Friday, February 27, 2009

Not So Happy Hour

Last Friday my co-worker friend and I were husband free and decided that we needed to hit a local happy hour to pass our time. I looked on-line and found one place that sounded fabulous. When my co-worker friend called said place to check on prices, she found they had gone out of business. So she started looking online and finally found a place that had Happy Hour on a Friday night! And we work in a college town! Where bars are on every corner! Here is our e-mail exchange concerning the lack of HH:

GA: "No HH anywhere in {our town}...except {our usual place} and only until 7:00pm and that's only on their beer and calzones! i can't believe this...apparently not a lot of places have HH on Fridays as per {our other usual place}!”

Me: “Wait, {our other usual place} doesn't either??? What the heck kind of bars are these????? Now what?”

GA:"ok..{a place we'd only seen in passing}, it is! I just called to confirm and they are right across from {a restaurant} washington. has a martini glass neon sign. would 5:30 be ok? should we ask anyone else?? I'm ok either way."

So GA and I headed out after work to the ONE place in a COLLEGE town that had happy hour on a Friday night. As we came upon it my spidey sense started to tingle. When we opened the door my spidey sense went into full on red alert as the entire bar fell silent and all eyes were on us.

Oh yeah, we'd stumbled into the most local of local watering holes around. There were more mullets than teeth. But, they had cheap beer and drinks so we picked a table against the wall and settled in. It took a good 20mins before one of the locals found their way over to us to feel us out.

"You're not regulars here, are ya?"


After that we were left alone for the rest of our time there. The smoke was choking, and seeped into every pore. Conversation we overheard included, but were not limited to: "Motherfuckers", "Dickheads", "Motherfucking dickhead", "Dumb asses", "Fucking hell!", "I'm not fucking drunk you fucker!", and so on. The most interesting conversation I heard occurred at the table next to us where a very logical and lucid discussion took place concerning the D.U.I laws, how much you could "blow" each time, when the law changed and how many more strikes could occur before being placed in custody. Very enlightening.

Scenes included, but were not limited to, sloppy drunken hugging, sloppy drunken kissing, drunken dancing, drunken stumbling and drunken tattoo flaunting. The buying of excessive amounts of drink for a man who appeared to not be mentally all there and was sporting a hospital wrist band. I caught many of the women giving us the evil eye until they realized that we were in no way competition for the bar fly men.

When the local who came over to greet us left, he stopped by once again and invited us to become locals. Noting to GA, "I don't see no wedding ring!!!!" She's been married for a good long time, and did indeed have a wedding band on.

The ride home with myself was disgusting because of the smoke smell that clung to every surface and article of clothing. I couldn't move my head for fear of stirring up the fumes.

We fully intend to go back.

Thursday, February 26, 2009

Please, Can't You Just?

A little note to the Asian woman who doesn't wear a bra while working out, and to the woman who wore a decidedly lacey flowly dressy shirt to workout(huh? thanks for dressing up for us), and to the teenage-ish/20something extremely sweaty girl(s) and guys:


USING YOUR SWEATY TOWEL DOES NOT COUNT. The gym SUPPLIES disinfectant wipes for crying out loud.
I realize that having to walk 20 ft in either direction to obtain said wipe may hinder your workout, nay! add TO it, but I don't think it's too much to ask, since you're there, to you know, MOVE YOUR BODY anyway.

And to the couple who walked around the gym lobby BARE FOOT, that is disgusting. Put your SHOES on like you made your children do. GROSS.

Thank you.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Dang People! ***UPDATE***

WTF??? No matter what country this is in (Japan or China), how can you treat people like that??? Sweet heaven above, sardines aren't even packed this tight!!!!

F knows someone from Japan and that person identified this as Tokyo, and said that no matter what train you take, they are all that crowded in this manner.

Monday, February 23, 2009

Color Wheel

Remember Crazy Co-Worker? She of pant leg plucking and off the wall comments? Well, she continues to strike, and I could probably keep a blog just about the things she says, I'd be posting daily if not hourly, but that's too much like work. Anyway, picture it, a medium sized conference room, semi-lite with spotlights, the table surrounded by women in a work meeting......

CCW in a half whisper: "DH! I like the color of your hair right there. (pointing to a spot on her head.) What color is it?"

Me: *silent shrug with confused face*

CCW still half whisper: "Really? You don't know? It's kinda of coppery, real pretty. (i was sitting under one of the spot lights, who's hair doesn't change color under direct light, hmmmm???) You sure you don't know the color??"

Me: *silent shrug* *confused face* *head shake* (mind you, we are in an on going STAFF MEETING and she is sitting across the table from me)

CCW: *nudges person sitting next to her*: "Don't you think that section there (waves finger pointing at her own head) of DH's hair is real pretty? She says she doesn't know the color. HMPH, how do you not know the color???"

Me: *sigh* "I just tell the woman what I want it to look like and she does it, I don't ask for details."

CCW: "HMPH, you don't ask! Well it looks pretty!! Sure you don't know?"

Me: "No, I don't know."


Friday, February 20, 2009

What Will They Think of Next?

This is an e-mail conversation I had with CBF about deep fried chocolate covered foods which was inspired by a post by Pearl over at Pearl, Why you little... where chocolate covered bacon was mentioned which made me think of the deep fried Snickers CBF had while in Scotland, I believe, and when I tried deep fried Mars bars because of it.

This page was sent to you by DevilsHeaven :"Right up there with deep fried snickers??"

CBF:"I found that almost as disturbing as the bar here that serves the bacontini."

Me:"What is that?????"

CBF: "It's a bacon flavored martini. Go ahead-- throw up in your mouth a little."

Me: "EW! and I love me some bacon! All I can think of is grease in a glass!! gag! "(little did I know......)

CBF: "They have a bottle of bacon grease at the bar, and that's one of the ingredients. My friend Stacey is a bacontini lover and keeps trying to get me to have one. Uh, no."

Me: "I think I just threw up in my mouth."

CBF: "Totally appropriate response."

("They have a bottle of bacon grease at the bar, and that's one of the ingredients. ") Seriously, how could you drink it after seeing that??????

Thursday, February 19, 2009

In Love....

.....With This Car.

Please forgive me my sins my GM brand forefather, grandfathers, mother, grandmother, uncles, cousins, siblings......

Wednesday, February 18, 2009


I had a weird dream. For some reason I had a dream about Boots, the pharmacy chain over in the U.K.. Think CVS or Walgreens my digital Americans. Anyway, yes, I was apparently IN the U.K. and was in need of something and as we got off the train(i even dreamed of the public transit system) I was telling my friend that we needed to go to Boots because Boots has EVERYTHING.
Oh, did I mention it was a MUSICAL??? Uh, yeah. With men leaping down the aisle, twirling in front of the underwear as we all sang, "BOOTS has EVERYTHING!!!!! BOOTS, BOOTS, BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOTS has EVVVVVVVVERYTHING!!!!! You can find it HEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEREEE, even clean UNDERWEEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAARRR!!!!"
I honestly don't think they sell underwear. Digital U.K.ers??

I woke up with a strong need to hop on a plane and visit the nearest Boots and comb the aisle for all kinds of great treasures. That blue sign is calling to me.

I love Boots.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

I'm Sorry, I Can't

"I'm Sorry, I Can't eat anything."
I said this a lot while we were in The Homeland.
"Just PLAIN white rice please."
I said that a lot too.
The Homeland food and I did not get along too very well.
We wanted to like each, really we did, but somewhere along the line, we had a major disagreement and never recovered from it.
Food would be brought out and my stomach would turn. Food would be forced down my throat and my stomach would convulse.
In the beginning F and I ate happily. About 3 days in though, we were both not feeling well. I think it all linked back to Christmas Eve night when F's cousin got me trashed without me realizing it until I attempted the stairs in my fancy Christmas heels. When F's Cousin asked me what I liked to drink, I said, Vanilla Vodka, which he brought to me straight, not even on the rocks.
"Um, with Coke please?"
"Coke? You want me to MIX it TOGETHER?????!!!!!"
"Yes please. Lord, if I drank it straight!!!!!!!!!"
Well, I might as well have been drinking it straight, a splash of Coke at best was added. The next morning, Christmas Day, F and I were to meet up with Cousin and begin our tour.
"F, I don't think I can make it. I feel horrid."
"It's because you drank so much last night, DH."
"What? I only had 3 glasses."
"Uh, Nooooo, more like 6."
"Oh yeah, and Cousin wasn't mixing them light either."
"Oh, ugh."
Needless to say, F and I spent Christmas day in bed, with the shades drawn. I could finally stand around 6 pm when we were summoned for dinner. Drinking and Jet Lag do not mix well, FYI.
It was pretty much down hill after that. Thankfully F's Other Cousin is a pharmacist and got us all kinds of good meds. At first, they worked fine. So I think we got cocky and quite taking them. BIG MISTAKE.
The last week we were there? I was sick as a dog. My intestines convulsed to the point I was doubled over in pain. Anything I ate, came racing back out. I was nauseated the whole time. F wanted to take me to the hospital, I refused.
Other Cousin was consulted once again and he had more drugs sent over. (a plus about the homeland, EVERYTHING delivers, even McDonald's!)

24 Hours a day!

The drugs helped, but I could tell the SECOND they began to wear off because my intestines would start twitching.

The flights home were a nightmare. A flight attendant took one look at me and asked me if I was OK. Luckily I had enough drugs in me and was so exhausted from being sick, that I slept most of the way home. It took me 3 weeks to finally be able to eat normally again, without pain and nausea.

I can only imagine what the Extended Family thought of me. I hope they understood. I wasn't being rude or picky, just sickie.

Then about 2 weeks after we got home, we get a letter from Costco telling us that the power bars we bought to take with us, potentially had some of that tainted peanut butter in them.

We ate those daily.


Monday, February 16, 2009

Just Being Nice?

After having visited The Homeland I found my Facebook account full of, well, new faces. All of F's second cousins, all in their 20's, are on FB. One cousin in particular is constantly making comments about how nice I look in the pics I post. Very flattering, true. But you know, how you get that twinge? That little alarm bell that tells you maybe, just maybe he's being more than just nice??
Mine is going off.
I think F's cousin is flirting with me.
Via Facebook.
But I'm not sure.
I've tried to chalk it up to the fact that English is 1 of like 6 languages he speaks, and he's just not using the proper words. But that hasn't quieted my little alarm bell. Granted he is thousand of miles away, and this should in no way make me feel uncomfortable, but it does.
Generally, I love a good flirt session.
But I'm married now.
And flirting is not allowed.
Be I flirtee, or flirter.
It's just weird. He is a very nice guy. We got along well whenever we were visiting. He speaks English, so naturally I looked forward to having someone to talk to. And there were a couple of times when my little alarm bell would give out a ring or two while we were actually IN The Homeland, but I didn't really catch on to that until AFTER we got back and I started reading my FB comments and putting it all together.
What's a girl to do?
Of course I'm going to let it go. It's nothing. I'm crazy.
Shhhhh, little alarm bell, shhhhhhhh..............

Friday, February 13, 2009

Not For The Public

I joined Face Book. I had no idea how many people are on there. And I find it weird that people I wasn't friends with in the past(the "in crowd kids") want to be "friends" now. But then never make comments on what have you on your page. Or we weren't friend in the past, and now that I said "yes" to their friends' request, all I get from them is request for more crap. Join this group! Give this FLARE! Save this animal! LOOK AT ME!!!!
Honestly? I just got on there because one friend, who I don't get to talk to or see much, asked me to join so we could keep in touch. Now, I'm kinda into looking up people from my past to see what they are up to. It's weird.
Anyway, I think some people are way too into it. The "What are you doing now?" section for some people is a minute by minute update. I honestly don't care that you are watching TV. Or starting dinner. Granted, I have put some stupid stuff up there, but not the kind of stuff I REALLY want to say. I mean, F's family is linked into this! MY family is linked into this. Ok, my family knows me so no big, but still.

Things not to post on your Face Book "What Are You Doing Now?" Section:

DH is.........

1) .....Farting up a storm because I had Mexican for lunch.

2) ......Suffering from major PMS cramps.

3) ......Wishing my husband would stop calling me at work about stupid stuff.

4) ......Trying to figure out how the hell to keep the new shoes I just bought out of my husband's line of sight.

5) ......Wishing Miss Needy would stop sending me FB requests and updates.

6) .......Thinking So and So sure got ugly after high school, did you see the updated pic? YIKES!!!

7) ........Thinking So and So might be a serial killer/tower sniper. Have you SEEN the stuff on their FB page?!?!?!

8) ......Horny.

9)...... Dreading the Holidays spent with the In-Laws.

10)...... Ready to start drinking while on the job, because of the job.

What stuff would you like to post on your Face Book "What are you doing Now?" section but can't because of who can see it?

Thursday, February 12, 2009


Did any of you see this interview?
Shower not working Mr Phoenix?
Comb lost all it's teeth Mr Phoenix?
Clippers have a low battery Mr Phoenix?
Mr Phoenix?
What is the cause of that mental haze you're experiencing Mr Phoenix?

Studio Exces, regretting your decision to make him go on a press junket yet????

The Homeland....At Last

As we exited Customs' detainment into the airport lobby the sun of freedom shone brightly in my eyes (literally, the sun was shining in my eyes) but was dulled when my ears were assaulted by FIL’s voice calling out to F to get his attention.
“F!!!!!!!!!!!!! F!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

OMG! F failed to tell me we were going to be chaperoned by FIL for the next 3 weeks!!!!

Thankfully, that was not the case. FIL’s voice belonged to F’s cousin who is FIL’s nephew, hence not only did his voice sound the same, he looked like FIL as well. But that, my digital friends is where the similarities ended. And that went for the rest of the family members I met. F's extended family was amazingly nice. I liked them, A LOT. Not near as crazy as the American contingent. This greatly eased my mind.

What I was not prepared for however, was the massive culture shock. Traveling Westernized Europe did not make me as worldly as I thought it had. I apologize for my arrogance.

As I said, The Homeland is classified as a 3rd world country. So I was expecting 2 things. Dirt roads and mud huts or wide tree lined streets with white washed, walled in homes. See, I'd never really seen any pictures of The Homeland, not the parts where people live anyway. Just the tourists’ parts.

When we left the airport and the heavily armed police, there were tree lined streets and heavily armed police. This gave way to a dirty, over crowded, polluted city, and more heavily armed police. Think NYC about 20+ yrs ago. My senses were bombarded with the sickening smell of diesel fuel. Overwhelmed by the non-stop honking of horns. My nerves became raw from the constant near misses during every car ride. 2 lanes of traffic became 4 or 6. Nobody knew how to stay in their own lane. Motorcycles whipped and weaved in and out of traffic. F and I were horrified one day while we were on the "Expressway" and we looked out our windows to see a family of 4; On a MOTORCYCLE. The 3 yr old was seated happily between the handle bars, Dad was driving, Mom perched side-saddle with a BABY held in her arms. Not a helmet in sight. A BABY ON A MOTORCYCLE!!!! Adults and children darted into traffic narrowly making it to the other side of the street. Every morning we were awakened by a man making his way down our street selling his "fresh" bread. Everything was dirty.
It was a team effort to take a hot shower.
In the beginning it was just part of the adventure. By the time we were close to leaving I had all I could do to not fling open the patio doors and scream down at the Bread Man to “SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!!!”

I stuck out. F stuck out because he was with me. The Natives couldn't decide if he was one of them or not because he was dressed like an American, and his knowledge of the language was "broken" or "crappy" as his cousins put it.
The first “National Monument” we went to was a lesson I’ll never forget. First of all the “Tourism Police” were dressed head to toe in black with blood red accents. They carried guns. Menacing? You better believe it. Especially when you can’t speak the language but you know you are being discussed by the use of “Madame” over and over again and then are told to stay in the car with a person you’d just met (F’s cousin who picked us up at the airport) who’s not telling you what’s going on and your husband gets out of the car and disappears into a throng of tourists. Second, F’s passport says he was born in The Homeland. So he got the “Resident’s” price. Me? F had to pay the “tourist” price for me. His price? 3 “dollars”. The price for a “tourist”? 65 “dollars”. Because he couldn’t PROVE I was his wife. I was floored. That marriage license would have come in handy, but who would think to take a marriage license to go see the Statue of Liberty???(you realize I’m just using lady liberty as an example right?) Because I am married to F I am now considered to be a “Resident” even though F hasn’t lived there for 30yrs and is an American Citizen. On several other trips to go see “National Monuments”, we were with a tour group. Our guide knew we were married (he required no proof) and so when he purchased us tickets he purchased a “resident” ticket for me. EVERY SINGLE TIME I handed over my ticket, I was questioned, “You a Resident???????” F would either be in front of me or behind me in line and it got to the point when they would look at me questioningly and asked me “you a resident?” I’d just point to F who would then jump in and explain that I was his wife. One other couple in our group was the opposite of us. She was the “Resident”, he was the foreigner. She told us that when she went to book a ride on an over-night train the booking agent wouldn’t book her in a room with her husband because she could supply no proof that he was indeed her husband, and women who are native of The Homeland are not allowed to travel over-night in the same room with a foreign man who isn’t her husband. So she had to book the train as a foreigner and pay foreigner prices. She told us that because she is a woman who married a non-native man, she herself is no longer considered a Resident like F is.
The Homeland is not about gender equality.

Sticking out is not an all out fun time party party!!! I got stares. Open. Point. Blank. Stares. I decided I would meet all stares with a winning smile! It didn’t help. No one would smile back at me. They would glare, or look away, but no one, save for ONE woman in a grocery store, smiled back. That trip, to the grocery store, was the most self esteem devastating hour of my life. I looked different than everyone there. I dressed different than everyone there. I stuck out. I knew I would. My appearance didn’t cause any great commotion, other than people running into each other because they couldn’t stop staring, but it caused me great emotional turmoil. The hostility was palpable. I didn’t belong and they wanted me to know it. As I told Eldest Sister when we got home, I consider myself a strong, confident person, but by the time we left that grocery store, I had all I could do to keep my head up and my eyes dry. After awhile it got to F too. Before the trip was over we were both returning the stares, without the smile.
The people we actually interacted with were always friendly and polite. No one was rude. The Rule that CBF taught me on our trips applied well to The Homeland as well, "Always Make Friends With the Help(bartender)." F is amazing at this, and it got us so many great things. And as I learned more words, I became a great delight and source of entertainment because the Natives weren't expecting it.
But they still stared.
They just weren't hostile about it.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

Pee Your Pants Moment

F is from a 3rd World Country. As many 3rd World Countries go, they are a tad bit, um, more militant when it comes to airports and points of entry into their country.
This was extremely evident as we landed in F’s Homeland. The airport was small and dingy and in need of some upgrading and some happier paint colors. As we made our way through the airport F’s body tensed. He became snippy with me. I was trudging along, dying for some clean knickers, secure in the mindset that customs would be a breeze (silly American that I am, why would there be a problem?). This is when F slows his step and tells me, “DH, my heart is pounding like crazy.”
“I don’t know. I just think that there’s going to be a problem getting through customs.”
“Why would there be?”
“They have mandatory military service here. They could detain me and make me serve maybe.”
“What? You have an American past port, don’t worry about it.”
“Do you have our marriage license?”
“What? Why would we need that? I don’t have it, YOU do.”
“Just let me do the talking, OK?!?!”
“FINE.” I had to bite my lip. I don’t like being told to keep quiet, who does?
“DH, you go first.”
And as I thought, my happy American ass sailed through customs. I waited next to F as he handed over his pass port to the less than smiley customs agent.
“Sir, please wait over there.”
My stomach dropped. Suddenly clean knickers were a luxury.
“Is there a problem?” F asked.
“Please wait over there.”

F turns to me. “GO THROUGH!”
“NO! I’m not leaving you, are you crazy?!?!?”
We make our way over to the waiting area where several well dressed men, ALL men, no women, are milling about. F digs into his backpack and hands me a cell phone we bought State side and therefore didn’t even know worked over there yet or not (it didn’t) a stack of papers and says, “Here, if they don’t let me go, you know what to do.”

WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAT? I had no freaking clue what to do!!!!

“I don’t know what to do!!”(he told me later that I was suppose to call his cousins, which even then he didn’t say which ones, and have them come get us. Or call FIL, who has government connections. All with a phone that wouldn't have worked. Yeah.)

“Fine. Stay here.”

We both fell into moody silence as we watched a customs agent take F’s passport and disappear through a door. All I could think was, they could take it, and say he never presented it. And he’d be stuck there forever as I wandered the airport parking lot trying to find someone who spoke English who could take me to the American Consulate so I could get help. (I also thought of Bridget Jones being rescued by Mark Darcy when she got jailed for drug smuggling and all I could think was, I don’t know a Mark Darcy!)
A man dressed in civilian clothing came into the waiting area and was asking for F. But we weren’t sure he was asking for F because he was using a different version of F’s name. (long complicated story, ok, maybe not, but I don't feel like explaining it. It has to do with their naming/nicknames customs.)
“I think he’s looking for me. Wait here while I go ask.”
I was hopeful. But F came back moments later, “I really think he was looking for me, but he didn’t understand the name issue.”
We probably waited no more than 15 minutes, but it seemed like days. Finally they called F back up again.
“You may go.”
“Was there a problem?” (WTF!!!! He said we could go, just flipping GO!!!! I wanted to scream at him.)
“You may go.”
Finally F lead the way out.

At that point, right there, I wanted to turn around, get back on the plane and go home. I’m not going to lie. I knew, in my gut, that F and I would encounter this kind of scrutiny in some form or other everywhere we went. I let F do the talking the rest of the trip. And it ground every independent feminist fiber in my body to shreds to stand there and keep my mouth shut while I smiled sweetly.

This my digital friends, is how our Honeymoon began.

Welcome to, The Homeland.

Sunday, February 08, 2009

Chinny Chin Chin

That hair on my chin? This one that I plucked before?
The damn thing keeps coming back.

Saturday, February 07, 2009

Planning Ahead

I was talking to my mom about babies and showers and gifts. I was attempting to plant the seed that when my time comes I would like this fabulous rocker/glider. My mother has several of the less fancy ones, and everyone loves to sit in them. When I mentioned that I'd like one since she got SIL one, she came back with something about "the chair instead of a shower."


No no no! I want the chair AT the shower!

Greedy? When it comes to this rocker glider, you better believe it. They are pricey, very true. But my mom has, 'connections', and can get the chair at a nice discount. But the opportunity for said deep discount will expire soon. So I was hoping she'd do a little shopping now. Plan ahead and all that.

I'm not sure I was too very convincing. She didn't seem to buy any of my reasoning.

I really want one of these chairs! How can I convince her? HOW!?!?!?

Friday, February 06, 2009


You ever have one of those clothing days where you haven't done the laundry in awhile but you need something to wear so you pick say the last pair of jeans on the hanger and you look at them and think "Wow, I forgot I had these! I wonder why I don't wear them more?" And you put them on and they feel pretty good and look pretty good and then its after lunch and suddenly your gut is getting mushed by said "pretty good" jeans and it's been an hour now and they aren't stretching out and you are seriously considering sitting at your desk with your pants not only unbutton but also unzipped? And then you remember why you don't wear them anymore and wonder why the hell you don't just give them away?
Yeah, uh, me neither. How silly.

Tuesday, February 03, 2009

Ouchie **UPDATE***


This headache lasted all weekend. I took yesterday off and ended up at the doctor's where they were GOING to give me a shot of Demerol, but couldn't because I drove myself there. So I got the lame ass vicodin. Actually, I got the GENERIC for vicodin. Bastards. Still have the headache, not as bad, but now my eye twitches when I type. Which I suppose is an improvement over the nail in the ear.