shutterboo

I’ve heard it my whole life.  “This is why we can’t have nice things.”  An excuse people use.  And now I’m one of those people.  Because of this:

A vase.  No big deal.  Other than the fact I sweated over the purchase of that vase for 30 minutes while at the store.  I remember the purchase – that makes it somewhat of a big deal.  And now that big deal is a goner.  So long, big deal.  It’s been real.

The hubs was trying to salvage what doggin toys we have left from the BDD.  He tucked Chase’s toy bin up on the mantle.  He didn’t do a good job.  As Humpty Dumpty had a great fall on to the brick hearth and shattered.  Well, the top shattered.

Note to self: No more glassware on the mantle.

Five long years ago, when I worked as a professional sorority girl (no, seriously, I was the associate director of finance thankyouverymuch) I was given a gift.  Well, it more like a left over from our convention that summer but I tell myself it was a gift.  And this gift was a violet.

Being the official flower of my organization, I have been given many violets over the years.  And I’ve killed them all.  As a bumbling college student, I had no idea how to take care of such a delicate plant.  It was when DAd recommended watering it from the bottom.  I placed my new gifted violet, still in its plastic terracotta pot, in a styrofoam bowl and watered it from the bottom.  Success.  My teammate then shared her secret: violet food.  And let me say Miracle Grow really does perform miracles.  My violet flourished.

And flourished it did.  I’ve re-potted it twice.  I took the time to turn its container so that it would grow gracefully.  And then I moved, stuck it on a shelf and it became a monster.

This thing got HUGE.  No matter how hard I tried to keep it growing straight, this bad dog bent over, sucking sunlight like an emo teen with fake fangs.  It couldn’t get enough of it.  My beautiful violet had a problem.  I overlooked it, was in denial and told myself nothing was wrong.  And then it happened.

This weekend, my bad dog of a violet was looking a little wimpy.  I took her down from the shelf, gave her fresh water and food, and placed her in the window.  She needed some R&R and I was making sure she got it.  But the leaves didn’t bounce back like I hoped they would.  It took a minute or so to realize it but it was confirmed last night: my violet was dying.

I thought for sure that I killed it.  I’ve been known to slip up and murder violets in the past; never mind this one has been in my possession for five years.  I scoured over the plant, lifting the sad little hairy leaves trying to figure out which dagger actually struck the jugular.  And then I saw it – the missing link – the one piece of evidence that might suggest this wasn’t murder but rather violet suicide.

This blood-hungry, sun-sucking plant was so gluttonous that she broke her own spine.  The weight of the leaves tipping over the top of pot slowly made the plant weak and vulnerable.  And the thick stem leading to its roots had turned gooey (yes, gooey) and she easily unplugged herself in my hand.  She didn’t even put up a fight.  So sad.  It’s tragic.

Leave it to the hubs to point out the obvious while I’m standing their holding the stem of my violet.  “Yeah, well it’s definitely dead now.”  Thank you, baby.  I never would have been able to piece that information together without your high level insight.

Could I have prevented this?  Probably.  A bigger home, a larger pot could have had her saving grace.  But hindsight’s 20/20.  So instead of playing coulda/woulda/shoulda, I’m moving on.  I had a five second funeral service over the trash can and will be holding a moment of silence this afternoon at 2p in the pod.  Feel free to join me.

You might think it’s too soon, but I will be purchasing a new violet at Kroger this weekend.  I need to fill the purple void as quickly as possible.  Rest in peace, my hairy little plant.

I so badly want to be that person that plays it cool.  Like David Wooderson in Dazed and Confused.  I’m not that way.  The only circumstance in which I could play anything cool would be if I were hit over the head with something heavy and left to  sit alone, quiet as a cucumber.  I kind of don’t want that to happen though because I dislike head injuries.

And because I haven’t bought my bedazzled helmet yet.

I only say this because I feel like I’m going to throw up right now.  I’m kind of nervous about this wedding thing tonight.  Granted, I’ll be with friends and once I get going I’ll be fine but right now, my coffee tastes like a big cup of worry.  I need someone to shake me like a screaming baby so I’ll snap out of this.

I was honestly excited and looking forward to today… until this morning.  I think because “today’s the day” and other news coming over the interweb waves have sent my stomach into a hizzy.  My self-confidence and any hope of “cool” I had were flushed down the toilet [as I overheard wonderful conversation about wood flooring from two stalls down].

Everything will be fine.  I like the kahuna and the kahuna likes me.  The Black Widow has a fancy bounce card of a bonnet to sit on it’s top.  And I can handle the pressure of this being a once-in-your-life event because I am good at this.  I just have to keep telling myself to keep my eye on the prize: wedding cake.  Oh, and Granger’s bag of Canon lenses.

OK.  I’m going there.  I’ve been keeping note of things I see happen in the public restroom located in our building and I just can’t hold back any longer.  The Interwebz have got to know my thoughts on this.  So bear with me.  Or come back tomorrow.  It might be TMI for ya.

The Setting: I work in an office that is one of many in a building.  We do not dominate the floor (as we’re on level one… or two if you count the basement) so we do not have our own restroom.  This is a tragedy and a blessing.  But since we do not have our own restroom, we use the building’s public restroom right down the hall.  It’s convenient.  But I’ve began to notice certain things about the ladies room.  Things that just rub me the wrong way.

The Socially Handicapped

I’ve said it a 100 times and I’ll say it again – the bathroom is not a playground.  Or a phone booth.  So why do women [who I know don't work on this floor] have private conversations in the restroom?  Ladies have sat down on the “bench” to chat, have stood and blocked the doorway to bend another’s ear and I don’t get it.  Why would you a) want to sit in a room that filled with disturbing sounds and smells to whine to a co-worker and b) risk getting caught by the person you’re gossiping about.  It makes no sense.

The cell phone conversations are a whole different thing.  And becoming more and more common.  I understand that people are busy and multitasking is a handy thing to do but yuck!  Every time I hear someone talking on their phone, I flush the toilet.  I enjoy blowing their cover.  But one lady stands at the sink with her phone on speaker.  And leaves it on speaker as I flush.  Um… huh?  Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in a chair or outside?  Again, confused.  So confused.

The Hoarder

There is a locker room downstairs in the building’s gym.  But the restroom is transformed some days with make-up and curling irons spread out on the vanity.  These ladies are getting ready at work.  What?  My advice: do this at home.  You look like a brazen hussy who shacked up last night and is doing some “last minute” freshening before clocking in.  I said it.  Brazen hussy.  Having your speaker phone on doesn’t help the situation.

The Stall Perferrer

I once read in Seventeen or YM or some teenage magazine long ago that most women prefer the last stall – so the first is usually the cleanest.  Since this bit of knowledge has been with me, I’ve always opted for stall numero uno.  The thing that irks me is that this stall is almost always dirty.  I’m guessing other people read that article too.  But I don’t know why they can’t clean up after themselves.  We’re all adults, right?

The Scaredy Cat

You’ve heard the phrase “hover or cover” I’m sure.  I’m here to tell you that you should just cover.  And then dispose of the cover.  Because I’m not particularly pleased to see tissue paper that’s touched another person’s butt just hanging out on a toilet.  Ew.  Just don’t hover – I know you’re the one messing up stall numero uno.

The Jack Haley

Jack Haley is noted as one of the worst NBA players of all times.  You know where I’m going with this so I’ll leave out the details.  I’m pretty sure the custodial services don’t do the happy dance when they see horrific stalls.  If your stomach is that upset, you should consider going home.  Blech.

The Cover Ups

What is up with that smelly shit people spray in the air?  Your crap doesn’t smell like country apple so quit trying to make believe it does.  Instead, flush.  That might even help out the Jack Haley folks.  Maybe this fru-fru stuff is the reason why womens congregate in the bathroom to chitchat.  Well, it’s a theory.

The Dumpers

There are women who only use the public restroom on this floor (sadly, the only relieving station I occupy) to go number two.  I see you shuffle from the elevator to the restroom and back to the elevator.  I hate you.  And your country apple poo.

The Grabber

Everything is hands-free except the paper towel dispenser [which really should have been the first automated].  And there are two women who I’ve seen multiple times grab their towels before they wash their hands.  This is not the process we were taught in kindergarten!  These ladies put their icky hands all over the get-your-paper-towel lever.  I glare at them.  And walk to the other dispenser to make a statement.

The Group Poop

My coined phrase for when everyone and their sister has come to the restroom to make a deposit.  This is everything I hate about this restroom: bad smells, bad sounds, country apple wafting around, stall numero uno isn’t available and someone is always on the phone.  Once a Group Poop has been identified, I slowly back out the door and tell myself I can wait 30 minutes.

The Trustful Ones

Like I said, there’s a “bench”.  I thought it was a baby changing station but I could be wrong – it’s happened before.  But women use it as a bench.  To sit and talk.  Or throw their bags on.  You heard right,  they leave their personal belongings (purses, wallets, ID cards, briefcases) by the door, unattended…. could be picked up and carted off by strangers.  But they still manage to take their phones to the stall with them.  Yep, priorities are in line.

I live in a nice neighborhood.  It’s an older neighborhood with tall, shady trees and modest homes.  Most yards are clipped and pruned to look quite lovely.  Everyone is pleasant.  I like it a lot.  Like I said, it’s nice.

It’s not, however, nice-nice.   By that I mean we don’t have cursive writing on our street signs or matching mailboxes.  We have a neighborhood association but it’s “optional”.  There’s only a couple lots with three-car garages.  You occasionally see a BMW or Mercedes but for the most part Toyotas and Hondas live in the driveways.  It’s a nice neighborhood but it isn’t Malibu, if you get my drift.

So imagine my shock when I saw a bright red Ferrari Testarossa in our neighborhood.

My drive by shooting - this is real life, my friends.

My initial thought was… actually, I don’t think I had an initial thought.  Because it was parked in his front yard.  Not in the driveway – in the yard, on the grass, like Bob Barker was going to walk out the front door and the Ultimate Showcase Showdown would begin.  Thoughts did not appear.  Neither did Bob Barker.

Why does this bother me?  The fact that if he bought that car new, it would cost more than his house doesn’t even boggle my mind that much.    Or the fact that he’s killing his grass, because I understand yard work isn’t for everyone.  But the thing is he doesn’t have a garage.  Yah.

I repeat: HE DOESN’T HAVE A GARAGE!

Go on… you can close your mouth… I know, every time I think about it I lose a brain cell.

This bright red Ferrari – albeit, probably 15 years old – sits on the front lawn in show-car fashion in the sun.  He washes and waxes all the time.  But leaves it in the sun.  When winter started coming around, I was wondering what he was going to cook up – would we see a bright blue tarp covering a bright red Ferrari on dead grass?  Nope.  Instead it moved.  Most likely to wherever he was storing his twin jet-skis because those ended up in his driveway.  Because that makes sense.

How does someone drop the money on a super-fine, super-fast, super-mid-life-crisis bright red Ferrari Testarossa and not have a garage?  Google explains that this car would have probably set him back about $75,000.  That’s a lot of bones.  For a used car.  That was built in the early 1990s.  A garage… about $20,000 for a two-car.  My line of thinking on this is If he can afford a Testarossa, twin jet-skis and that Jaguar that is his “everyday car”, he can afford to build a garage.  He gets no stamp of approval from this gal.

So what brought on this little rant?  I saw the Ferrari yesterday.  In all its bright red gloriousness.  Still parked on the grass.  Like a show-car in the Serengeti because the grass is tall.

And so the cycle repeats.

Let me preface this post with it’s nothing personal.  Seriously.  I don’t know enough about Michigan to despise its complete existence.  Afterall, so many good things have come from it like the birth of the automotive industry, Motown, recreational boating, lyricists like Eminem and Kid Rock… not hating on it.

But at this very moment, I’m not a fan.  Of Michigan.  The state.  Because it’s stealing one of my favorite people in the world.

Boo Michigan, boo.

So the girl formerly known as The Disappointer (Mel apparently didn’t get a kick out that), walks in the room on Saturday and it automatically brightens.  And so I start a game of 20 questions.

“Did you win big at the track yesterday?”  No.

“Did you bring your Hawaii pictures?”  No.

“Ooooh, is that Hawaiian pineapple in that tub?”  No.

“Jeez Mel, you’re just full of disappointments today.”

Mel replies, “Then I guess you don’t want to hear the big news.”

My brain automatically goes to “baby” but she wouldn’t tell me good news like that.  Not baby news at least.  Of course, I was right.  Disregard thoughts of puppies and rainbows, be prepared for dropping bombs:

“We’re moving to BFE, Michigan.  In June.”

Gah.  Let the flood gates open.

Look at that face.  How could I not miss a face like that?

Ladies and gents, Interwebz of mankind, I don’t deny the fact that I’m emotional (I’m known to cry) but I did not expect to ruin my lovely eye make-up that early in the day.  On Derby Day at that.  I’d heard the whispers of a move to Nashville but I avoided the topic like the plague, practiced earmuffs whenever Thurmeo talked about work.  If I ignore it, it won’t happen, right?  Not true.

But Michigan?  MICHIGAN?!?  Again, I hiss boo to you, Mitten State.

Cooking with My Mel is history.  Spending too much at the outlet mall in Edinburgh is a distant memory.  UFC fight nights and rounds of Catch Phrase… oh how I’ll miss those rounds of beating the mens at Catch Phrase.  No blackberry pickens at Huber’s Orchard this summer.  The fairy dust is finally beginning to settle in that kitchen of hers.  *tear*

So this means I have 50 or so days to get my fill of Melanie so that I’ll be okay with her departure.  And somehow I’m going have to figure out how to get my lame self up to the middle of Michigan to visit.  But until it gets here, I’ve decided I’m not going to talk about it any more.  I’ve got more important things to focus on.  Like sending them off in style.

I’ve decided I need to start wearing a helmet.  And possibly body armor.  Because I fall more often than I’d like.  I’m not joking.  I fall down boom more than the average bear.

Just last night for instance.  I fell.  Chase has this naughty little habit of “attacking” the BDD when she exits the house (it’s a dominance thing, no worries).  I managed to stay three steps ahead of BDD, shooing Chase in the process and then BOOM!, I’m lying on the deck.  I have no idea why, but I’m shocked by this.

And then I hear, from a distance, “You OK?”  I start looking around.  Crap.  I’m hearing voices.  “You OK?”  It’s the neighbor man, two doors down on the left, that I still haven’t met [after living here for three years].  The people with the really pretty deck and red umbrellas that party all summer and send yummy smells of grilled food wafting into our yard.  Why don’t we know these people?  Hello?  They cookout all. the. time.  I look up and nod, “Yep.  I’m OK.”

And I’m mortified.  Thanks for asking.

I wasn’t hurt.  My wrist was throbbing from landing on it and I now have a red spot on my foot I’m declaring as deck burn.  But I can determine by how red my cheeks were,  my ego was flushed down the toilet.  I am not happy with this dog.

The BDD.  Do NOT let that face fool you.  We should have named her Dozer.

Unfortunately, this is not the first time this has happened.  With the BDD.  She swiped my leg out from under me last spring.  Luckily, I was in the grass and made out with just a small grass stain.  I would have been especially irked if I had landed in dog poo.  Who am I kidding, I probably would have cried while I tried to wash my pants and hold my nose at the same time.

I manage to fall without the help of the BDD though.  Imagine that.

I was roller skating at work on concrete floors in a familiar place and decided to show off my mad skating skillz.  So Miss Susan (not PodMate… yes, we have two Susans… it gets confusing for them) throws her long gam up on a column and I proceed to duck down to skate under it.  But I chicken out.  And instead of avoiding the stunt set-up, I fell flat on my ass.

I always thought I had enough cushion back there.  But on concrete floors, it does not matter how big your tookus is.  My behind felt nothing the rest of the afternoon except for a searing sting.  I somehow jacked up my tailbone.  Everyone said “You should go to the doctor.”  Well I did my homework (thank you WebMD) and it said that one of two things would happen: 1) get an X-ray and send me home with pain meds or 2) stick a finger up my rear and send me home with pain meds.  Since you can’t do anything to help a tailbone, it just has to heal on its own, I figured it wasn’t worth the co-pay or the violation.  Me and Advil became best friends.

And I told everyone that asked about it that I was training for the Roller Derby.  That seemed way cooler.

I bought an air donut.  Because the hubs and I were going on a trip.  To Germany.  With eight hours of flight travel.  Great.  And then we took the scenic route in a car, following the Rhine, from Dusseldorf to Munchen.  By the time we got home, the donut was busted.  And my rear still ached.  It hurt to sit for weeks.  It hurt to even sit up in the bed for a few more weeks.  It was bad.  I hated it.

So a helmet may have not have helped in that situation but it would have at Slugger Field.  Slipped my sorry flip flop on wet concrete [full story here].  Banged my skull on wet concrete.  That was traumatic.  Especially with it being a work function, HR seeing the whole thing and then me proceeding to constantly weep and proclaim “I’m a pussy” over and over again.  Bet the CEO got a kick out of that.  If I had a helmet, crisis [and complete utter embarrassment] would have been averted.

When we walked out of the rain and into Home Depot this past Friday night, the hubs laughed at me as I dragged my sandals heavily across the rug.  I had to make sure every droplet of dew was off my shoes.  Because that place is nothing but a sea of concrete.  He wouldn’t be laughing if I’d fallen though.  He probably would have panicked.  Like I did.  And start worrying that I was dying.  Like I did.  (What?  It was BAD and I still have a bump on my head.  At least it’s not the size of Nebraska any more.  More like Rhode Island… or Boston… if there’s a difference.)

I trip, stumble and stagger over everything.  Dog bones, dresser drawers, tables, walls… and I think I need to make an investment.  The sad part is the hubs agrees.  He said he’d help me pick one out this evening.  He gets no points for agreeing with me on this one though.

Since I’m pondering the idea of wearing a helmet 24/7, I tried to think of some other positive things it could do for me.  Because, let’s be honest here, normal people do not wear helmets unless they’re playing a contact sport.  So what benefits would I get out of it other than keeping heady injuries at bay?

• I wouldn’t ever really need styling products ever again as my hair would never see the light of day.
• That being said, I’d never have a bad hair day.
• And it would take less time for me to get ready in the morning.
• If it was blue, it would bring out my eyes.
• On days that I don’t want to wear makeup, I could attach a visor like LaDainian Tomlinson’s helmet.
• Visor would refrain me from ever needing sunglasses again.
• Built-in speakers – I could dance my way into walls and still be safe.
• With limited perifial vision, I could hire a chauffeur and I’d never have to worry about parking again.
• I could ignore everyone around me and blame it on the helmet.
• Bedazzle.  Nuf said.
• I wouldn’t have to talk on the phone any more.  I try to avoid it if possible even now.  But there is bluetooth…
• My neck would be super strong having to support the extra weight.  But still slim and feminine.
• I could do Darth Vader impressions with more ease: Luuuke *inhale…exhale*, I ammm *inhale…exhale* yooour fah-thah.
• Would be prepared for impromptu bike rides.  Or riding horses.  If I rode horses.  Or playing golf.
• I’d have a reason to be grumpy without having to explain myself.  A helmet’s pretty self-explanatory, no?

Louisville’s ready.  All 650 thunderpots are in place to be at the beck and call of all Thunderians this Saturday.  Thunder Over Louisville will draw them out by the hundreds of thousands.  I bet they can’t wait to use a thunderpot.

Me?  I’ll be at home.  Watching it on TV.  Or maybe sitting on the deck hearing the loud pops from nine miles away.  I don’t do Thunder.  As much as I love the Kentucky Derby Festival, I don’t like Thunder.  I’ve tried it twice; me no likey.

Sure, who doesn’t enjoy fighter jets flying overhead and watching 60 tons of fireworks go off over the Ohio River.  I like those things.  But two things, two BIG things, keep me from heading down to the Waterfront to kickoff the Festival: people and people who drive cars.

People

I always thought that Thunder was a way to bring the community together, for neighbors to become friends, to celebrate by lighting up the sky and littering the river with fireworks.  Part of that’s true.  But most people have no sense of camaraderie, they could give two shits where you’re from (unless they’re the type that yells “Go back to your side of the river!”) and they don’t want to be your friend.

Why?  Because all that sun turns people into sunburned assholes.

I remember snaking through a crowd with friends.  The crowd’s so big you can lose people in the blink of an eye, so we were on each others’ tails like white on rice.  But then some fat old lady threw her stumpy sunburned leg up on a cooler, blocking my path.  “GO AROUND!”  I just stared at her, then the crowd around us.

Where, exactly, am I to go around?  Apparently I was walking through “her camp”, “her territory” and she didn’t like it.  Now, I’m all about personal space (believe me, I don’t want to smell you) but this isn’t the Oklahoma Land Rush and we don’t get to stake our take.

Though, it can be compared because there are some Sooners that camp out the night before.  To get “the best plot on the park grass”.  Dumbasses.

So I backed up, and walked around “her area”.  Which was another person’s camp and I proceeded to get yelled at again.  Really?  This is public property and you parked your beach lounger and cooler on a sidewalk.  Get a clue.  And try to be polite.  And wear some sunscreen because your Pantone 485 C face is unbecoming.  And someone please tell me where you are and are not allowed to walk.  Because this is a cluster.

I’ve never been very fond of big crowds but this is everything I hate about big crowds.  I never knew you could fit so many assholes into a hundred or so acres.  But they squeeze themselves in there to have a fun day of spectating and turning into raisins.

People Who Drive Cars

After the last firework has blown up, you trek back to your house.  With everybody and their extended family on both sides.   Roughly 700,000 people [give or take 200½] all leaving at the same time.  It makes me queasy just thinking about it.

When I attended Thunder, we walked three miles to UofL to wait for the traffic to die.  It was like being bounced around a dance club.  Sweaty people bump into, you shimmy past people that post themselves on the sidewalk, in the way, where people walk, but they have a right to do so, dammit.  I even caught a little guy slapping my butt one year.  Not cool, yo.

But I cannot imagine the agony of sitting behind the wheel for 3+ hours in bumper-to-bumper traffic to get home.  I can’t even stand driving in rush hour traffic, how would I handle this?!  And I’m known to frequent the thunderpot more often than others.  This is a recipe for disaster in my eyes.  And I will not subject myself or my sanity to this kind of punishment.

I say, let them have their marked off areas/camps/territories.  Let them eat fried food and keg beer all the live long day.  Let them forget to apply more sunscreen.  Let them have their thunderpots.

I’ll stay home.  In the air conditioning, with a glass of sweet tea.  And indoor plumbing.  And I can go to bed at 11:30pm instead of pulling in the drive at 3am.  Yep, this sounds much, much better.

I decided that this is the year I’m going to start cooking more often.  Most of my “cooking” revolves around three things:

1. Baking and/or making dessert.
2. Breakfast food.
3. Frying bacon.

I can make food just fine; my chicken breasts are usually done and juicy and you can’t screw up a can of green beans.  But it’s not great.  It’s edible but I want it to be incredible.  OK, maybe incredible is a bit of a stretch but I do want more flavor, more textures, more yummyness… preferably the kind that doesn’t widen the hiney.  I’d like to make a bit healthier too.

I’m definitely down for trying new things so last night I did just that: I made a big pasta dinner.  The hubs was out on business, this was a great time to experiment and so I did.  And now I know why I don’t do big dinners during the week: it took 1.5 hours from prep to plate.

I can blame part of it on my lack of slicing and dicing skills.  But I didn’t eat dinner until 8pm.  And I was starving.  And I was pissed because a) my pasta did not look like the internet’s pasta, b) my sauce did not thicken like the internet said it would and c) I was starving.

Though I had a few hiccups and the dish didn’t turn out exactly like it was supposed to, it still tasted good.  And I hoovered it.  Word on the street is that I was starving.  It’s just disappointing that it took as long as it did to prepare my dinner and the picture on the internet look more appetizing than what was on my plate.  Boo.  Leftovers will be consumed today and fingers crossed the pasta soaked up that sauce and make it even better tasting.  *fingers crossed*

My theory about this whole cooking thing is if I just get my butt in the kitchen, I will learn to cook.  Even if I mess up and make a few bad batches of something, I will learn to cook.  I plan to pick up recipes, actually read them beforehand, slice and dice veggies, boil, bake, saute, broil, microplane things… if I do this, I will learn to cook.

Someone please tell me I’m right.  Please?  Because, if you haven’t noticed, I want to learn to cook.  And bacon doesn’t cover all the necessary food groups.

This afternoon, I went to a business luncheon to hear some stuff about advertising.

The guests were these guys – they just happened to win Dorito’s 2009 Superbowl commercial.  And they were very entertaining.  Really great guest speakers.  The best part – other than the fact they invented a board game that is wicked awesome – is that they’re from Small Town, Indiana and are completely normal guys.  I love how normal people conquer the world with ideas.

And I need that board game; especially after playing Trivial Pursuit twice over the holiday and people complaining about the questions.  Because Triviathon is for smart and stupid people.  Says so right on the box.  I do not lie, Internet.

But look at this.

Can you believe this?  I can’t believe this.

The Olmstead (where the luncheon took place) always has your dessert [waiting to be eaten] right in front of you.  From the start of the meal.  NO! – from the minute you sit down.  We could classify this as cruel and unusual punishment.

It took every ounce of my being not push aside the rabbit food (aka salad) and put my face in this.  I had to tell myself things like “it could be totally hard and gross” and “those could be imitation strawberries that resemble styrofoam” just to keep my hand from sliding in front of me to manhandle the little plate.

So I ate my salad.  And I ate my beef.  And then I daintily made my way through this sliver of pound cake.  I could have easily downed it in three bites but I was sitting strangers and I was representing my company… goes to show that etiquette class paid off.  And it was good.  But that blackberry… let’s just say that I have a love affair with blackberries.  And with that whipped cream?  NOM!

That’s it.  That’s really all I had to say.  Happy Friday, Internet.