I Knew the Bride

Wow, what a wonderful, wicked, wobbly weekend, which included a wedding, a stay at a luxury hotel, and a day spent at the bar.

First off, as noted in the previous post, my friend Jenny married the man of her dreams in a beautiful ceremony with a reception down at Baltimore’s Inner Harbor.

View from the 21^st floor (where the reception was) looking at the National Aquarium, Barnes & Noble and the Hard Rock Café.

This was looking out in the other direction.  

Closer view.  The fog and clouds made the view rather foreboding.  Although it could be because that’s the Ravens’ Stadium just to the right of the big dark building.

I’m not going to get into a bunch of details about the wedding… I know no one wants to read a bunch of crap about a wedding for someone they don’t know.  Suffice to say, the bride was a shimmering beauty and looked positively radiant.  Like I told her in the greeting line, "You look like you belong on top of a wedding cake.” 

See?  You can even see the radiance from here.

There it is again!

I also told the groom what I wrote in the last post, that he was the luckiest guy in the Mid-Atlantic.

OK, I know you at least deserve a decent look at the happy couple.  I did take a butt-load of pictures but the results left me a bit disappointed.  With the low lighting, any motion at all left me with blurred or fuzzy pictures, so I didn't get nearly the number of usable shots that I’d anticipated.  (Yes, yes, I know… I should get an SLR and go take some lessons.)

On the bright side, I was so busy messing around with my camera during the ceremony, I didn't have the time to get all weepy.  (Well, except maybe a bit when the bride’s voice wavered during her vows.)  Things came out much better when everyone was standing still, like at the cake-cutting.

As a veteran of a whole bundle of weddings, I thought I’d seen all the best stunts, but I learned something new with this one.  It was brilliant.

Soon after we all sat down, the groom’s uncle came around to the tables.  To all the guys, he handed out these quarter-sized metal washers and said that these were “keys” to Jenn’s house.  After the toasts, he was going to go up and make a speech and tell all the guys that “now that Jenn is married, anyone with her house key needs to bring them up and turn them in.”  He had a metal coffee can for us to drop the washers in, so they would sound like a metal key plinking in.

So he made the speech and then about 40 or 50 guys got up to turn in their “keys.”  It was hilarious!  And then for a kicker, after all the guys were done, Jenn’s and my mutual friend Kristy scurried up and dropped off a key of her own.  And THEN one more old guy, who must have been in his 70s, shuffled up and dropped in the last “key.”  The whole routine just killed the room.  I can’t wait to pull this stunt on my nephew one day.

Back when my buddies and I each got married, our “stunt” was a ball and chain.  And I don’t mean some little thing; I’m talking about a big (hollowed out) steel ball, just a tad smaller than a volleyball, attached to a big, thick stock of chain, with an iron ankle clasp attached.  The thing was formidable.

I think my buddy John (VP of Hell No) made it (or had it made) and I know we used it when his son got married.  For my wedding, Rik (Chairman of Fuck Off) brought it out and to use on Future-Ex.  That didn’t go over real well with her, though, so she didn't have it on for very long.  They put it on me for a little while, but I had my new step-son carry it behind me.  Then finally we used it for my friend Brill’s wedding, after which it got thrown out when they moved.  So we’re due for a new wedding trick.

But because the “key” idea wasn't mine, I got to pose with this exquisite bride.

“I can see her now with her Walkman on/

Jumpin’ up and down to her favorite song…

She used to wanna party, she used to want go/

I knew the bride, when she used to rock and roll.”*

When the reception wrapped up, it was only 7:00, so there were still activities afoot, out on the town.

We got together with Jenn and some her friends at the hotel bar across the street (where Pinky and I were staying) for a short after-party.  It was nice because we could finally talk to the bride and groom without swarms of people pulling at her and photographers constantly circling and putting lights in our faces.

Rather than changing first, Jenn insisted on going out in her wedding dress.  She said, “I only get to wear this once, so I’m getting my money’s worth out of it.”

Not so much for the shoes though…

The Bride, changing out of her sparkly red pumps.

It was a great end to the night, as we got to see the happy couple off to begin their honeymoon and new life together with a sense of love and friendship. 

We didn’t linger much the next morning because I needed to get home and change into my Steeler game apparel and head out to the sports bar.  The Steelers and Chargers were playing opposite the Ratbirds game, so it wasn't on local TV.

This time out, I was meeting Sunshine, who used to be my “work wife.”  It was funny because I’m always showing up at this place with a different girl.  They know Pinky because we have lunch or dinner there fairly often.  But for games, (which Pinky doesn't care for), I frequently meet up with Sitcom Kelly or Sunshine.

So when I saved the adjacent bar stool, the bartender said, “Oh are you meeting your lady friend again?”

I said, “Yes, but a different one this time…”  I had to laugh, because I could hear how that sounded.  I said, “It’s a different girl but she’s another ‘friend’ and the Redhead knows all about it.”  I said, “Bartenders have to keep our secrets though, right?” 

I figure it’s like doctor/patient confidentiality, or attorney/client privilege.  Bartenders have to keep their mouths shut about what they see if they want people to come back.  The bartender, a nice English lady, probably about mid-60s, agreed.  I said, “But I’m not putting that burden on you, OK, this is on the square.”

Anyway, I hadn't seen Sunshine since my birthday last year, and we didn't really get much of a chance to talk then, so we had an awful lot to catch up on.  She’s a Cowboys fan and they were playing too, so for the 1:00 games, we just watched the Cowboys, Steelers and Ravens games.  Her ‘Boys won while my guys lost, so that was kind of a bummer, but then the Ratbirds lost too, which redeemed the day a bit. 

(Note to Self: Don’t wear the black Polamalu jersey to the bar any more.  Bad mojo.) 

A lot of people around us kept asking if we were together.  She’d go, “I’m married, but not to him.”  You should have seen the looks.  But it was really nice to spend some time with a good friend.  It’s not for nothing that I called her my Work Wife.  When we worked together, we were very close.  When the second games came on, we straight-up yapped through all of those, until we finally left around 7:00.  Seven hours at the bar will give you a good case of Barstool Ass.

But all in all, it was a sweet weekend.  I got to see a dear friend get married, hang out with another old friend to drink beer and watch football, and then go home to Pinky.

As I heard her tell some people at the wedding, “He’s pretty lucky I understand that all his friends here are women.”

And I am, at that.  How many girlfriends would be OK with my going out and meeting up with various women as often as I do?  In fact, consider my trip to Pittsburgh last June, where I met up with two girls (Sitcom Kelly and her sister), and had dinner with a bunch of other female bloggers (Cassie, Jessica, Bethany, Facie and Ginny).  Granted, most of them brought their husbands, boyfriends or kids, and thank goodness for the Carpetbagger, or else I could have been on shakier grounds. 

So remember, when we’re out and I’m taking pictures of everyone, it’s not because I have a thing for pictures; it’s that I want exculpatory evidence!

*Director’s DVD Commentary: “I Knew the Bride When She Used to Rock and Roll” is a song from the 80s by Nick Lowe.  Huey Lewis plays harp on it too.  Look it up; it’s a classic.

Oh, and I’m not collecting evidence because Pinky demands it.  I just feel better if I can corroborate that I’m doing what I say I’m doing.

When Little Girls Grow Up

I've got a big weekend coming up, featuring the wedding of a dear friend of mine.

I've written a bit here about Jennifer before.  She’s the one we used to prank by slightly moving things around in her orderly cube, and secretly swapping out her pristine red binders for torn, sloppy black ones.  She’s also my friend that had her house broken into and burglarized several times, right around the time her job was eliminated.

Jenn joined our staff in 2002, coming straight out of college.  She instantly brought a breath of fresh air into our stuffy department.  Jenn and another new girl kick-started a whole period of great after-hours gatherings of fun and merriment. 

Jennifer, December 2003.

Jenn is significantly younger than I am by a solid 18 years, which is a fact she takes great joy in reminding me whenever I tell an old story.  Nevertheless, we bonded right off the bat.  I've always tried to look out for her and give her the benefit of the hard-won wisdom my advanced years have given me.  She may be a die-hard Ratbirds fan but she has a huge heart and all the loyalty and integrity in the world.  To me, she’s someone that I feel duty-bound to protect and shield from harm.

When she first joined our department, she was a real Wild Child.  Sure she was smart, organized and composed, but she took great pleasure in shocking the crap out of people by doing things like dropping the occasional “C-word” into a casual conversation.  (The male-oriented C-word.)  Sometimes she’d come out to lunch with my brother and me and some of our buddies, and they’d do spit-takes over some of the things she said.  I was so proud.

Back when our company still threw a lavish Christmas Party, Jenn and I always went together.  It became our tradition.  We’d be all dressed up (it was the only time all year I ever wore a tie), and I’d always wear my long wool coat and black fedora.  I loved walking in there with Jenn on my arm; we’d always turn heads.  I assumed everyone was thinking, “What’s the hot chick doing with that old fuck?”  They probably thought I was her Sugar Daddy.

She’s reined in the Wild Child over 10 years’ time and grown into a model of decorum and professionalism.  When our original department folded last year, I was relieved that she was able to latch onto another job in a different department.  I tried to get her into mine, but we never had the right opportunity open up.

So while we no longer work together, we still see each other around the building and go out to lunch every so often.  No matter how long it’s been, we always slide right into our easy rapport.  I never know what the subject of the day is going to be, but it’s always entertaining.

For example, one day last September, we had a lunch-long debate about chicken wings.   Jenn wondered why chicken wings are so small, when chickens are relatively large.  Her fear, you see, is that we are actually eating baby chickens.  She said the “leggy” pieces were actually baby chicken legs, and the other “wingy” pieces were the wings. 

We also had some lingo to work out.  What I call the “leggy” pieces, she calls the “drumettes.”  I think “drumettes” are the girls that follow Tommy Lee around.

I didn't think they were baby chickens, because we would have heard all about it from PETA if it were true.  I was sure that they weren't the wings from full sized chickens, but I also wondered why when you get wings from a Chinese restaurant, they were always HUGE!  Maybe those were the regular chicken wings and we really were eating baby chickens.  It was enough to make my head spin.

I later did some research online and emailed my findings to Jenn.

Bluz: This seems to be the consensus…

“Baby chickens don't have much meat on them because they haven't learned to fly yet.
Buffalo wings are made from regular chicken wings. They take the tip off and separate the other two parts and use them. So each Buffalo wing is like 1/3 of a real chicken wing.”

And that means that the leggy ones aren't really legs, they’re part of the wing.  My world suddenly makes sense again.

I still haven’t found why Chinese chicken wings are still huge…

Bluz (followup): OK, this has the most complete range of answers…

And apparently, the larger “Chinese” wings just come from larger chickens.  And it confirms that a full wing is made up of 3 segments, the tip (or inedible part) the double bone piece, and the drumette.

So there, you may put your mind at rest, that we are not devouring baby chickens.

Jenn: Hmmm… very interesting.  They have no remorse for killing cats and dogs but even they won’t kill baby chickens.  Maybe (the large wings are) to make up for the fact that Chinese are typically small?  The chickens being bigger than usual may be a compensating factor.

Bluz: Kind of like the way Americans drive SUVs.

Jenn: Exactly.  Little person, big chicken.  I wonder if they also make bratwurst.  Or maybe they do and we've just never seen them because they’re too good to let them out of the country without heavy tariffs.

Bluz: Maybe Wisconsin is doing the same thing, just to mess with Minnesota.

Now look at this... 

1-2-3 pieces to the wing.  I love the Internet.

Jenn: Neat!  I’d like my next order of radius and ulna extra crispy please!  Gee, I wonder why those terms never caught on.  “Wingys” it is…

Jenn’s current department threw her a wedding shower last week.

Besides a Bed, Bath and Beyond gift certificate, they got her a bottle of tequila and a Margarita Machine.

This one’s a hit.

When I sent some of the pictures to Jenn, she started telling me about the tight timing her church was making her stick to before the wedding ceremony.

Jenn: I'll be arriving with the girls at 12:15.  Sounds like a short time to me but the church was specific that they didn't want me there until 15 minutes prior.  They're making it sound stealthy too saying they'll send someone out to make sure the coast is clear in the vestibule before I come in otherwise I can hide in the confessional, lol! 

Bluz: Try to hide on the priest’s side of the confessional.  I've always wanted to know if they have some kind of Penance Conversion Chart in there.

Jenn: Hahahahaaaa.

Bluz: Scenes from a Confession

Jenn: Last Sunday, I took the name of the Lord in vain 17,000 times.

Priest: Let’s see… [consulting chart]… Name in Vain… 17,000 times… [moving fingers in perpendicular motions until they meet]… that’s 100 Hail Marys.  Wait; was that during the Ravens/Steelers game?

Jenn: Yes, Father.

Priest: Make it 50.  You were under duress.

Jenn: Love it.  I wonder if I can get it to 25, given that they were all in the last 60 seconds of the game.

I've already given Jenn her wedding present.  I’m not going into detail about it but it made her cry.  Call it a preemptive strike, because I know I’m going to be a mess, watching her walk down the aisle to marry the luckiest guy in the Mid-Atlantic.

The little girl is all grown up now.

Director’s DVD Commentary: The reception is downtown in the afternoon, so Pinky and I are staying the night at a hotel within crawling distance.  I was going to wear my long wool coat and fedora, but it’s expected to be around 60 degrees.  I’ll be a big enough of a mess, without adding flop sweat to the equation.

I’m going to have to step on it Sunday, though, because the Steelers game won’t be on local TV.  To get a seat, I’ll have to get out to my local sports bar by noon.  It’ll be like, “Sorry we can’t have breakfast, Pinky… I got to GO!”

Anyway, what I’m saying is that I probably won’t have a post up this weekend.  I’m sure you will be able to adjust…

Poster Boy for Cynicism

Are posters a “thing” any more?  I mean aside from at my place? 

I know I've always had posters up on the walls… I think I got it from my parents.  Of course they put theirs in our basements or rec rooms or laundry rooms, as opposed to the living room, like I do.

But I’ve been wondering if my folks’ old decorating habits affected my developing personality, because as I think back, some of the messages were pretty telling.

It started with my maternal grandfather, The Storyteller.  He used to have this on an orange felt pennant, displayed in his basement.

I never fully understood that one until I got a bit older, but from an early age, I got the hint that people suck.  And grandpas know things, so I believed it.

Even as an elementary school student, I understood this one that my parents had up:

A poster like this says, “There will be no arguing about bedtime.”

Our poster was yellow with black script, but was otherwise the same.  I just wish I could find which version of the Bible this is in.  I bet the big Moneychangers scene goes full on Rambo.

They also had this religiously themed poster:

This one looks exactly like the one we had.  In fact, I would say it is the actual one, if I thought my parents knew how to upload a picture to Flickr.

I came of age during Watergate, so I naturally picked up a cynical attitude regarding politics in general, and Richard Nixon in particular.  In order to curry favor with my parents, I brought this poster home with me from the local Spencer Gifts.

This was up in my room for ages.  Dad says it might have cost us a homebuyer or two, when they were trying to sell our house in Columbus.  It later found a home out in our Barn.

During a vacation to San Francisco in 1976, we found this poster in a little postcard shop.

This is a reproduction of DaVinci’s Last Supper, only starring Nixon, all of his advisers and other Watergate players.  That’s supposed to be Martha Mitchell on the phone behind the table, who was renowned for spilling things to the press.  The phone, of course, is bugged, and you can see another bug under the table.

I had this up in the Barn for years.  When I moved out to Cleveland, I had it professionally matted and framed.  I hung it in my dinning room, where as you know, Italians traditionally hang reproductions of the Last Supper.  I still have it around here somewhere…  Eventually these things lose their Thumb-in-the-Eye-of-the-Establishment credibility.

Back in the 70s, no self-respecting hippy was without the venerable “Desiderata” poem up on the wall.

Poster available at www.desiderata.com

We never had that poster, but I’d seen it at the local Spencer’s.  (I spent a lot of time hanging out in the gag gift section.  But I could never afford the fake poo.)  It was later made into a spoken-word 45-rpm single. 

I never heard that, but I DID hear something similar.  National Lampoon did a recorded parody of the Desiderata, called the “Deteriorata.”  Written by Tony Hendra, it took the stilted phrasing of the original and turned it into something far more cynical.

I know this is pretty dense, but have a quick look.  I used to pull some of the individual lines out to use when signing yearbooks…

“Let not the sands of time get in your lunch.”

“Be assured that a walk through the ocean of most souls would scarcely get your feet wet.”

“Take heart amid the deepening gloom, that your dog is finally getting enough cheese,”  (this is a shot at one of the frequent TV commercial pitches for dog food) “and reflect that whatever misfortune may be your lot, it could only be worse in Milwaukee.”

This stuff was gold.  Even in college, I read this for an Oral Interpretation assignment.  It killed because none of the other students had heard it, and the professor was happy to hear it again.  He even corrected me on a line I had wrong.

My favorite current poster is one I've had up in a frame since the mid-80s.  The classics never go out of style.

My boss once offered me $20 for it.  See, his father's name was Art.

So look around at your home decorations, even out in the garage, or down in the basement.  What might seem fun and funny to you might have a profound effect on young, growing minds.

I mean, look how I turned out…

Pledge THIS

My apologies for not posting Thursday night, as is my custom.  I’m off today, so I’m having a go at it this morning afternoon.  Last night I was too keyed up in anticipation of Liz Lemon’s wedding on “30 Rock.”  Actually it was kind of traumatic, because I realized that now both Tina Fey AND Liz Lemon are married.  Gah!  Even my imaginary life can’t catch a break.

It was the only white dress she had.

A few weeks ago, I thought I’d be able to take a break from blogging politics, but even after the election, the Republicans are still acting as destructively as ever.  It starts with the dreaded Fiscal Cliff.

I mentioned in comments of an earlier post that to me, Fiscal Cliff sounds like the name of a punk band, although it would probably have to be spelled, Physcal Clyff.  (No doubt most would mispronounce it as “Physical Cliff.”)  It sounds like the combination of Rascal Flatts and Wyld Stallyns.

In Pittsburgh, they’d be called Wyld Stallyinz.  N’at.

Anyway, despite President Obama winning the election by a projected 5 million votes, while campaigning on the issue of raising taxes on the Jet Set crowd, there remains a great deal of foot-dragging on the other side of the aisle.  I’m not sure if it’s all for show, to ensure they can’t be accused of “compromising” too easily with a pinko Communist Muslim Kenyan, or if they really mean it.

I think they’re still reflexively opposing everything Obama wants to do, just from force of habit.  I think there will be some kind of agreement before we hit the cliff’s edge.  The Republicans don’t want to be blamed for sinking the entire middle class by appearing to want to protect only their corporate benefactors.  But watch out for any new angle where they can protect the rich, tank the country and shuffle the blame to the Democrats.  It’s never too early to stake out the campaign issues for 2016.

It’s sad that so much of this obstinacy stems from the legendary No Tax Pledge they’ve all taken, to Grover Norquist.  He’s the guy that has systematically, over a number of years, obtained pledges from every GOP Senator and Representative, never to raise taxes under any circumstances, for anyone, by even a single cent.  This includes eliminating current loopholes and tax shelters, levying fees, or enabling any other revenue generating method.

The “hammer” is that if anyone violates the No Tax Pledge, Norquist will spend a buttload of (other people’s) money to campaign against said violator in his next election, calling him a lying, untrustworthy, flip-flopping, big government spend-monkey, or in other words, a Democrat.

Besides the general lack of backbone, what irks me is that they’ve all taken this pledge to a single guy rather than pledging to do what’s right for the good of the country.  I mean, who the hell is this guy anyway, to hold the rest of us hostage?  He’s never run for anything or earned a single vote.  He’s just another corporate stooge who’s looking out for his own interest and that of his rich friends.  Fuck.  Him.

I think there’s a simple campaign to counteract this clown.  Granted, it will take money to get it out there, and that’s probably a pretty big obstacle.  But a candidate could counter that it’s going to have to take both increasing revenue AND cutting back on some sacred cows and take a reasonable look at spending, in order to get the deficit back under control.  There is no magic bullet or accounting trick that will handle so big a task.  This candidate should boldly state that he’s NOT going to sacrifice the well being of every American just to protect the precious few who have managed to enrich themselves on the backs of the middle class.  He should talk numbers and hammer the income gap between the 2% and the rest of us.  It can be done; all that’s needed is some backbone.

The other conservative prong of attack is to vilify Susan Rice for the assault on our embassy in Libya.  As I wrote in prior posts, this is a purely political play.  There were a whole fistful of American Embassy attacks that resulted in lives lost, during the Bush years, but we never heard a peep about them.  Now the GOP is falling all over themselves to blame this ambassador for going on the Sunday news shows and relaying details about the situation, as provided the CIA and White House.  

The goal of all this heavy-duty smearing is to keep Ms. Rice from becoming the next Secretary of State, when Hilary Clinton steps down.  And it doesn’t really even have anything to do with Rice!  The real tipoff that it’s all about politics is how they keep shilling for John Kerry to be appointed.

You remember John Kerry… he was the guy the Republicans crucified during the 2004 election.  They called him an un-American, traitor, Commie, hippy coward and made up horrible lies about his military and public service record.  And now they think he’d make a good Secretary of State?  When were they full of shit, in 2004 or now?  Can’t have it both ways.

But see, the reason they want Kerry at State is he would have to give up his seat in the Senate, where Scott Brown could run again.  This time, he wouldn’t be campaigning against the populist juggernaut that was Elizabeth Warren, or Kerry himself.  This way the GOP can reclaim a Senate seat and displace a powerful senator without having to actually defeat him.

I’m not sure what good a single senator is going to do them, but it’s a start.

Now, I don’t know who the best person would be for Secretary of State; there’s bound to be a lot of behind-the-scenes dirt on everyone.  To me, though, the Secretary of State does the President’s bidding.  The message will be the same, regardless of who delivers it.  The Senate is where laws are made and a single senator can wield considerable power, especially an experienced one.  I’d prefer to build on the progress made in the last election and try to get something done for the good of the country.

So who to put at State?  I’d almost suggest another try with Colin Powell, but I think his credibility is shot, after the Iraq War debacle.  But I have a better idea.  We need someone that by his mere presence says that this shit has got to stop or else things are going to get dangerous.  And I have the perfect man for the job…

“When you absolutely, positively have to kill every mutha fucka in the room.”

Director’s DVD Commentary: Yes, I know the quote is from a different movie than the picture… so sue me.

Holiday Guide to Yinzer Lingo

I saw this on PittGirl’s Pittsburgh Magazine article last week and it cracked me right the hell up.  If you’re not from The Burgh, consider this as kind of a visitor’s guide to our fair city, including our peculiar lingo.  The accents are especially thick… that’s probably what I like the most about it.  They probably should have subtitled it.  Because I’m not too proud to blatantly steal something I find elsewhere, I now present to you the Twelve Days of Pittsburgh N’at.

Odd Bits - The Culinary Lawn Darts Edition

I don’t have a single coherent topic to discuss today, so we’ll have to make do with a couple of smaller ones.

Just Say Moe

Someone emailed me this and I just had to post it…

Billy Idol must have gotten the song wrong.  This way is better.

If at First You Don’t Secede… Please Reconsider

All the talk about people signing online petitions urging their states to secede is cracking me up.  Talk about Stooges…

While the phenomenon has been reported all over the country, it’s tending to be concentrated in the South.  (Go figure.)  All these bastions of Amurkan Exceptionalism and the glory of the old red, white and blue, want to turn tail as soon as they don’t get their way.  The portion of the country that crucified the Dixie Chicks for daring to speak ill of the (idiot) president now wants to disown the country the claimed to revere.  It’s no longer the Tea Party, it’s the I’m Taking My Ball and Going Home Party. 

I say, do it!  Go!  Secede now and good riddance.  This would be the easiest way to repair our gene pool, lower teenage pregnancy, raise literacy and raise America’s collective IQ.  Of course the Jerry Springer Show will lose 80% of its guests, but I can live with that.

But can we please keep Louisiana?  They’ve got Mardi Gras, jambalya, fan boats, drive-thru daiquiris, and I don’t want Jessica to have to get a passport just to visit Cassie again.  Because it will be surrounded by several other secessionist states, hence cut off from the rest of us, Louisiana can be our Alaska, only with gators instead of bears.

Maybe the unhappy conservatives won’t secede at all, they’ll just make good on their threats to leave the country.  I’ve got the perfect destination for them…

Fork Me

In my prior post, I wrote about how I needed to go out and buy an electric carving knife and a large serving fork.  (Trust me, it was fascinating, if not a bit disturbing.)

I was off yesterday, so I added that to the list of errands for the day.  I thought I had a nice, efficient trip planned, but it basically turned into a daylong clusterfuck.

CF #1: Getting gas.  This shouldn't have been any trouble, but the gas pump wouldn't take my credit card.  (It’s one of those Visas sponsored by the gas station, which gets me a rebate or .08 off per gallon.)  Anyway, it said I had to go see the cashier.

The problem with that was that I wanted to fill up, so I didn't know exactly how much to ask for.  I took a stab at $50 and hoped for the best.  But then when I went back out, it still wouldn't work.  So I go back in the station again.  By this time, there was another customer that was having the same problem on another pump.  The guy came out and basically kept pushing buttons and jiggling the handle like it was a toilet the charged by the gallon, until the pump sprang to life.

Unfortunately, it sprang to life at the non-discounted price.  I pointed it out to the cashier, who in his limited English, intimated that I’d pushed the wrong buttons on the keypad inside.  I hadn’t, but not wanting to spend the rest of my day arguing at a gas pump, I said “screw it,” and just paid the higher pump price.  (I mean, it would have come to a savings of $1.12 overall.)  Pissed me off though, because the $50 came up just short of filling the tank.  That meant I wouldn’t be able to calculate my mileage since my last fill-up, nor after my next.

CF #2: I had an appointment to get a new contact lens prescription at 1:00 and I had been hoping to stop in for some Wendy’s beforehand, but due to spending an extra 10 minutes trying to buy gas, I wouldn't be able to get there in time.  At my next destination, I wanted to get my eyes checked, pick up my electric knife and fork, and do some other shopping for Christmas presents and groceries.  You know where I can do all that?  Walmart, of course. 

Yes, I know, I should hate going to Wally’s, what with their being the kings of employee mistreatment and all, but hey, I want my one-stop shopping.

By the way, when Pinky learned I was going there for contacts, a knife and a fork, she naturally requested that I also pick up about 11,000 more things, hence the groceries.

The eye test went fine… It’s no secret that I really need bifocals now, and contacts just don’t work very well for both distance and close-up vision.  The doctor is trying a thing where my right eye is keyed for distance, and my left is for close-up.  I have to try this variation for a week before I order the lens stock.  It’s kind of weird because as I look around, everything to my left is blurry, like I need to get a new lens.  And I keep walking in circles to the right.  This explains a lot about old people.

CF #3: My next objective was to procure my new utensils, but this proved to be as elusive to me as clear vision.  I couldn't believe that in a place as big as Wally’s, they had neither an electric knife OR a big serving fork.  I mean, for Pete’s sake… they had an assortment of knives that would make Jack the Ripper envious.  I think that’s a “thing” now… especially for those that watch all the cooking shows.  They have to have enough knives to do a circus act.

And what’s with the forks?  They had rows and rows of spoons, ladles, tongs, strainers, and spatulas, but no goddamn forks??  I wondered if someone had put his eye out with a serving fork, so now it had become the culinary equivalent of the lawn dart.  I mean; there wasn’t even an empty hook where the forks used to be.

I circled the kitchen appliance aisles for 15 minutes and couldn’t find squat.  So all told, I went to pick up contact lenses and a knife and fork.  I left with $167 worth of groceries, no lenses, no knife, and no fork.  Fork’n A…

CF #4: Even checking out was an adventure.  I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I found a register that had one lady with half a cart of groceries already rung and bagged, with an other half to go.  There was one more guy with about 20 items, then me.

FIFTEEN MINUTES LATER, we hadn’t moved an inch.  The lady had 4 or 5 of these WIC checks, and there was apparently some kind of involved procedure necessary, where the casher looked at an item, examined the fine print on a WIC check, scanned the item and then discussed the situation with the customer.

I don’t blame the lady for using the WIC checks, but there has to be a more efficient way of conducting the transaction.  This was just mind-numbing.  I wanted to tell the guy that rolled up behind me, “Run!  Run for your life!  This is the Black Hole of Walmart, it’s Purgatory on Earth!” 

At least there weren’t any screaming kids in the vicinity.  (If there had been, it was fortunate that I couldn’t find my big fork.  I’da used it, real good.)

CF #5: Later, as I pondered my fate while eating a delicious Baconator burger at Wendy’s, I realized that I should probably try my luck at Target, which happened to be right nearby.  But when I got there, I had the same problem… rows and rows of every utensil, but no forks.  And no electric knives.  But WAIT!  There it is!  I found a single steel serving fork, down at the end of the row of hooks.  The trip wouldn't be a total loss.  (And I wouldn't have to turn in the “back-scratching fork” from my nightstand.)

I eventually spotted a Target worker and asked about the electric knives.  I hope he wasn’t too startled by the big, loud, wild-eyed guy, stomping around his department, waving a giant metal fork.  He couldn’t find the electric knives either, but he called around.  The word came back that they were in with the crock pots.

Really?  What the hell is up with that?  All kitchen things with a plug get lumped in together?  Made no sense to me.  And I’d been through that aisle too, without finding anything.  But armed with the knowledge that they were supposed to be there, I found a couple boxes jammed in between two rows of crock pots. 

Victory is mine!

And the kicker is… the electric knife comes with a big metal fork.

Now I just have to wait for Pinky to make something that needs carving.  I’ll probably treat it the way a kid treats a new toy… The first month I’ll use it at every opportunity… on ham, roasts, pizza, sandwiches, pickles, egg salad…  By the end of the next month, it will either be broken or I won’t know where it is.  (But I’ll be sure to check the nightstand before I blame Pinky.)

Odd Bits - The Rivalry Edition

Big doin’s afoot this weekend, which makes for good jumping-off points for a couple of stories.  But first…

The Game

Today is the annual clash between Ohio State and Michigan. 

Having learned college football while growing up in Ohio, our family has always considered this to be the biggest college game of the year.  In fact, my brother and nephew are on their way to Columbus for the game right now.  It will be the boy’s first Michigan game and he told me how excited he was to be going.  His father (the OSU grad) has obviously raised him properly.

All I can say is that if the high school in Red Dawn had been named for the Buckeyes instead of the Wolverines, they would have mopped up the invading army in half the time.

Or on the other hand, they might have spent so much time getting tattooed; they might never have even noticed the invasion.

Fear the nut!

Brown Out

The other big game for us is the Steelers/Browns game on Sunday.  This will be the first Steelers game all year that isn't on local TV, so I’ll be off to the sports bar tomorrow, with my wing-man, Sitcom Kelly.  (When you’re done here, check out her most recent post!)

FYI, because I’ll be at the bar, I won’t be Live-Tweeting the game.  I don’t want to risk spilling beer on my iPad.  OK, I never spill a drop, but I don’t trust Sitcom Kelly.

The other day, my blog friend Val at Flying Platypi told an embarrassing story about being on the road and really having to “GO.”

It reminded me of a similar story from one of our many road trips from Toledo to Cleveland for the annual Steelers game.  I wrote a post about them back in 2009, so if you've never seen it, click the link… it’ll be worthwhile.  (Lots of vintage Steelers pictures!)  But this is one story I didn't include.

By the end of our tenure in Ohio, Dad was buying maybe 30 tickets to the game for our friends and neighbors, and we’d caravan our way across the Ohio turnpike to Cleveland.  One year, my buddy John and I rode in the back of my sister’s boyfriend’s pickup truck.  (It had a cap over the bed.)  We brought along a 6-pack to split and made ourselves comfortable.

Before too long, though, I had to pee.  Normally, I would have just rapped on the back window and had the driver pull over, either at a rest stop or somewhere beside some bushes.  But since he didn't really know where he was going, he had to stick with the caravan.  And in this age before cell phones, there was no way to communicate with the rest of the cars.  So I had to tough it out.

Some guys would have just flopped it over the back gate and let it fly.  I was much too modest for that.  I can’t even pee when there’s someone standing at the urinal beside me.  I was beginning to consider how I might pee out one of the little gaps between the tailgate and the side of the truck bed.  But every time I worked up the courage to try it, we’d pass someone.  I didn't have the heart to leave pee mist all over some unsuspecting driver’s windshield, so I held it all the way to the hotel.

By the time we arrived, I was in severe pain.  In fact, when we pulled up out front and I crawled out of the bed, I couldn't even stand up straight.  I shuffled into the hotel lobby like Quasi-freakin-Modo, desperately looking for the men’s room.  Probably took me five solid minutes to empty, because any elasticity in my bladder was long gone, having been stretched beyond recognition.

Stick a Fork in Him, He’s Done

This has been a total turkey week, all week long.  Not only did I have turkey on Thanksgiving (at my brother’s house), Pinky made one last Sunday.  That turkey picture I used in the last post?  That was it.  The shot was taken long before I assaulted it with a knife.

It’s my job to carve the turkey.  After last year, I was determined to get myself an electric carving knife, but I promptly forgot about it.  I have some decent knives, but it’s just easier with the electric one.  I can’t get the nice sandwich slices; once I start to cut, I always end up with hunks that break away.

The problem this year was that I couldn't find my big fork… you know… the one you use to hold the bird steady?  I've had this old plastic set for years… a spatula, ladle, serving spoon and fork.  Everything else was present and accounted for, so where’s the fork?

I tore through our utensil drawer, grumbling the whole time. 

“Where’s the damned fork?  I didn't leave it anywhere… I always put things back where they belong!  When was the last time you used it?  Where else could it be??  Dammit dammit dammit…”

I ended up using a regular silverware fork and it didn't go well.  The pan slid around the counter, the bird slid around the pan and my hand cramped up from holding the little fork so tightly.  And it’s really hard to hold a fork steadily when you have turkey juice on your hands.

So we had our “chunky-style” turkey and all was well.  It was delicious.  Cut to Monday morning, as I swung my legs out of bed and looked down at my bedside table.

Fuck.  Me.

I totally forgot that several months earlier, I’d been having this problem with getting an itch at night, between my shoulder blades.  I put the fork there within easy reach, so I could get a scratch at night without having to get out of bed.  (Otherwise, I’d have to get up and rub up against the door frame, like a bear on a tree.)  The fork had been there so long, I didn't really even see it anymore.  Idiot.

I’m off Monday, and the day’s chore will be getting my ass out to the store for an electric carving knife and a new serving fork.  And I probably owe Pinky an apology.

The Obligatory Giving of the Thanks Post

OK, Internet, you win.  I saw your requirement that every blogger do a post about what they’re thankful for, so I will comply.  And that has nothing to do with my trying to come up with a suitable topic for today’s post.  Plus… I have it pretty good.

Today I am thankful for…

…Having people around with whom I can celebrate holidays.  That wasn't always the case, when I lived in cities that were far from any family members.  The fact that I can go to my brother’s house for Thanksgiving and Christmas gives me comfort and joy beyond measure.  Which brings me to…

…Having two practically perfect nephews.  Daniel (13) and Sam (7) are the best kids I’ve ever met.  They’re polite, whip-smart, well behaved and always at least act as if they’re happy to see me.  I can sit and talk with them for hours and the time just seems to evaporate.

…Having both parents still around, with whom I can yak with and receive their sage counsel.  A lot of people my age can’t say that.  I enjoy just hanging out with them, when I can.  It’s always a lot of fun.  Just think of all the crazy stories about them I've told you… Realize that all the goofball stuff that I'VE done is likely the result of their ongoing influence.

…Having clear memories of all four grandparents.  As I learned when I spoke at Pinky’s assisted living facility, a great many people have no memory of their grandparents, due either to estrangement or early deaths.  I was 11 when my first grandma died, so I was old enough that I still have many wonderful memories of her.  Plus, I still have my paternal grandfather, who will turn 97 this February.  The guy is a freak of nature and is as tough as the day is long.  I’m thankful that I have his genes rambling around in me somewhere.

…Having a Pinky in my life, who takes amazing care of me.  Even when she’s driving me bugshit crazy, I have to admit that she takes a lot off my plate and runs the everyday business of our lives.  It’s hard to believe I’ve been with her longer than anyone else, ever.  All I can say is that she has amazing tolerance.  I’m not the easiest person to put up with on a daily basis

Oh, and she makes a pretty mean turkey, too!

…Having a job I love for the last 15 years (in March).  While there have been ups and downs along the way, I've generally worked with some great people and made some wonderful friends.  Right now, I love my boss, I love my co-workers and I don’t have to wear a name tag!  Even though my company is still up for sale, meaning I can’t necessarily expect that things will continue as is, I’m ridiculously happy there.  There are zillions of people, employed or not, that can’t say the same thing.

...Having a couple of life-long friends who are always there for me.  I don't make guy friends easily... good thing I met these guys early on in life.  They've been there ever since.  I know if I was ever in trouble, they would be here in a heartbeat  (and vice versa).

Don't give me any trouble... Would YOU want to have to answer to these two?

…Having generally good health.  After having heart surgeries in 2002 and 2007, I maintain a steady beat with very few spells of arrhythmia.  Even my hives (Delayed Pressure Urticaria) seem to be on hold lately.  Ever since the weather turned in September, the hives have ceased to be a problem.  I’m not saying they’re gone; I still get the lumps on my body from time to time. 

I got them on my knees after kneeling down to go through a low-level shelf.  And I got them on my forearms from extended use of an iron armrest.  But they weren't really bad in either place.  But on my hands, where they tend to be the most painful… nothing.  I can push a shopping cart, noodle with my guitar or carve a turkey, without any hives popping up the next day.  All of those activities usually generate itchy, swollen hands.

Maybe it’s just the change of seasons… the hives are always worst in the summer.  But still, I’ve had the problem in past winters, especially when scraping my windshield.  So I have hope that this weird condition of mine might have finally run its course.

…Having teams to root for that are generally competitive.  I can count on the Steelers and Penguins being in the thick of a playoff chase, year in and year out.  The Buckeyes have been on an incredible run of winning football, and “bowl-eligible” or not, they’re still a formidable team this year.  And even the Orioles made the playoffs.  The Pirates… well, OK, they gave us hope right up through August, which lasted several months longer than they’re usually relevant. 

It’s so much more fun to be a fan of teams that aren't mathematically eliminated by the halfway point of their seasons.  Imagine rooting for a city’s teams where a winning season is an anomaly (Cleveland) and all you have to look forward to every year is the inevitable disappointment.

…Having people actually use their computers, on purpose, to come see what I have to say.  I’m so thankful that you take the time out of your day to come here and check in with me and my random bullshit.  I’m especially thankful for those of you that participate via comments.  That way, I know what you think, as opposed to when I examine my StatCounter data and assign you your opinions.  (Yay!  They agree with me again!)  And I'm especially, especially thankful for those whom I've gotten to meet in real life, some recently, others not so recent.  Getting to know these people has been a joy and their friendship means the world to me.  Thank you for encouraging my behavior.

Somehow, the winding path of my life has brought me to this happy place.  Everything’s OK.  I’m as content as I've ever been with what’s going on around here, so like I said,I have it pretty good.  My Thanksgiving wish is that you have the same good fortune.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friend.  Hope to see you again this weekend…