How can you not like turning 50 when you are celebrating it on Cape Cod thanks to the generosity of amazing friends?

Let's start with our trip to the airport, shan't we?  Chick-a-hello and DeeZee offered to drive us to the airport & park their car there, as they were going to be driving anyways; besides, we were on the same flight and it just made sense.  The wife and I were delighted, as this offer sure beat taking the 4 AM bus to O'Hare and would be a heck of a lot of fun to travel with others.  Even better, Chick-a-hello and DeeZee said they would literally come to our house and pick us up.  Woof! What a wonderful bonus and a great way to start the adventure.  This also meant my niece, the house/dog sitter, would not have to get up and drive us to the bus stop.

Like silent ninjas sneaking through the night, Chick-a and DeeZee pulled into the driveway without making a sound.  I was outside on the porch, trying to clean out Freckles' boogery eye before leaving.  (I didn't want to leave my niece with a dog-boogered-eye ball.)  They crept up the driveway and we talked in whispers--I was whispering because my niece was still asleep and the wife and I didn't want to wake her if at all possible.  All the lights were off (hence, I was on the porch with the dog) and it was silent in the abode.  I put Freckles in the house, threw a few treats at the dogs, grabbed my bag--a book bag sized back pack--and went to their car.  The wife grabbed her bag--a book bag sized back pack with wheels--and locked the door.  We plopped our bags into the trunk and were on our way, leaving the house at 4:25 AM.

We giggled and gossiped as we sped down the highway, all excited and giddy for our trip to the Cape.  We had a good laugh when we finally figured out that Chick-a and DeeZee didn't know we were whispering and tromping around in the dark because our niece was sleeping.  A good time was being had by all until I got a text from my brother-in-law:  "Did you take [niece's] luggage?"

I did not understand this text and read it out loud.  I pondered this and said, "I grabbed my back pack.  I didn't see her bag."  The wife added, "yeah, I put my bag in the trunk."  We decided to pull over and take a gander.  DeeZee opened the trunk and removed a big black bag.  The wife and I agreed that those were our  bags.  DeeZee agreed that the bags in the trunk were theirs.  Nope, didn't have the bag.  DeeZee put the big black bag back into the trunk and away we went.  I texted my brother-in-law, assuring him we did not have the bag.

It only took us a few minutes to put it together.  Here I thought the black bag was theirs and they thought the black bag was ours and so we were both agreeing that "that" was our luggage...when, in fact, the black bag belonged to NONE of us.  Chick-a-hello asked, "you mean you two only have those two tiny bags?" I acknowledged that we only had two small bags.  Chick-a looked like she was going to throw up: "I took the black bag! I thought it was yours! How can you only have those two tiny bags?"

And then, the hysteria set in.

I texted back and forth with my niece and my brother-in-law while the three of them argued about what we should do.  We were three-forths of the way to the airport and didn't have time to turn around and take the bag back to my niece.  I called my sister because the texting became too complicated.  Mind you, this is all going on between 5 and 6 AM, a time that no one should be arguing about luggage.  The three car mates wanted to take the bag to my sister's house, which would add 40 minutes to the trip, 20 minutes each way.  My sister indicated this was not necessary.  She and I were laughing, but the three car mates were not.  I asked my brother-in-law if he'd like to meet us at the giant mall off the tollway, thus we'd only have to wait 20 minutes instead of taking 40, but he indicated this wasn't necessary.  By this time Chick-a is driving 40 miles an hour on the tollway, demanding to take the bag somewhere.  I called my niece and asked her what was in the bag.....clothes, make up...and meds.  I asked many questions and figured out we had the exact same meds in the house and told her to take them as needed.  She wasn't crying, which I took as a good sign and thus figured she was telling the truth about not needing the bag.  If she were crying, I'd have taken definitive action to get her the bag. My sister and brother in law concurred that she didn't need her bag, urging us to just go to O'Hare and get them the bag after returning from the trip.  Problem solved: pick up the bag when the family came to my birthday party in a few weeks or sooner if any of us crossed paths before then.  I was satisfied, they were satisfied.

Although this should have been the end of the baggage trauma, it remained quite the ordeal. The wife continued to give me the stink eye and demanded we get off the road and take the bag somewhere.  Chick-a looked distraught and all three of them were problem solving for a problem that no longer needed to be solved. I have a simple family.  We are simple folk.  Although not having the bag would be a drag, it wouldn't be the end of the world.  My niece had all the things she could need by making due at our house or taking a quick jaunt to her house. Done.

May I just say that it was a REALLY long drive to the airport? My car mates were NOT letting this go.  Oh no no no.  I worked to convince them that it was all right--because it was all right.  I wasn't lying, I wasn't being nice, I wasn't making this up--it really was all right and quite humorous by this point.  It took everything in me to get them to just drive to the airport and not turn around.  The hell if I was gonna miss our flight because of some teen's underwear.

When we got to the airport parking lot, we got out, grabbed our luggage and stared at the bag, like that was going to help.  That's when we realized the wife and I were coming back a few days earlier than Chick-a-hello and DeeZee....meaning: we wouldn't be able to get the bag to my niece upon our return--she'd have to wait until after their return.

This set off a new round of hysteria.  

I took the meds out of the bag and figured we could mail them from Cape Cod if my niece really needed them.  I zipped the bag shut and turned to the triplets.  Their faces suggested my idea was not good enough. I was not sure if I was going to get these three ladies to leave the bag and go to the terminal.  It wasn't looking good, all this problem solving and fretting in remote parking.  I repeatedly assured them that it was all good, that my niece would be inconvenienced but fine, that my family is just fine with what was happening.

Oh, the angst of leaving that bag behind.

Thanks to the baby Jesus, we were FINALLY able to say adios to the car and move on to the terminal.  I promised them that this first adventure would be quite blog-worthy.  In the end, they believed me and tried diligently to let it go.  And so, we were off, leaving our baggage--literally and figuratively--behind.

The last words I said to my niece via phone before leaving Chicago?  "Hold out for money."

Her bag is still at O'Hare.  Hope it's having a good time.

Thursday, June 07, 2012

It's been a weird, hormonally-charged few days in the Addiverse.  When I say weird, I mean "there's a coyote in the backyard" kind of weird.  We don't live in the woods.  We don't live near any woods.  We live the suburban life.  Coyotes are not part of our landscape.  As for the hormones, well let's just say the IT guy at work probably won't be doing me any favors over the next few weeks.  I know better than to ever piss off the IT guy.

I plead insanity.  

I keep calling people by accident while trying to learn how to use my iPhone. It's rather irritating--to me and most likely the person I am accidentally calling. The wife is trying to make me practice (such a teacher thing to do) but I don't have problems when I am practicing.  I'm not sure where I go wrong.  Don't get me started on how I ended up with an iPhone.  I didn't start out to get one. I went to Horizon, place of hell, and asked to see an old-school phone with an actual QWERTY keyboard...something I could drop several times a day and nothing would go wrong.  Now, I am butt dialing friends and family on a phone that talks back to me.

If you haven't had the pleasure of hearing Surrry (that's what I call her) answer your questions, find someone with an iPhone and ask some questions.  Here's an example of an actual "conversation" I had with Surrry...complete with "her" responses (and I swear to go that I did not make up these answers--these are word for word what she had to say):

Me: Surrry, do you want a beer?
Surrry: I'd rather not say.
Me: Are you a boy or a girl?
Surrry: I was not assigned a gender, Addi. (Yes, she knows my name. It's kind of freaky.)
Me: Where were you born?
Surrry: I'm right here.
Me: Huh.  Where were you made?
Surrry: I was designed by Apple in California.
Me: Where is your home?
Surrry: I'm not allowed to divulge that information, Addi.
Me: What do you think about this shirt?
Surrry: It's nice of you to ask, Addi, but it doesn't really matter what I think.
Me: You're hot.
Surrry: Oh, stop.
Me: Do you want to go on a date?
Surrry: I have very few wants, Addi.
Me: Do you like Madonna?
Surrry: This is about you, Addi, not me.
Me: Do you love me?
Surrry: How can I tell?
Me: Do you want to be spanked?
Surrry: Now, now, where were we?
Me: Are you a moron?
Surrry: I don't even exist--how can you hate me?
Me: I'm sorry, Surrry.
Surrry: It's okay, Addi.  Really.
Me: Will you forgive me?
Surrry: A fine question, Addi.  Now can we get back to work?'

Those engineers in Appleland must have had a lot of fun thinking about what people would ask and what answers would be appropriate.  I am sure she is trained to address really inappropriate questions, too but I'm too shy to ask.  I mean, what if there is a list of saved questions somewhere in my phone...or, worse...somewhere in Appleland?

Okay, so I admit that I asked, "Do you want to have sex?" (I couldn't resist at least one question with the word "sex" in it.) She replied, "I have everything I need already."  Touche.

Let's get back to the coyote.  I'm minding my own business this morning, typing on my lap top while seated at the kitchen table when I hear these sounds emitting from the wife--the kind of noises one makes when scared or freaked out.  As she is outside watering the plants, I'm not sure what she could be fearing.  She bursts in through the doorway and exclaims, "THERE IS A COYOTE IN THE BACK YARD!"

Uh huh.  Sure there is. I take a sip of my coffee and turn to look out the patio window, toward the area she is pointing to in an almost hysterical manner. I start to say, "there can't be a coyo----" but stop because there IS a coyote in our back yard and he is standing there looking at me.  He's pretty scrawny looking, so I figure he's hanging out with the hopes that ol' sausage girl Freckles will waddle by and serve as a tasty breakfast food.  What a coyote is doing in our yard is beyond me.

I decide to engage in a stare-down.  I win. Heh heh. He turns and slinks away.  We decide not to let the dogs go out unless we are literally standing next to them.  Don't mess with my dogs, Wile E Coyote!  We will need to be extra careful over the next few days to make sure our canines don't become coyote chow.

I asked Surrry if she saw the coyote in the back yard.  She said she had no opinion on that.  I think that means she saw the coyote.  I profess my love for her: "I love you, Surrry."

Her reply? "All you need is love.  And, your iPhone."

She probably should have added, "and the IT guy.  You're going to need the IT guy."  Did I mention I plead insanity?




Friday, June 01, 2012

Of dogs and dinners

I've got my lap top, kindle and iPhone all going at the same time, so if this blog implodes, at least you will know why.  I still cannot believe I caved and purchased an iPhone. I am so not an apple grrrrl.  But, in the end, all those cool features that the wife is always oooh-ing and ahhhh-ing about won out.  The camera alone makes it worth while because if you saw the photos I take with my "real" camera, you would understand my pain.

I wasn't going to blog about the dinner (just wait--I'll get there) but all bets are off, now that the wife has admitted she hasn't been keeping up with my blog.  Here I thought the person sitting across the kitchen table was a regular reader.  Imagine my surprise when she didn't know about my ball chair antics or other dribble from the Addiverse.  The shame, the horror, the pain.

So, I shall now speak of the "Great Dinner Disaster of 2012."  (It really wasn't a disaster but the wife kept exclaiming, "this is a DISASTER!" so it must have been at least a little traumatic. Perhaps disaster-esque is more appropriate.)

.....before I get to that, I need to make a confession right now: I am playing veterinarian with our dog.  I just couldn't bring myself to take her back to the vet and pay even more money to try other antics to fix her itchy eye.  I did many a web search and learned all sorts of ways to address allergies and itching.  Since the first round of vet bills didn't cure her, I decided it was time to take things into my own hands. After checking one last time to make sure a tooth wasn't sprouting out of her snout, I pulled out my dog medicine cabinet (trust me, I've got a canine pharmacy going on in our kitchen), perusing the leftovers from Freckles brush with death last spring.  I mixed and matched what I had learned on line and what I had pretty much known from previous bouts of allergies.  It was time to pull out the big guns....I reached for the almost full bottle of prednisone.

I did oodles of research, checking dosages and dangers, so i felt pretty confident I wouldn't kill her with my new-found career.  I knew that if I took Lucy to the vet, they'd just suggest giving her a shot of some form of steroid, so I thought it best to give it a whirl with what I had in hand.  After much calculation and consideration, I laid out the three week plan and began the treatment.

May I just say that after three days the improvement was so profound that I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it? Her eye is no longer swollen and yucky.  Her chin isn't red and puffy.  Best of all, she's not throwing herself all over the rug in an effort to scratch all those things that itch.  She hasn't kept us up all night with all that obnoxious (and probably quite painful to her) scratching.  I can actually see the white of her eye again.  Praise the baby jesus, I think we might be on the road to recovery.

Now, I know lots of negatives come with using steroids but this was a necessary evil.  It's very short term.  I also know I haven't identified the cause of the allergies, so that hasn't been cured--I've just put a band aid on the problem.  For now, I'll take the band-aid and two good eyes.

Back to the supposed "disaster."


The wife and I decided to have our friends Otis and Newman over for dinner.  Whenever we go to their house, Newman makes us all sorts of delectable tidbits...home-made, fresh, probably organic, always a new recipe to try, always incredibly tasty and healthy to boot.  We're talking cold soups, interesting ingredients, molten cakes.  Nothing for the faint of heart.  We always feel guilty when we finally have them over because we usually end up doing something like pizza.  It is intimidating to cook for those that actually know how.  The wife decided this time to make something in the crock pot, because nothing ever goes wrong in the crock pot.  I have to admit that in our quarter century of cooking, we have never had one mishap with a crock pot adventure.

You DO realize where this is going, don't you?

The wife decided to make a new chicken crock pot dish. I focused on convincing her that we needed a salad and something other than the chicken.  I was surprised when the wife announced she was going to try something new, as it is NEVER a good idea to try out a recipe on people other than with whom you live.  She seemed very confident, announcing that the dish "only needs three ingredients and the chicken," adding that she got it from her "light" cooking book.  (Newman is very fond of Weight Watchers, so this seemed like a nod to her efforts.)  For one-millisecond, I was skeptical and opened my mouth to protest trying something new when serving dinner guests.  But, I was lured in to the 100% success rate of our crock pot endeavors and thus said nary a word.  I went back to arguing about what side dishes would compliment the chicken.  Somehow, spring rolls and fruit fluff ended up on the menu, so I was really happy.   I stopped worrying about the chicken and focused on the fluff.  I went to work and left the fretting to the wife.

I came home an hour or two before our guests were to arrive.  I, a non-teacher, had been working all day.  The wife, a teacher, had been at home torturing herself over this dinner. (I'm guessing that going to work was a much less stressful day than fretting at home.)  One look at the wife's face told me something was very, very wrong--in fact, she looked so distressed that I thought someone might have died.  She turned to me, eyes moist with tears and exclaimed, "IT'S A DISASTER!"

I looked toward the crock pot and gave her the "one eyebrow raised question look."  After I established the the disaster was in the crock pot and that no one had died, I stepped closer to the counter where she was leaning (head now in hands). While repeated several times about how this is a disaster, I thought how can a crock pot be a disaster? No one has crock pot disasters. We've never had one thing go wrong with a crock pot meal.....

....and then, I looked in the crock pot and realized we had a disaster on our hands.

"What happened?" I asked in my most empathetic, sympathetic tone.

"I don't know! Oh my god, what are we going to do! This is a disaster!"

I peered in.  The chicken looked like little dried hockey pucks.  "It looks kind of dry."

The wife looked like she was going to vomit.  "I can't serve this!"

I took another gander and asked her to cut a piece so I could see.  Oh dear.  Hockey pucks. (Does anyone else think it's funny that the vegetarian is checking to see how the chicken looks?)  It was dry as a bone.  "I don't understand.  Did you cook it longer than you were supposed to?"

The wife shook her head "no."  I paused and then in the most supportive-non-judgmental tone I could muster asked, "Did you have it on high?"

She let out a squeak, trying to hold in the sob....."No! It was on low.  I followed the directions. This is such a disaster!"

In an effort to lower her anxiety, I explained that this was not a disaster.  The space shuttle exploding, wars in foreign countries, Madonna's latest album sales--those were disasters.  "You're right.  We can't serve that."  I used my art-enhanced-right-brained creativity and confirmed, "isn't one of their favorite places to eat the Imperial Castle?"  The wife nodded in a very tentative manner.  "Do you know what Newman likes to eat?" (I figured this was a really easy question as the wife and Newman have eaten lunch there a bazillion times.)  The wife had a moment of terror cross her face. I could tell she didn't know what Newman liked to eat, even though Newman ordered the exact same thing every time they went out for lunch. Through process of elimination while staring at the take-out menu, the wife was able to identify a few potential dishes. "She gets the one with "woody-ear" but she gets it without the woody-ear."  I offered to go pick up the chinese take out if she called to order it.  I'm not sure how she was able to pull herself together enough to find the number and make the call, but she did.  She wisely asked the worker about the ingredients of the "potential Newman dishes" of favor....and, with this information was able to identify Newman's treasured dish.  We guessed on something safe that Otis might like, staying with the chicken theme.  It was a huge bonus when the worker indicated that they had free delivery and would be there in an hour or less.

While waiting for the delivery guy, I tried to convince her that we would get a really good laugh out of this but the look on her face alerted me that it was a little too soon to be laughing or making such statements.  I did have a moment of panic, wondering what we would do if the delivery guy failed to surface as promised, but with that the doorbell rang and we were saved from certain doom.

I knew that Otis and Newman wouldn't have cared if we served them cereal with soy milk. It was just the stress of the chicken-gone-wrong that made it hard to remember that.

Once the food arrived, the arguing commenced.  Can I just say that we don't have any matching serving bowls? In fact, we really don't have many serving bowls of any kind.  Why, oh why didn't I go ahead and let people buy us gifts for our civil union? We could use some serving bowls and dinner plates.  We were finally able to get a grip and figure out some bowls that would suffice for serving of the food products.

I think Otis and Newman were tickled pink and quite entertained by the chinese take out and the story of the chicken-gone-wrong.  It wasn't a disaster at all and the fruit fluff was a huge hit.

Maybe we should have put the fruit fluff on the hockey puck chicken.....

....personally, I think we should just say no to having people over for dinner and go out for meals instead.  I know this great chinese restaurant.....I hear they have "woody-ear" dishes that don't need the woody-eat....