And For The Lady? My List Of Picky Restaurant Behaviours

 Rick and I do not go out to eat very often. This is mostly my fault. I get very annoyed at the prices restaurants charge for even a simple salad. It's outrageous. There are very few good restaurants near us as well, and I won't pay big bucks for mediocre food or food that I could make much better in my own kitchen.

We do have a favourite restaurant nearby, and the food there is always excellent. We know the owner and chef as well as all the wait staff. They take reservations--a must for me--and they will make alterations to any dish (don't like arcadian greens for your salad? they'll sub romaine; prefer no garlic? they'll leave it out). They have a weekly menu of special appetizer, soup, salad, fish, and meat or pasta entree. It's a wonderful place, but pricey. Rick would go there every single week, but I am the rain on his parade.

Here is a list of my

Picky Restaurant Behaviours

1. I do not eat outside.

2. I cannot be seated anywhere near an air conditioning vent.

3. I will not sit at a banquette.

4. I will not wait longer than 15 minutes for a table.

5. I will not order anything that I can make easily at home.

6. I generally do not get beef.

7. I do not sit at the bar.

8. I do not and never will order the salmon. 

I feel like so many of these are things you already know about me or can intuit from reading me all this time. My aversion to camping should make #1 clear. I'm not about to pay money for a meal and then fight the elements to enjoy it. I'm also not going to sit at a long bench and share my meal with strangers. Banquettes are the picnic tables of the restaurant industry. Same with sitting at the bar. 

There is a steakhouse in the area that does not take reservations. It has something called Call Ahead Seating, which I have no understanding of. People show up there and wait as long as an hour or more just to eat. I find that preposterous. Nothing is worth that. I detest waiting for anything, especially if I have an appointment time. 

Sometimes we go to our favourite restaurant--after making a reservation and asking for our favourite server, Lynn--and for a meal I get an appetizer and a salad. And a French 75. And then a creme brulee, because they serve theirs warm, which is so lovely. I try not to add up my part of the bill in my head and get crabby because that ruins the evening for me. Especially if I remembered to bring a sweater.

Am I crazy, or do you have some picky restaurant behaviours, too?

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Teacher Tuesday: The "Language: It's What's For Dinner" Edition

Words are making me Crabby this week. Maybe I need to get away from this Editing Gig for a little while. Yesterday, I saw a license plate that read LOOSNUP. I immediately dropped my shoulders and exhaled deeply. Then that car started dropping its speed and swerving deeply. As I hurriedly passed it, I saw its very, very loose driver with her glasses perched on the tip of her nose and her tablet/Kindle propped on her steering wheel. I TITNDUP all over again.

But onto My Mission, and it is Restaurant/Menu Words.

I am stymied and annoyed at how lazy and sad many restaurants are about their menus. This is, after all, the first way they communicate their culinary image to the customer. Lots of small restaurants just don't give a lot of consideration to that. Or spelling, actually.

Here is a menu for an independent restaurant not too awfully far from where I live and where Rick used to go and meet his buddies from his former job. Its menu contains a few Sadnesses: French Dip "served with a side of au jus"; Shrimp Po Boy, described as "Blackened shrimp, romaine lettuce and bistro sauce served on a Cajun cheddar cheese baked hoagie", and one which makes me want to shred my eyeballs, their "Chicken South Of The Boarder" sandwich.

Then they make the Mistakes Involving The B-Word, and they beat it up hard. I'm just happy that I don't go there and hear the waitress and guests actually SAY the B-Word, inevitably MISPRONOUNCE IT, and then have to sit there and try to Live Through It All.

Somehow.

What? The B-Word? It's BRUSCHETTA. BROO-SKET-UH.
 Broo. SKET. Uh.
SKET. SKET. SKET. K. K. K. OKAY!? EVERYONE, EVERYWHERE:   LEARN HOW TO SAY IT.

Here is a handy visual.  It is my pleasure, really:

via greatist.com

Thank you. And now, if people could just learn what it is. Bruschetta is THE BREAD. It's not a mixture of tomatoes and herbs. It's the charred or toasted bread. IT'S THE BREAD. BR = BREAD AND BRUSCHETTA. SK IS LIKE BASKET. BRUSCHETTA--BREAD BASKET. OR SOMETHING. ANYTHING TO HELP PEOPLE REMEMBER.  HELP ME TO HELP THEM.

HOLY CRAP, AM I EVER INVESTED IN THIS MOVEMENT.

***

Here is the Entree inspiring my despair:

*Chicken Bruschetta Dinner

(2) Grilled chicken breasts smothered in fresh mozzalla served with asparagus, Baby baked potatoes topped with tomato bruschetta, pesto +a balsamic glaze

Oh my god.  So much despair.

1. Mozzalla? And is just the mozzalla served with the asparagus, or is the chicken, too?
2. And is it the Baby baked potatoes that are topped with the bread and tomatoes, pesto + a balsamic glaze?
3. Why is anything covered in bread?
4. Is Baby a brand of potatoes or the name of the person who baked them, or what?

And so much BREAD. Consider this appetizer:

Mozzarella Bruschetta

Freshly breaded and fried mozzarella served on a French baguette with homemade pesto and tomato bruschetta topped with a balsamic glaze

(Apparently, the mozzalla is not a good complement to the baguette.) That, my friends, is a bigass appetizer. Fried cheese + a baguette + pesto (not the homemade for this dish; it is unworthy!) + tomatoes + bread + glaze. I would think it is shareable.  And bready.

In their defense, this "Bruschetta Chicken" misnomer is not unique to them. It is a widespread phenomenon, like saying "irregardless" (NOT A WORD) or pronouncing "Reese's" of peanut butter cup fame "Ree-sees" (WRONG; ALWAYS WRONG). All you have to do is go to Red Robin and order it there, or search for one of the 3.3 million recipes for it on the Internet. That doesn't make it Okay, though; just because a lot of people do something doesn't validate it or make it correct.

You know? ;-)

Feed me full of your Wonderfulness in Comments.

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What Do Catholics, republicans, And Chicken Pot Pie All Have In Common?

Fountainhead by Seyed Alavi

It's been a perfectly ghastly week, and I need to write to Feel Human again. All I have been able to do since Friday night is whimper, take drugs, lie down, and wonder for the eleventy hundredth time Why It Is That I Live Here in this godforsaken weather corridor. And why it is that Weather People cannot tell me what is coming, when, and for how long with any sort of reliability whatsoever. It all conspires to be mighty enough to make me say The Eff Word, almost, and I have been trying So Hard To Quit.

In case you wanted to know what it is like to rise from a Days-Long Migraine Process and try to re-enter Real Life, I have found something that is a little bit similar. Here; try to read this:

“Things must change for our government. Look at it. It isn’t too big to fail. It’s too big to succeed! It’s too big to succeed, so we can afford no retreads or nothing will change with the same people and same policies that got us into the status quo. Another Latin word, status quo, and it stands for, ‘Man, the middle-class everyday Americans are really gettin’ taken for a ride.’ That’s status quo, and GOP leaders, by the way, y’know the man can only ride ya when your back is bent. So strengthen it. Then the man can’t ride ya, America won’t be taken for a ride, because so much is at stake and we can’t afford politicians playing games like nothing more is at stake than, oh, maybe just the next standing of theirs in the next election.”

I'd like to echo DNC Communications Director Mo Elleithee and simply say, "Thank you." But of course, I can't. This speech by 2008 Presidential candidate John McCain's selection for his Vice President is beyond bizarre, even for her. As she continues to struggle for relevance in any avenue of American life, let's hope that it's not only the Democrats who sympathetically shake their heads and back away, whispering sadly. (Can we talk about it later over cocktails and nibblies, having a guilty laugh or two? Heavens, yes.)  And no, I won't mention her name and dignify her.

You know, here's another shitful thing about Migraineus Interruptus. I was being Such A Good Girl about my exercise regimen, plodding away on my Dreadmill of Punishment and even switching it up by shovelling the driveway (I know!), and then, Migraine. Down for the count. Thank goodness I don't have one of those Jawbone or FitBit thingies that would beep or vibrate or nag at me to Get Up. Like I need that. I bet you anything a Catholic invented those damn things. "Don't you feel guilty for not getting up and getting moving? Did you do your 10K steps today? CHRIST DIED ON THE CROSS FOR YOU AND YOU CAN'T EVEN MANAGE TEN THOUSAND STEPS?!?!?!" I'm getting a Monday 5PM Headache just thinking about it.

I think we all Want To Do Better. I really do. Okay, well, maybe not a Certain Bob Evans Restaurant. My friends Leanne and Jim, who live in Southern Maryland, each got sick with a terrible cold. They merely wanted some nice comfort food and were too tired and ill to cook for themselves. They went to a nearby Bob Evans restaurant--slogan, "Down On The Farm"--and ordered right off the menu, nothing fancy. Leanne ordered the Chicken Pot Pie, described as "Slow-roasted chicken, carrots, peas, celery and onions in a rich cream sauce covered with a flaky crust." Here is the teensy picture from the menu:

www.bobevans.com

Doesn't that look good, even though it's pixellated?  I can see why she ordered it.  Sadly, that is not what she got.  Here is what she got:

www.tf?

I think that, after this, they are Down On The Farm all right.

It's snowing here again, despite the odds being 40%.  The forecast changes hourly.  I'm tired of hearing all the new terms for Winter Weather--Snowmageddon, Polar Vortex, Bombogenesis.  I'm starting to think that, here in NEO anyway, if it weren't for Sports or Weather, there would be no "News."

What a lot of Effing Bullshit.  (Strangely, that did not make me feel better.)  Do let's chat in Comments.

A Toast To Toast!

Back in The Olden Days when I was teaching, I often inspired gales of laughter, sneers of disdain, and hoots of disbelief when I identified Toast as being among my favourite foods. Especially memorable was the response of a certain Senior Football Player who leaned back in his ridiculously small chair, folded his arms across his chest, fixed me with an extraordinarily disappointed look, and shook his head. "Now that," he said, "is messed up."

At that time and with that audience, there was no credible defense to be made. None. That was a lasagna, steak, pizza, and crab legs crowd, with maybe a few lobster or barbecued ribs tossed in. Toast? Toast and I took our ball (butter?) and went home.

But since I've been down with this egregious cold, I've renewed my love affair with Toast, and really, isn't Toast simply Lovely? Isn't it just The Best? Honestly, how can you go wrong with Toast? I mean, yes, you absolutely can Go Wrong if you burn it (although I did have a colleague, Fran, who purposefully burned two pieces of wheat toast every single morning in the lounge at The Rock for breakfast, its acrid stench scenting the hall for an entire period because she liked it that way), but beyond that, my goodness! Toast!

My personal favourite for all time has to be a very dark pumpernickel rye toast spread with plenty of Real Butter, lightly toasted so that it still has some of that characteristic chew. If you can slice it yourself, how glorious! Thick--thick as you can without having to use a dangerous butter knife in the toaster slot to free it. (We've all done it at some point in our lives and felt that burr of electric shock. Admit it.)

How comforting is a warm slice of cinnamon toast? That's what I have been nibbling on the past few days. Wheat bread, darkly toasted, buttered, then sprinkled all over with a mix of sugar and homey-smelling cinnamon. I don't drink hot tea, but a mug of hot water with honey and lemon accompanies it just fine.

Apparently, a restaurant in San Francisco has an entire menu devoted to Toast. The average price is about $3.50 for one piece, but they use a thick slice of organic, in-house baked bread and local ingredients for the spreads. (One famous food blogger and cookbook author went there and raved about it.) I thought about it for a little bit: would I pay $3.50 for a big piece of Toast topped with, say, cream cheese and black pepper? Yes. But, looking further at the Menu, I would not pay $16.50 for a 12-ounce cup of coffee to accompany it. And that is the cheapest.

But I don't need Fancy Toast, do you? Decent bread, good butter, pleasantly warm and all with the right balance of crisp and tender. Some people, when there is nothing else to eat, or it is too late to cook, they eat cereal. I eat Toast. In that case, Toast with butter and peanut butter. Perhaps, if I'm really hungry, I'll skip the butter and lay on a slice of cheese instead.

Oh, Toast! You're so versatile and so wonderful. So underrated and unappreciated. I will dedicate my eventual Recovery to you.

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In Which I Discuss Drinks And Invite You To Join Me Whilst CAUWFing

Bless your heart, there you are! Thanks for coming back and giving me another read. It's a bit of a Mixed Bag today, so get yourself something pleasant to sip and/or snack on, settle into a comfy spot, and let's see what we have here, shall we? Off we go!

~*~Language Police. Is there a single person among you who has ever spoken--in conversation, ever--the word "wriggle"? I've discovered that I have a deep-seated antipathy for this word. I find it not only ugly to look at, but equally ugly to say. And again, who says it? I have read it plenty of times, mostly in old British novels, and I was unpleasantly surprised to come across it today in a comic strip. When I was much younger, I used to think that it was just the British spelling of the word "wiggle" since that word fit just fine contextually. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that no, wriggle was a word all its own. I'll continue my One-Woman Campaign to Avoid Using Wriggle Forever (CAUWF, pronounced "cough"), and you're welcome to join me. Or not.

~*~Name Brand. So, even though I've been travelling quite a bit, I still remain oblivious to so many things. I was completely confused by (and therefore immune to the allure of) Coca Cola's latest marketing ploy called "Share A Coke." Jared and I were at a Walgreen's when I saw a cooler full of Cokes, all labelled with first names like Jeremy, Amy, Nick, and Jenn. He took great pains to explain it to me, and to his credit, agreed with me that the whole thing was, in a word, stupid. The chances of most Coke drinkers finding their name is remote. Instead, the person is left feeling like a doofus drinking someone else's coke. Or, vaguely odd drinking a Coke with a name, like "Hi, er...Holly Coke. I'm Benito Fernandez. I'm thirsty, so...thanks in advance." And what happens when you reach into the cooler in the 7Eleven at the same time as another person, go to grab a Coke, and the other guy says, "Hey! That's my coke. My name's Steve! See, it's right there on the bottle!"?  Or, finally, last one--you're drinking a Coke with some name on the bottle, and someone assumes it's your name. "Hi, Kelly!" people keep saying to you. But your name isn't Kelly. It's Sarah. Or Anisha. Or Rainbow. Or Vladimir. Just saying. I'm really glad I don't drink Coke.

~*~Bloody Mary Lunch. I've written before about my Bloody Mary lunches and the astonishing iterations that simple drink can take. Today, after a quick meeting to go over some documents I worked on for a free-lance job, I met a friend for an impromptu lunch at a nearby restaurant. Yes, it was only 11:30, and yes, I ordered my Bloody Mary immediately upon being seated and with great alacrity, but there was absolutely no excuse for the garnish that was lolling all over the top of my glass. Once I heaved it off and onto a plate, I had to take a picture. Here it is, in all its glory. Remember, this was on top of a drink:

No, that is not lunch.  That is, in order from left to right on the skewer, my drink garnish: a strip of bacon, a slice of provolone cheese, a third of a stalk of celery, a lemon wedge, a lime wedge, a bleu cheese stuffed olive. Lying on an appetizer plate.  And I am not kidding.

That Bloody Mary cost me ten bucks.  An appetizer of hummus, tzatziki, and tapenade with warm pita and some cucumber slices cost only nine bucks. And Sue and I split that. I'm not even sure what my point is, other than the fact that A) that is just a completely ridiculous garnish, and B) ten dollars is obscene for a Bloody Mary, and maybe C) I could have paid way less for the drink if they would have cut out all that crap in the garnish.  But D) I enjoyed the Bloody Mary and my visit with Sue.

How is it that August is imminent?  Summer is speeding away.  Let me catch up with you in Comments.  

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Sorry, Walgreens--More Like The Corner Of Confused And Crabby

Sometimes, when a bunch of people gather, I can't help but listen for Blog Fodder. It's not that I'm looking for something to criticize or poke fun at so much as I am--in a Seinfeldian manner--observing things that I can comment upon from a "did you ever notice" perspective. It's like looking at an ordinary drop of rainwater under a highpowered microscope. So much more there than the first look affords.

I belong to two retiree lunch bunches because I taught at two schools in my district. Even though I taught at a junior high only one year, they are gracious enough to include me in their monthly group, and I like their company. Of course, I also attend my high school's monthly lunches. At both, I generally order a bloody mary and settle in for some chatting. In addition to gossip about colleagues or district business, the conversation always comes down to two familiar topics: travel and what everyone is doing to promote health and longevity. If there was such a thing as a Dr. Oz Cruise, these groups would book immediately. I know who is taking flaxseed and chia seed every day, who is using only gluten free products, who is swearing by glucosamine, and who orders everything online from Puritan's Pride. I know that Dr. Bragg's Raw Apple Cider Vinegar With The Mother is the only apple cider vinegar with true health benefits. Oh, and do you want to take a river cruise? Well, forget it. They book so far out now, that it's impossible to plan one any earlier than 2015, and you had better forget the "Downton Abbey" one. That one is sold out for the foreseeable future. Carnival Cruises are just so noisy--too many kids and young people--but you can book a quieter one on Princess or Holland America. But--sigh--it's just sad how some lines treat their employees, who are all foreign nationals. Try to tip them well, if you can. There are horror stories out there that are just awful.

Listening to travel stories is one of my joys. If I can't go, then I want to hear about when you went, and if you have some pictures, even better. My colleagues are generous with their travel stories, and they give good recommendations regarding cruise lines, travel agents, places to see, and places that aren't really worth a stop. They will even give you their guides, books, or anything else that they have that might be of help. The problem is, they never sound very impressed or happy about where they went. I always get the idea that they went in order to have gone, to simply cross it off their list or something.

They get far more exercised when talking about their use of wellness products. I understand. Ten years ago, I didn't think twice about any of that. Now, however, my hair keeps getting greyer. My hands and knees truly hurt with arthritis. My vision prescription changed for the worse, and I have a hard time driving at night. It all seems very unfair to me. That stuff is for Old People. I'm not Old. Then I think about the Simple Arithmetic of it. I have far more years behind me than I am likely to have ahead of me. It's natural to want to tip the scales more in the other direction.

The whole thing makes me feel confused and guilty. Should I be taking supplements, chia, flax, wheat germ, green tea, fiber powder, and shots of vinegar (With The Mother)? How do I know? Every time I watch a little of Dr. Oz, he tells me to eat something else to lose weight. If I ate all of that stuff, I'd weigh 200 pounds. Should I get a Neti pot, or will I collapse and die from a brain-eating fungus? Rick and I eat very little meat now compared with how much we used to eat, and at least three days a week, we eat vegetarian. I start my day with Greek yogurt or a spinach and strawberry smoothie. I use olive oil only. Should I start oil pulling?

Let me say this: I liked it so much better when I was young and talked about makeup and boys. Or when I was a mom and talked about sleep habits and spit-up. Or even when I was in my thirties and talked about work, teenage attitude, and my shoes. And let me also say this: I am deep-bone tired of this winter. It has made me old. Older. Elderly. Aged. Aged and in need of Spring.

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On Luncheon: A Word Of Advice To Those Hampered By Celebrity

Astonishingly enough, my now-frequent luncheons out have gone completely unnoticed by The Media At Large.  It would seem that Hillary is Doing It Wrong.  I've given this quite a bit of thought lately since the former Secretary has been all over the television news, print media, and Interwebs munching on salads with President Obama and rumoured to be lunching with Vice President Biden soon.  If Hillary wants to have a nice afternoon meal (or snack, or cocktail with nibblies) with her friends, and she does not want it to become Journalistic Fodder and a Media Event, she should pay attention to the points I delineate below.

1.  Location:  Hillary went to the White House for lunch.  I go to relatively pedestrian, often chain, restaurants.  There is no way that a bunch of reporters are hanging out in a press pool at the Ruby Tuesday or the Olive Garden.  Additionally, I lunch in Northeastern Ohio, where no one of any consequence lives or works, (unless you count members of the Cleveland Browns football team or the Cleveland Indians baseball team.  Right.  I didn't think so.)

2.  Location 2.0:  Hillary and Barack ate (ahem) outdoors.  As in, outside.  As in, not inside like People.  Also as in, They Were Asking For It.  Now, while I applaud the Secretary for considering being photographed in natural light, this is an Invitation For A Photo-Op.  I, on the other hand, always ask if we can be seated along a wall with no vents so that I am not cold, which pretty much guarantees an obstructed view for cameras.  (It is a Given for all Dept. readers that I will not eat outside. How silly.)

3.  Companions:  Hillary's lunch companions are Washington D.C. elites.  My lunch buddies are retired teachers, teachers on summer break, friends, and family.  I would venture to say that a good 80% of the people who Hillary pals around with or is related to probably are newsworthy on their own.  I would say that a good 99.9% of the people who I can call up and who would know who I was are not.  Newsworthy, I mean.  This is how I can maintain my Cloak Of Privacy and Anonymity, but Hillary cannot. 

I feel like Hillary isn't even trying.  That we have in common.

For me, this whole Going To Lunch Thing is part of my new Retirement Philosophy, which I add to every now and then.  Of course, I forget what I already adopted as part of my Retirement Philosophy in the past, but I just go ahead and assume that I've mastered it and move on.

Anyway, this latest tenet is inspired by a quote from a favourite book, The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton.  In it, a pariah countess tries to explain to a straitlaced admirer why she is going out that evening to a dinner even though it is hosted by a man she does not care for.  She says, "I must go where I am invited or I should be too lonely." 

I decided to be mindful of this, so when I was invited to a retirees' monthly luncheon for the staff of the junior high where I served one year, I went.  And I also went to the retirees' lunch for the high school.  Both were pleasant, and at both, my colleagues said, "I never expected to see you at any of these!"  And even though I normally do not care to eat lunch, I found that having a Bloody Mary can be wonderful. 

One drawback to that, however, is that it often ends up costing as much as a Lunch.  Incredibly, my Bloody Mary at the Olive Garden cost eight bucks.  And all I said was, "I'll just have a Bloody Mary."  What arrived was a tarted up Bloody Mary containing a skewer with a few olives, slices of pepperoni, and cocktail onions.  A couple more slices of pepperoni lay atop the drink.  There may or may not have been celery.  I was so stunned, I can't remember.  When my check came, I was glad I had an old gift card my husband's boss had given him. We don't care for the Olive Garden, but I'm happy to eat Bloody Marys there for lunch on his dime.

Oh, and one more drawback to the Luncheon Bloody Mary.  I am often not tall enough to drink it using a straw.  Who the hell are these things for, the starting centers in the NBA?  Why are they served in fourteen inch tall glasses full of ice, slippery with frost, garnished with a half-cup of foliage, then set down in front of me like a challenge?  Yesterday, out lunching with my friends Pam, Sheila, and Sue, my drink arrived and I felt like a toddler who refused her booster seat. 

Amid the laughter, lunch was lovely.  We talked about things International and Cultural (Croatian customs and Belgium); Education (why are the wackos afraid of Common Core?); Nature (the Pony Swim at Chincoteague); and lots of other things.  Probably not much different than what Hillary and the President talked about, topically.  And all without the crush of reporters and photographers.

So, Hillary, give me a call or zip me an email.  We should definitely do lunch. 

Stupid Is And Stupid Does: Time Once Again For A Smackdown At The Dept. Of Nance!

What with my wine cellar and my Retirement, I find that I have strayed from one of my Original Missions here at the Dept., that being to Smack Down Some Stupid from time to time.  Let me assure you that This Time Has Come, and while I'm not nearly as viciously ready as I have been in the past (even though it is an Election Year), there is plenty of Abject Idiocy clamouring to be clobbered.  Here we go:

1.  Starting Small:  Yesterday was our wedding anniversary (#31) and Rick and I went to a wine bar for appetizers and drinks.  They have a nice atmosphere and some delicious lamb sliders.  Anyway, since I never eat sweets there, I never saw this on the menu, till last night:

Poor Mickey!

I don't want to give up on this place, but you know my policy.  Plus, how do you spell words like "caramel" and "chevre" and "arugula" correctly, but not "mousse?"  Especially when it's another thing entirely, like a small, furry animal? Someone should at least be smacking himself...on the forehead.

2.  Giving The Rest Of Us A Bad Name:  It's bad enough that the word "blogger" is ugly to say, hear, and even look at.  It sounds like swampy old oatmeal or something. And thanks to the stereotype of ruthless and/or jobless Internet addicts who sit hunched over a screen in a basement while launching scurrilous rumours worthy of Faux News personalities intent on damning the Democrats or finding evidence of Jesus/Ronald Reagan in an order of Clams Casino, we all get the bad rap.  Case in point:  NEO's own Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist Connie Schultz was contacted via email by a conservative blogger who was "doing an expose on journalists in the elite media who socialize with elected officials they are assigned to cover" and wanted her comment regarding how she seemed to be cozying up to Ohio's Senator Sherrod Brown, who is running for re-election. 

(Brief digression here:  Look, given the chance, I would cozy up to Sen. Brown in a heartbeat. I adore Sherrod Brown.  Back many years ago, my sister Patti and I considered a campaign wherein we would offer to sleep with Sherrod Brown in order to convince him to run for Governor.  I am not kidding.  Then, Patti told me...well, wait a minute...)

Ms. Schultz emailed back, and I quote: "I am surprised you did not find a photo of me kissing U.S. Sen. Sherrod Brown so hard he passes out from lack of oxygen. He's really cute.  He's also my husband.  You know that, right?"

(...and that's why Patti and I ended our campaign.  As an avid reader and admirer of Connie Schultz, we could not, in good conscience, pursue our strategy. I still love Sherrod Brown.  When ads for his opponent come on and urge me to call Sen. Brown's office to bitch about something he purportedly did, I instead call and say wonderful things. I really do.  EVERY TIME.  And I tell them why.)

Back to The Stupid.  The only scandal here, Conservative Blogger, is that you are too damn dumb to USE THE GOOGLE.  Now put down that Starbucks, wipe those Cheeto crumbs off your face, and let me smack ya.  ;)

3.  Le Bullshit.  Holy crap, could you not be any more nauseated by the sophomoric petulance of...oh, pretty much everyone when they saw that Our Sacred American Olympians would be wearing OhMyGOD a BERET!?  I mean, what on earth was Ralph Lauren thinking?  That is a French Hat!  A Goddamned chapeau!  This is AMERICA last time I checked!  We wear HATS.  NO ONE IN THIS WHOLE EFFING COUNTRY WEARS SOME FRENCH-FRIED WUSS HAT LIKE

US Army Special Forces

Oh.

But those hats were made in CHINA!  WE EXPECT OUR OLYMPIANS TO WEAR OLYMPIC UNIFORMS MADE IN AMERICA.  WE ARE AMERICANS.  WE WANT OLYMPIC UNIFORMS MADE IN...



2002 US Team Uniforms

Oh, yeah.  Canada.  Well, at least they're in North America. 

Point is, What a bigass lot of grandstanding over something that, in the final analysis, means little.  (How about the fact that ONE beret costs 55 bucks and ONE men's blazer $795?)  If the American People want to get jazzed about something Of Vast Importance, certainly there are a myriad of things far more worthy of their distress.  I know I can think of about, oh, eleventy hundred of them, not the least of which is the fact that the republicans keep bitching about Jobs Jobs Jobs, yet they keep trying to legislatively crawl up my vagina and into my uterus as if they are going to somehow find them there.  Take it from me, Speaker Boehner and Candidate Mittens, many people, including my husband and several Medical Professionals have been there both officially and recreationally, (not in that order), and THERE ARE NO JOBS THERE.

Glad I could clear that up for you.  Consider yourselves both enlightened and smacked.

My!  That was invigorating!  Why oh why did I wait so long?  What do you think?  Or who has been languishing on your list?

Perhaps If You Are Out There Still, You'd Like To Read This, In Which I Simply Chat A Bit About Things In General, And There Are Secondary Characters

This time of year, when most people add to the General Clutter of their lives, I now take the opportunity to get rid of some of my Cranial Clutter by dumping it out here at the Dept. So, ready your Virtual Dustpans and Dustbins and press on.

Today I finally put up all the Festivity on my fireplace mantel. I had to replenish my supply of Overpriced And Classy Candles, courtesy Pier 1. The nice thing about getting my candles there is that they last about eleventeen years since I only use them at Christmastime, the scents are long-lasting and comforting without being cloying, and they come in designery colors other than Rudolph Red and Pine Green. As I was unwrapping them, I happened to read the label on the bottom: Burn within sight, it says direly. Keep away from things that catch fire. Keep away from children. Hm. Seems to me that last part is redundant. I feel like "things that catch fire" sort of says it all. Most children I know do burn.

Continuing with candles, one of the ones I bought was a sort of seaweed color scented with patchouli. I bought it for the color and the size, mainly. I gave it to Rick to smell and said, "This one is patchouli, that typical hippie incense scent. Here, smell and tell me what you think." He said, "It smells like marijuana and protest rallies and--" At that point I just grabbed the candle.

My Creative Writing I students are writing their one act plays. One of them came up to conference with me about a possible idea. He has a propensity for writing horror and always wants a twist ending. Also, everyone has to die at the end. Everyone. The plot is really not important, the machinations are endless, the characters incidental: everything is invested in the twist at the end. The conferences are exhausting, but I find this student delightful in every way. On Friday we had a Typical Nick Conference and, in the middle of it, when I was feeling like a limp dishrag and desperate for a double vodka martini, I stopped him. "Nick," I said. "A conference with you is like eating crablegs. At first it's like a fun adventure, and you love the delicious little chunks you get as you work away. But after a while, you start wondering if it's all worth it for the payoff at the end. You start feeling like you've invested a lot more effort than what you're getting out of it. I adore you, but you are absolutely wearing me out right now. Don't make your play do the same thing to your audience. Know what I mean?" And he absolutely did.

On Friday Rick and I decided to go and bang out the bulk of our Christmas Shopping and then get some dinner. Part of that plan was a Good Idea. The other part was A Nightmare. Shopping went well, but we decided to eat at A Certain Restaurant , and it was rather late for NEO diners, 8:45. Let's just say that the service was...nonexistent, my Cosmopolitan never saw a drop of real cranberry juice, our meals were definitely the tail-end of the cook's pantry, and we left hungry and with everything still on our plates and the meal comped--at well past 10. But one of the most horrifying parts was the buxom blond girl who, left over from a huge party, stood for almost an hour with her two friends directly in the aisleway and in front of another table of diners, talking and laughing loudly and, at one point, dragging a hairbrush through her long hair. It was at that point that I wished I were carrying a licensed firearm and had no moral upbringing. Seriously.

It is snowing profusely right now, and we are under A! WINTER! WEATHER! ADVISORY! Can you possibly imagine that getting a snowstorm in Northeast Ohio is incredibly newsworthy and amazing? It is the lead story on all the Cleveland newschannels. What really kills me is that lots of snow and bitterly cold temperatures in Minnesota led the national news this morning. Really? My sister lived a year in Minnesota, and believe me, we heard all about how much snow they got (lots) and how cold it was there (bitterly). Geeze. Bring me some real news or shut the hell up already, NBC.

You sound like a blog.

The First Step Is Admitting That You Have A Problem: But That's A Helluva Big Step, You Know?

How sad. I am completely bereft these days of anything valuable to say on any topic of Real Significance. This fact became all the more apparent after I had one martini on an empty stomach on Friday, grabbed Rick's PDA during dinner out, and jotted down what I thought would prove to be incredibly brilliant notes for a blogpost.

I'm still using them here. I'll leave it to all of you to decide if there should be a new organization called WADB: Writers Against Drunk Blogging.

*)(* People everywhere need to stop ordering and drinking White Zinfandel!! (Ed. Note: This was written after I noticed the waiter bringing a gargantuan bottle of White Zinfandel to the table next to us. They eschewed the waiter's suggestion of La Crema pinot noir or another lovely Chardonnay and instead got this two-liter of WZ.)
Rick: It's not even "white," it's a BLUSH.
Nance: Yes! True. And here's a shocking truth. I'm just putting it out there. I'M A SNOB.
(Ed. Note: I'm pretty sure I sat back with a sort of "so there, act surprised, but there it is!" expression on my face. I probably am a little bit snobby about a lot of things, but in all fairness, I don't think I'm really a snob. Completely. )
Rick: (laughs)
Nance: And I just want to take that huge bottle of white zinfandel and smash it on the ground. And then I want to take this purple crayon and write on this paper tablecloth: STOP DRINKING WHITE ZINFANDEL. FOREVER!! (Ed. Note: We were at a Macaroni Grill, hence the crayon and the paper overlay on the tablecloth. That chain still likes the cutesy idea of the waiter writing his name on the table. I don't get it, personally, but okay. By the way, their new appetizer--which I wish had arrived much earlier so I wasn't already half in the bag--of marinated olives and parmesan bread, is very nice.)

*)(* A Singing Waiter! What a lovely voice, but he only sang one time and then we never heard him again. Probably one reason why was because EVERYONE ELSE SIMPLY IGNORED HIM AND KEPT SHOVELLING FOOD INTO THEIR YAWS. HARDLY ANYONE EVEN LOOKED TOWARD HIM! Typical Ohio mentality: feed your yap and not your soul. (Ed. Note: He was not our waiter. He waited on the table behind us and a few tables over. At one point during his song ("If I Loved You"), one of the diners at the table harmonized with him, which was surprising and pleasant. Both Rick and I turned toward him; our waiter, who had arrived to take our orders, stopped and listened with us. We inquired politely about the young man, who we discovered is trained in opera. All in all, it was an unexpected pleasure which was largely unremarkable to most of the other patrons, it seemed.)

*)(* My Perfect Blackberry! It would be red or pink and less square and I'd call it a raspberry. NO KEYBOARD. I would speak clearly into it, and then I'd say "stop." I would be able to edit the message before sending it by SPEAKING THE CORRECTIONS into it. Then say, "Send to Rick" or "Send to whomever". Again, the most important thing is NO KEYBOARD. (Ed. Note: I am flexible on the Raspberry name. And the "roundish" aspect. But the idea of typing on a "phone" device is completely abhorrent to me. I detest the phone, and the idea of sending messages on the fly is appealing, but teensy-tiny typing is NOT.)

I know it seems horrifyingly impolite that I was taking all these notes during a nice dinner out with my husband. Let me assure you that it took only moments to record them because, as you can see, they are fluffy little bits of nothingness. And I was everso discreet. At least I think I was. After all, I was deep into a gorgeous vodka martini, up, slightly dirty. Isn't it just tragic how little it takes to get me...thinking? And about such deep, deep things, too! Sigh. Ah, well. Let someone else win Nobels.

In Which I Take On Restaurants, Bad Footwear, Hyper-Casualism, And, Just On Principle, republicans. Because I Must.

Certainly our current Administration in Washington D.C. has plenty to do, what with The Economy, Health Care, Iran playing Hide-n-Seek with nukes, and the republicans trying to...well, Do Whatever Nasty Thing They Can Find To Do. But this is no time to forget the fine cement of Nicety that should hold our country together. Once again, I volunteer to step in, make the Dept. of Nance a bona fide department, and do what I can to whittle away at the insidious incivilities that threaten to weaken what is left of Our Gracious Society.

Our topic today, dear readers: Restaurants. (Let me immediately say that I have a personal stake in this subject and that it was inspired by a recent dining experience at a franchise restaurant which shall remain nameless. Rick, not feeling particularly sociable on Friday, called the restaurant (one of the few to still take reservations for a party less than eleventy thousand) to make reservations for the two of us on Saturday. We decided to dine early, at six. This is plenty of background. I press on.) Restaurants have become a Behemoth Of Bad Behaviour in our Society as of late. Not owning or operating one myself, perhaps I am simply naive or ignorant, and a restaurateur can set me straight. Otherwise, I will remain convinced that the following points need to be remedied immediately. It simply cannot be that hard.

1. Reservations: Firstly, take them. Regardless of party size. Second, honor them. I do not want to arrive on time and have to wait twenty minutes (as was the case Saturday). Listen, I made a plan to dine at your establishment. I can understand there being some unexpectedness involved. But twenty minutes? Ridiculous. I'd like to paraphrase Jerry Seinfeld when I say, "Anyone can take a reservation. It's holding the reservation; that's the most important part."

2. Seating: Do not insult me and take me, a person who made a plan to dine at your establishment over 24 hours ago, to the lousiest table in your restaurant. Those horrific cafeteria-like two-tops along a banquette. I do not wish to share my dinner and my dinner conversation with strangers. As a matter of fact, restaurateurs everywhere, STOP PUTTING THOSE GODAWFUL SEATS IN YOUR RESTAURANTS, PERIOD. THEY ARE TERRIBLE. If you must have them, save them for the walk-ins who decided at the last minute to patronize your establishment. When I am escorted to one by a clueless hostess, I politely insist that I be moved. Questions follow, managers inevitably insinuate themselves, and the dinner check ends up being comped. I don't try to get a free meal. I just want a nice dinner. I'm happy to pay for it, really.

3. Acoustics: Why do you have "ambient music?" Most restaurants are too damned loud anyway. The music/Muzak does not help. Especially annoying is "theme" music, i.e. Italian music at Italian restaurants. If I had a restaurant, I'd plaster that place with acoustical tiles so that it sucked in every single noise. You wouldn't hear an ice cube clink. In other words, you'd be able to hear the person across the table from you talk. Without shouting.

4. Appropriate Dress: Flip-flops. I see really no difference between these and being barefoot. Really. Can you imagine all the crud being flipped and flopped into the dining atmosphere from these people's feet? Ugh. And, is there really a difference between an Abercrombie & Fitch hooded sweatshirt and a plain old hooded sweatshirt? I want there to be some restaurants where I can go and not see a baseball hat. Where there won't be a woman in tennis shoes and sweatpants. But I don't have to pay fifty bucks for my pasta. You know?

The Dept. of Nance stands ready to restore Gentility to Dining Out. Short of opening its own restaurant, it will do its utmost to assist diners everywhere in their Quest For A Sophisticated And Civil Dining Experience. But first, both parties must accept their share of the blame.

Restaurateurs, anxious to make a go of their ventures, are increasingly lax regarding their standard of clientele. They're just happy to get bodies in the door. If they are running a casual, family restaurant, that's fine. But do draw the line someplace. Is it beach shoes? Is it bikini tops? Is it children running amok and disturbing other diners? Train your staff, and make sure they are capable. Tossing a few free meals here and there will eventually add up, and pretty soon, you'll be shuttering your business.

American Public, have some class. You are out to dinner. Not standing in front of your Frigidaire after having closed up your garage sale. Other people are around. True, you do not know them, but have some Personal Dignity. Are your children disturbing others? Apply a standard other than "Are they killing someone/each other/me?" for their Public Behavior. Finally, wear Real Shoes. It will be Okay. It's only an hour or two and then you can go home and take them off.