Filed under: Food/Drink | Tags: adulting, dining, fish, Food, humor, Kona Grill, pizza, restaurants
I recently had a restaurant fail that made me realize:
- Food should always be clearly labeled
- Not everything “tastes like chicken”
- I have a very weak sense of smell
- Customers should not be too proud or shy to ask questions
A month or so ago I went to a local chain restaurant for lunch with work friends. I like to try new things on the menu and saw this:
I like mushrooms and Brussels sprouts. I don’t know what bonito is (I do now), but it sounds like another kind of fancy mushroom, so I’ll get it. And no, I didn’t just Google it because I was being polite and not using my phone at the table.
This is what was delivered to my table:
It MOVED.
I freaked out until I realized the heat from the bread was making whatever that was wave like things you see swirling around your feet at the beach – they don’t hurt you, but you don’t want to think about it much, either.
I ate about three pieces before I realized that my friends were looking at me like I’d just pulled a rabbit carcass out of my pocket, put it on the table and kept eating. About the same time, the smell emanating from the plate finally penetrated my sinuses and I got a whiff of…fish. And not a good, seasoned salmon or tilapia, either. It smelled like fish that had sat on the counter too long and the cats were thinking they would reach Nirvana if I would just let them have it.
My stomach flopped and I stopped eating. Lacy, my co-worker with a five-year-old’s palette, took pity and offered me one of her BBQ sliders. (Lacy I will not make fun of you again for at least a month).
I didn’t get sick, and I know I’m partly to blame for not asking questions. But seriously, who puts mushrooms, Brussels sprouts AND FISH SHAVINGS on a flatbread? And what part of the fish did that come from? I don’t think you can shave anything on a fish except maybe the skin, and I sure as hell don’t want to eat fish skin unless its salmon and deliciously crunchy inside a sushi roll.
The only kind of fish shaving should happen here.
Filed under: Middle Age, Parenting | Tags: education, high school, middle school, parents, teachers
I used to be able to attend adult functions and make the necessary small talk society requires. I could talk with a complete wallflower, as long as I followed my mother’s advice: “Just ask questions. People love to talk about themselves.”
Now? Not so much.
I don’t know if it’s an age thing or sheer laziness, but mostly I think it’s because I just don’t have the energy to care anymore.
Some of the worst small talk functions are school parental gatherings. Sometimes I’m genuinely interested, if it’s a family I like or friends of my kids, but mostly I end up pasting a smile on face and listening to what the other children did over the summer, the awards they won and what teachers are currently on the collective parental shit list. I do all of this while making snarky comments in my head.
These events do not bring out the best in me. And I think after what I said at the last couple of gatherings, I should probably stay home.
I recently went to a “Meet the New High School Director” coffee. I showed up, along with the other parents of kids whose parents really don’t need to be there (trust me, he’ll meet the parents of the kids who need a little extra “guidance” soon enough). I hung out with my mom friends until it was almost time to leave, and finally decided I should actually go meet the guy.
I waltzed up to a group of moms (I knew a couple) and introduced myself. “Hi, I’m so-and-so’s mom, it’s so good to have you here blah, blah, blah…”
Awkward silence…which, of course, I had to fill.
“Well, I’m sure I’ll be in your office at some point this year!” I chirped.
“For good reasons, I hope?” he asked, looking at me oddly.
I panicked. “We’ll see!” I said. I gave a little wave and practically ran out the door.
When I told Daughter #2 about it, she said, “Great Mom – now he thinks I’m a delinquent.”
“So do you want me to say anything to him at Back to School Night?”
“Maybe tell him I’m not a delinquent?”
“Hmmmm…nope. I think we’re going to set the bar low and let him be pleasantly surprised.”
“You’re the worst mom ever.”
So that was the first event.
The second, awkward, “please-let-me-suck-those-words-back-in” moment happened a few days later. Hubby and I were standing with the mother of a younger child at a school function. She was stunning – the kind of mom that I’m secretly jealous of because she looks sophisticated and sleek. This beautiful mom had makeup on, like most grownup women do, and I’m pretty sure she used primer (apparently it’s a thing now), too, because her face was perfectly smooth, and her makeup was flawless. Like my daughters, she has learned how to apply it and look gorgeous – I put on makeup and look like I fell onto a Kardashian’s face in a bar at 2:00am.
So, there we were, and I was talking about how my girls where more makeup than I ever learned how to use. “Oh my God, I mean, they put on ‘primer,’ which I think is just ridiculous, because a face is not a wall in your house!”
I couldn’t stop it, even after it dawned on me that I was probably insulting her. When the event was over, Hubby looked at me and said, “You know she wears makeup, right?”
“I know.” I sighed. “And she’s beautiful.”
“And you know you were just going on and on about how too much makeup is bad, right?”
“Yes! I know! I could hear the words come out and I couldn’t stop it!”
“Just checking.”
Ugh. I really just should have listened to my mother’s advice and only asked questions. Not once during either of these encounters did I do that – I simply filled any void with my verbal diarrhea.
Tonight is Back to School Night. God help me if any of the teachers address me directly. I’ll probably blurt out a question like “Was teaching your first choice as a profession?” So to all of Daughter #2’s teachers, here is my blanket apology in advance:
You will never be paid enough or honored enough for the work you do. Please keep trying to educate our children and fill in the gaps that we have left yawning open in their character. Every day you rise above pettiness, exhaustion and frustration to embrace these young people as they try to make sense of a senseless world, and for that you should be shown the respect and encouragement you deserve.
Plus, you look pretty. And your tie goes with your pants….
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: bachelorette, Blake, emotions, friendship, Garrett, Quinn, relationships, romance, tv
I was recently invited to a friend’s house to watch the finale of The Bachelorette. Seven women of various ages and relationship stages were there, from college to middle-age, from single to married to divorced to “talking”, or whatever they call it now. I’ve never actually seen more than 5 minutes of any episode (because I think the whole show is any Saturday night at a bar but extended for 15 hour-long rides on the Drama Train). This time, I decided the girl time was much needed and maybe I could figure out why the show is so popular.
Let me just tell you, I had a GREAT time. I was yelling and groaning along with everyone as the drama unfolded. So yes, friends who are rolling their eyes, I can be open to new things.
Now keep in mind while you’re reading this that I still watch Survivorand American Ninja Warriors, and I’m aware that I’m standing in the middle of a huge glass house.
When I arrived, I was ushered into a Bachelorette wonderland:
Each guest had to pick which bachelor “team” they were on. Since I knew nothing about either of the two finalists (Garrett and Blake), I chose Blake based on the pictures stuck into the team cupcakes.
And then the drama train started huffing down the Bachelorette tracks.
Or should I say weeping down the tracks. Oh my God, I have never seen so much weeping on one show. Mostly by Garrett. And let me tell you, Team Garrett lapped it up, goofy, salty tears and all.
“He’ll make such a great dad!”
“He’s so sensitive!”
“Why can’t I get a guy like that?”
“Why can’t I get a guy at all?” (Note – these girls were all gorgeous and in their 20’s – huge eye roll)
“He just seems so genuine!”
I wanted to hurl myself in front of the train, if only to make Garret stop crying every time it rained (often) or when he saw Becca (also often). What sealed the deal for me and Blake was when Garrett played his trump card – he told Becca he felt like her deceased father was with them. Becca melted, he cried (again? seriously?), she cried, and I finished another glass of rosé to get the taste of throw up out of my mouth.
Now, before all you Team Garret people FTFO, you need to understand something about me – I’m not a weeper, at least not where people can see me. When our 15-year-old dog died, my kids later told me that was the first time they’d ever seen me cry – that was three years ago, and they are eighteen and twenty. The Fam constantly makes fun of me for not crying when we watch sad TV shows. Clearly, I also have issues.
Obviously, watching Garrett the Weeper made me uncomfortable. All I could think of was: She’s going to be raising man-child along with her actual kids. poor thing – she’s always going to have to be the Bad Cop because he’s too emotional to do it the other half ofthe time. Plus he smiles when he’s crying and its creepy.
AND THEN SHE PICKED HIM!
There was more weeping from Team Garrett, and gnashing of teeth from Team Blake. But the best (and most important) part of the whole night was the dialogue that emerged during the event: What makes a good marriage, or a good boyfriend? When and how often should you be crying in a relationship? What kind of man makes a good father?
The show is still ridiculous, but it sparked these cell-phone-free conversations for straight two hours, and that, my friends, almost brings tears to my eyes.
(To hear another version of this night, check out my friend Alex’s blog. )
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Sports | Tags: ambulance, cars, crime, friendship, fun, horseback riding, Horses, humor
(Names have been changed to protect…well, you be the judge.)
Recently my friend Amy’s daughter Grace was taken to the hospital after a fall from her horse during a horse show. Don’t worry – she’s fine. But what happened on the way to the hospital just shows that there’s humor even in frantic and scary situations.
As the EMTs were loading Grace into the ambulance, Amy called out to Grace’s boyfriend to take her car and follow the ambulance. Eager to help, Dominic raced across the showgrounds, found the car and was soon trailing the ambulance on the highway.
Meanwhile, in the ambulance, a clearly concussed Grace keeps squinting out the back window. Noticing her daughter starting to strain to see through the rear window she asked, “What, honey?”
“I – I think that’s Dominic behind us,” Grace mumbled.
Amy looked out the back window and, sure enough, it was Dominic following them – but in the wrong car.
Amy tried in vain to get Dominic’s attention by waving her arms, making a “cut/stop” motion with her hand across her throat and mouthing that’s not my car! Dominic had no idea what she was doing – he was busy changing the preset radio stations from gospel to country and rock.
When they got to the hospital, Dominic rushed to Grace’s side.
“You ok, babe?” he asked.
Grace chuckled softly. “Uh-huh. But You’re a criminal.”
“What?” Dominic asked.
“You’re a criminal – that’s not my mom’s car.”
Amy added, “You have to go back to the show and get my car – it has my purse and ID in it!”
Because he’s a good boy, Dominic promptly freaked out. He jumped into the borrowed car, drove back to the showgrounds and did what any red-blooded American would do – parked the car in the same spot and used his t-shirt to wipe the steering wheel, radio buttons and door handle for fingerprints. As far as we know, no one was the wiser for his mistake.
All this is funny by itself, and typical of my friends. But here’s what I still makes me laugh:
- I still wonder what the owners of the “stolen” car thought when they got back in at the end of the day – the radio stations were different and the car seat was in a different position.
- What did the other drivers behind the ambulance think when they saw Amy waving and mouthing words from the back window of the ambulance? That she was a psych patient that needed more meds? That the ambulance was secretly a rape van and she was being kidnapped? Or that she was celebrating because England beat Sweden in the World Cup?
- Grace and my daughter (D2) look out for each other at these events. One time, Grace and Dominic raced to our house to get D2’s rescue inhaler while she sucked on oxygen at the end gate. D2 has accompanied Grace to the hospital a couple of times now, and each time she takes a selfie. It’s what friends are for…keepin’ it real…
Filed under: Middle Age, Misc. Humor, shopping | Tags: born again, christianity, church, humor, Middle-Age, relationships, religion, shopping, walmart
I don’t know how or why the Jesus Freaks find me, but they do – and it’s usually at Walmart. Now, before you get all upset, know that I do believe, but I believe in the privacy of my head and heart.
I’ve had two people tell me in the check-out line that it’s their second birthday, as in, they’re Born Again. (Personally, I don’t think it’s the best metaphor – why would anyone want to leave their warm, dark cocoon where they have been fed and grown with no effort for the cold, bright world where every day can be a struggle? How about something like “Refried” instead?)
Ummmm…so you’re Born Again. First, you look tall for a two-year-old. Second, I’ve had 47 birthdays, and I never once told anyone in a check-out line when they happened. Third, why do you think I need to know you and Jesus are besties when I’m standing here trying to figure out who wore the superman glasses better – George Clooney or Denzel Washington?
But the best encounter happened yesterday. I was standing in the freezer aisle at Walmart trying not to buy yet another bag of tater tots, when two teenage girls approached me.
“Excuse me, M’am?” they asked.
“Huh?”
“Hi. Um, would you like us to pray for you?”
“What, here?” I asked.
“Yes. Or is there someone you would like us to pray for?”
Oh my God, this is a blog happening right now.
“My family – they’ve got issues.”
“Okay. Would you mind if we lay hands on you, or is that too weird?”
“That is definitely too weird.”
Then they said a very nice prayer in the middle of the freezer aisle.
So why me? I recently asked my gym trainer if I have a serious RBF (Resting Bitch Face), because whenever I go to other gyms, the trainers never talk to me, while they talk to everyone else who is new. And it’s not because I’m doing things correctly, either. She said no (probably for self-protection), that mine wasn’t bad. I just always look like I’m concentrating (#thestruggleisreal).
Why do people feel the need to approach me and tell me all about their relationship with God/Jesus? Do I have a RSMF (Resting Save Me Face)? You can’t tell me my RSMF is worse than the woman smacking her kid in the child-abuse aisle, or the addict who’s hanging around in the parking lot asking for cash, or the people who live in their camper in the back of the parking lot. I’m pretty sure they might need help from Above a little more than I do.
So please, let me keep my headphones on while I play my soothing spa music and shop. And while I don’t want it to happen again, it just proves that you really can get everything at Walmart.
Subourbon Mom 