Crappy Hour

A couple of weeks ago we were looking for a happy hour. It wasn't really the right time of night or right day of the week. I had never tried it, but a nearby restaurant always displays a huge sign facing I-5, prominently advertising half-price appetizers, the details of which had never lodged in my consciousness. Considering our poor timing, it seemed like our best chance. My companion was dubious.

The bad news is, we were too late as well as too early for the half-price food. The other bad news is the restaurant in question was Hooters.

Now, there are a couple of drawbacks to Hooters, depending on your point of view. I don' t believe anyone would dispute the fact that the food is fairly disgusting (if it isn't battered and deep fried, it probably has bacon on it), but to make up for that they charge a lot for it. A soda is nearly $3 and a side of french fries is nearly $4. The aspect that might be disputed is the ad- or disad- vantage of being served by young women clad in the most patently uncomfortable looking outfits outside of Las Vegas. They have clearly been advised to not bend over the tables, so they are forced to squat or perch. The outfits are completed with a pair of miniature shorts in permanent wedgie mode.

Midway through our not-half-price meal, a little knot of waitresses clapped for our attention. "Listen up, everyone! Join us in singing Happy Birthday to Ryan who is here to celebrate his 13th birthday!" Note to Ryan's parents: Your responsible adult license has just been revoked.

Someone in Australia just purchased one of my Cheap Apolitical Pagan door signs (Hi Shari!) so I decided to put her address in Google Maps to see where my sign was going to make its new home. Through the magic of Google Streetview, it appears my sign will be posted on a red house with a tile roof in Whyalla, South Australia. Sometimes Google Streetview doesn't get the right house, but I'm going to assume it did this time, because I'm an optimist, and besides, how will I ever know if it's wrong. Right?

But the best part is, Google Maps gives me directions from my house to hers. First I asked for walking directions. There was a warning at the top that said, "Caution - This route may be missing sidewalks or pedestrian paths." It's 12,833 miles and will take 171 days and 22 hours. There are 922 separate instructions, three kayak trips (Note: how does Google know that I have a kayak?)(And don't I get to get out and walk a little in Indonesia? It seems not.), and steps 110 through 867 are in Japanese. On the other hand, the driving instructions say it will take me only 53 days, 23 hours and cut 822 steps out of the process. The kayaking instructions stay the same.

Isn't that wonderful?

Goldilocks

Whilst tidying up my old email graveyard, I ran across this reminder of what makes America the place it is, as recounted to my friend, David, a few months ago:

I just recently learned of the bench-to-table ratio as manifested in the modern American restaurant. My daughter and I went to a McMenamin's near Lloyd Center and did a Goldilocks routine. In the first booth in which we sat, both of us were miles from the table. Moving to the next booth, the table was a little closer, but still not within eating distance. Moving to booth three, the table is within an acceptable distance of our torsos with plenty of room for, say, a small child on our laps. When we inquired about the inconsistency, the waiter rolled his eyes and told us, "Most customers don't fit in a regular booth."

Which also reminds me of the big tub o' root beer that showed up in my car last week, purchased at a handy mini-mart on a sultry day. If the cup is too fat for your cup holder, that's too much pop. Enough said.

Three Things

Studies show that learning new things delays the onset of dementia (as does doing things with your fingers so, presumably, blogging will keep me cogent for decades to come).

Yesterday I learned three new things.
How to prime my lawnmower.
What causes monkeyface.
How many calories are in a pint of Hefeweizen.

Every time I start my lawnmower I count on the possibility of two things: I will dislocate my shoulder yanking on the starter cord. I will have a heart attack yanking on the starter cord. As an act of kindness, my lawnmower brake cable disintegrated last week, sending me, cable in hand, back to the lawn mower rehab clinic where I purchased said mower from the slow-talking, possibly Arkansas-born, mower guru. When I observed that starting the thing was likely to lead to my premature death, the mower-guru said, "Do ya prime it before ya start it?" "Uhhh, prime it?", I replied. He led me back through the lawn mower cemetery until we found one with sufficient superstructure that he could point out the priming button. Knowledge is power (mower).

People who only buy grocery store strawberries, those large, gleaming chunks of seed-studded Styrofoam, won't know what I'm talking about, but real strawberries sometimes look funny. They're bumpy and small and wall-to-wall seeds at the tip. I thought I had neglected my strawberry garden by poor watering (ok, I did) but the Philbrook Farms strawberry farmer told me that's called Monkeyface and it happens when the weather gets cold and the bees stay home in turtlenecks and long johns and don't go out and pollinate the berry flowers. His berries looked just as pathetic as mine.

The third thing I learned yesterday was that Hefeweisen beer has a whopping 1300 calories per pint! Wow! Jeepers! Holy cow! The best part of this factoid is that it is wrong. My source, a beer-drinking person who should know, was not, I'm pretty sure, pulling my leg. However, I looked it up. There are 210 calories in a pint of Hefeweisen.

There. Now you might have learned something new and my fingers are extremely alert.

The Magic of Macys

Dear Macy's Management,

We need to talk. Customer Service means giving service to customers. It does not mean sending them down a forest path; a path so circuitous, so frustrating, that you hope they will just give up and go home.

Here is what happens if you call Macy's Customer Service number. You make three or four layers of choices, you key in your account number (because when you choose the option to speak the number, they can't understand you), you key in a portion of your social security number, you get put on hold for a very long time, and then you get a human being... in India. Who can't hear you. You try the whole process again, thinking there must be something wrong with your phone. And they still can't hear you. Even if you yell, which, by now, you are most certainly doing.

So you decide to get in your car and go to Macy's where, it turns out, there is NO customer service department. Instead, there are two beige telephones that, when you lift the receiver, connect you to the Customer Service line where you make three or four layers of choices, you key in your account number, you key in a portion of your social security number, you get put on hold for a long time, and then you get a human being... in India. Who can't hear you. Even if you shout.

The best thing to do, at least in Vancouver, Washington, is to go directly to the Wedding Department and speak to a lovely woman named Heidi. Heidi also has a beige telephone at her large, quiet Wedding Department desk with which she can call the people in India. Oddly enough, when Heidi identifies herself as a Macy's employee, the people in India can hear her.

That must be the Magic of Macy's.

It's May, It's May, the Lusty Month of May

Until a year ago I was under the impression that the lifespan of the average household goldfish went something like this:

Day 1 - purchase 49 cent goldfish (or, alternately, lob a ping pong ball into a jar and bring one home from the fair in a cruelly small baggie)

Day 2 - admire goldfish swimming enthusiastically around the bowl

Day 3 - note that goldfish has developed a serious list

Day 4 - flush goldfish down the toilet

But that was before I had outdoor goldfish. They still started out as 49 centers. But, now, after two years and two seasons under several inches of ice they are hale and hearty and lookin' for love. According to ehow.com, it isn't easy to determine the gender of the average goldfish. However, I'm pretty sure I have 3 males and one female since Goldie was being hotly pursued by Larry, Moe, and Curly last weekend. Larry (or maybe it was Moe or Curly) sidled up to her and shimmied most alluringly. I'm counting on being a Grandma again, soon.

Dance Like No One is Watching

The capacity for having a good time is all about attitude. The notion we all hold as gospel, that the homecoming queens and football captains of the world are having a better time than the rest of us by virtue of their dazzling looks, just doesn't seem to hold water.

Last night the dance hall was awash in celebrity sightings. We had Hoss Cartwright, Larry the Cable Guy, Grandma from the Golden Girls (who, I declare, could shake her thang), Riff Raff from The Rocky Horror Picture Show, several incarnations of Roseanne Barr, circa 1990, Festus, a high kicking Gandhi in a disco shirt, Ozzie, Harriet, and a tall, white Steve Urkel. Did I notice these people because of their famous faces (and hats)? Well... yes. But I also noticed them because they were out on the dance floor for every single song.

The table that surely won the Lousiest Time Award was occupied by four unsmiling women who watched, malevolently, through narrowed eyes as we danced by.

Incidental to this post, but remarkable in so many ways, was the woman doing a vigorous east coast swing in red 4 inch spike heeled pumps. How did she keep them on? How did she not break an ankle? To Red High Heels Woman goes the Evil Knievel award.

Crazy Neighbor

Crazy neighbors are fun. My all time favorite? The irascible elderly couple next door that came out on the porch and shook their fists and shouted invective at the turkey vultures circling over their house. Second favorite? The lady who peered over the fence the first day my (now ex) husband and I moved into our house and asked if he would mow her lawn.

No one aspires to Crazy Neighbor status, but I'm heading that way all because of one long night of poo.

I like cats. They're pretty and soft and make nice house pets. But I don't own one, so why do I have cat feces in my securely fenced yard and, more significantly, in (and out) of my dog? Night before last I was awakened at approximately 2 hour intervals by my dog vomiting and/or passing the most foul brew imaginable. It invaded my dreams, trashed my quilt, and despoiled my carpet. Delicious, nutritious, but apparently indigestible cat poo.

Every day I see them scale my fence. Why do they care about my yard? Why aren't they home using a nice litter box? My dog doesn't defecate in their yard. Why should they be using mine?

On today's shopping list: mousetraps. Baited with cat food.

Good Advice

Last weekend I went to a dance where out on the floor was a woman whose skirt was tucked into the back of her waistband. A woman sitting at my table said she had tried to tell her about it, but the skirt woman said, no, that was how it was supposed to be (it was a wrap-around model). A goodly time passed in which she danced many dances until, presumably, she journeyed into the restroom and got a good look at what the rest of us had been trying not to look at for about an hour.

The moral of the story: Do not dismiss the advice of well meaning people without full consideration. They may, after all, be trying to cover your ass.

Save a Dollar, Kill a Tree

Amazon.com isn't just a great place to shop because of their vast product selection, great prices, and speedy service. No! They also have entertaining packaging, providing you're not a tree.

I ordered two Almay eyeliner pencils (because it was cheaper than buying them one at a time in the store and I'll use them eventually). (See previous post.) My pencils, two, arrived today in a box 19" x 13" x 5.75". But wait, there's more! Inside that box, surrounded by bubble wrap, was a second box 12" x 9" x 4". And inside that box was a third box 6" x 2" x 1.25". And inside that, my two little pencils - in blister packs. It was the Russian Doll of packaging.