Off the hook . . . . for now

Okay. So. He's off the hook.

No. the game did not break on its own. I just committed what I found out is a first year faux pas. Apparently I broke a cardinal rule of returning a gift my husband got me before the five year time limit of truth in a marriage.

See. I hinted HEAVILY that I wanted a necklace I saw at Tiffany. Anyone who knows me knows that subtlety is not a strong point of mine so hinting heavily means asking if he got it everyday and then tiling a picture of the necklace and making it his background.

Christmas morning, before i even started opening my gifts, I asked where my card was. He told me I could have it AFTER I opened up my stocking stuffers. So. I did. then I asked again for my card. He told me to just open presents. I opened present after present, none of them looking like it could contain my necklace.

Exasperated (and surrounded by paper) I asked again for my card. I was ready to call off Christmas if I didn't get a card. He handed me my card. Finally. It was cute and he doctored it up to fit us. And it contained a riddle. A riddle that led to my necklace hidden in the room. I danced about and hooted and hollered. However, upon seeing it in real life I did not like the necklace as much as I thought I would. It didn't fall right and the double chain was not as dainty as I like my necklaces to be. Within 10 minutes I asked if we could return it.

I found out later that what i did was rude. That I should never ask my husband to return a gift he bought me. Whoops. But most womyn aren't married to a Stew. One who could laugh (although through gritted teeth) at his wife. And one who would rather spend the money on something i really like. Of course I picked out a necklace that was far too close my favorite $7 Target necklace he got me 2 years ago that i couldn't justify making him spend more than 25 times that when this necklace is still perfectly fine. So. He ended up taking a credit on his credit card for a necklace I asked for and he went through hell to get and even more hell trying to surprise my inquisitive ass with. I feel bad.

But. Not not bad enough to tell him my plan. All I need is another few Tiffany credit Christmases like this one and maybe I can get some diamond studs.

An open letter to my Husband:

My darling,

I love you. Every morning I wake up and look at your face hovering over me (as you are the one waking me up) and I find new reasons to love you. Lately it feels as though something is coming between us. It's not the football that occupies most waking moments from August until the Superbowl. It's not the late night poker games. Or, the other months chock full of Fantasy Sports orgies with your friends. It's not even the weeks spent planning when you 're about to embark on an occasional Dungeons and Douchebags campaign. It is none of these things.

See, call this what it is. I guess one might call it a thinly veiled threat. But. One of the problems with having a wife who more technically advanced than she lets on is the fact that, if pushed to the point, she will begin uninstalling things that seem to hog up a large amount of your time. Yes, dear, i am talking about your Guild Wars.

You see, so far the past two weeks have gone a lot like this for me:
Work every day
Do most of the Christmas shopping
Wrote out and sent all of the Christmas cards
Did all of the wrapping
Baked 12 dozen cookies
Cleaned the entire house
Did my laundry (which I only started doing AFTER you washed my cashmere sweater)
Vacuumed and dusted every room
Took home and completed SEVERAL transcripts.
Took care of a dog

And here are the things I asked you to do to help me out:
Take the dog out at least every two hours
Pick up the bread for Christmas Eve
Pick up my mother's gift certificate at the nail salon which you offered to do MULTIPLE times.
Clean the downstairs bathroom (which I eventually did)
Empty the dishwasher

As of 1:37 p.m. Christmas Eve here is what you have done of all the things I have asked in the past two weeks:
Emptied the dishwasher

Maybe it will help you to see this in black and white. Maybe I should bold it. I know you will say that baking the cookies and doing the Christmas cards and cleaning are my choice. But you remember how the cashmere sweater got washed, don't you? I believe it was a comment about the bedroom being so messy you weren't sure if was in the dirty pile or the clean one. Forget the fact that you drove it to and picked it up from the dry cleaners for me several times in the past 4 years.

Here is what you have done for NUMEROUS hours:

Played Guild Wars

Do you see how I might be a little frustrated? And hey, I know I mess a lot with my Sims games but that is after I have done everything else I am supposed to do. I'm being pushed to the brink of uninstallation and here's why. The topic of kids coming into the picture is now a reality. But. I swear to God, I will keep this IUD in for the rest of my life and pretend like I have NO CLUE why we're not getting pregnant if you don't start pulling your weight. And the only way you will wise up to what I'm doing is if you take me to get an x-ray and I know you won't make time for that much less remember the appointment.

I recall when my patience broke the first time. I was inundated with typing and was complaining how I had to type all weekend but now I was even more stressed because I told my nephews theyc ould sleep over. You told me not to worry. That you would watch them. I trusted you and went upstairs to type. Things were good for a while until I heard tiny footsteps coming up the stairs and to my office door and then it opened. And soon I knew his brother would follow. I peeked down the stairs and what were you doing? You were on one couch with your laptop firmly planted in your lap playing your gime while the little one was racing cows but the other one was bothering me. One little thing. Do you see how this might worry me that if we have kids I'll end up doing EVERYTHING until the resentment spills over and I start taking a meat cleaver to wires?

I am sure if I uninstall your game (which I will do and anyone who knows me knows I'm EXACTLY the kind of a vindictive bitch who will do it) you will find something else to occupy your time. And you know what, that will mysteriously break too. It will all break until you are standing in a pile of broken plastic guitars, uninstalled games, busted CDs (because surely you will attempt to reinstall it) and broken up PS3s.

I'm sorry it has come to this. But. You cannot say you weren't warned. I have been telling you for months now that I'm getting close to breaking all your toys. I've muttered it under my breath. I've shouted it from rooftops. Shape up or pick up your feet when walking among the broken plastic.

Love always,

Lulu

Smoke & Mirrors

** Names have been changed to protect the fraudulent and save myself from a lawsuit **

I can remember when I learned that Santa Claus was fictional.

I can remember when I found out it was really my parents posing as the tooth fairy.

I expect, as an adult, I'm going to experience some of the same letdowns on a different scale. However, I feel as tho' I have been duped twice. And frankly, I am sick of it.

I can't mention names because I'd probably get sued but if I've learned anything this past year it's how to artfully dodge the truth and not implicate yourself while doing it. A couple of years ago a very successful chain BBQ restaurant opened a few towns over. The gimmick of this place is down home BBQ cooking and leads you to believe that the owner and his wife are overweight, artery clogging hillbillys who live in a double wide and she sends him off to work everyday with a mason jar packed with pulled pork, slaw, mac and cheese and biscuits. And heavens forbid he cut himself on the job he'd bleed three different kinds of BBQ sauce.

So, one day we were eating in said restaurant for a family dinner (who am I calling a hillbilly here?) and the owner comes over and introduces himself just like any good businessman would when he $ee$ a party of ten. The menu leads you to believe the owner is in the back wearing a raccoon tail cap standing over a smoker in a wifebeater and jeans slick with grease.

At least that's what i want to believe when I bit into the smokey goodness of a my "burnt ends."

But "Big Billy" comes over to the table in his probably cashmere cardigan, khakis and loafers. And he's far from shopping at the Big & Tall. A southern accent isn't even remotely detected and when he finds out my aunt and uncle are from Rye he begins to tell them about all the country clubs he belongs to there and all the golfing he does. My "burnt ends' started tasting less smokey and more burnt as the grungy image of Big Billy evaporated before my eyes.

Enough time had lapsed for me to forget and work up another craving for their ribs. Plus, it was Good Friday and the Boy and I have a tradition of going to meat places that are usually packed on a Friday night on Good Friday because we're under the impression there will be less of a wait.

So, this particular Friday I was about ready to bite into my burnt ends when a well-dressed lady comes over to our table tastefully dressed with enough jewelry to say "I'm not flashy but I have more money than everyone in here" and introduces herself to us as "Miss BobbyJo".

Again, I wanted Miss BobbyJo to be at home eating bon bons while watching her stories and waiting for Big Billy to come home so she can fry up a ham steak. But no. Here she was looking like she fell of a page of the Ann Taylor catalog. She asked us where were from and that led to a few other questions about us and it came out about the wedding and where it was. She went onto say how Big Billy belongs to Country Clubs up there and how he belongs to about 50 different clubs and golfs all the time and how their daughter is getting married at some country club in DC (which i later looked up and found it was like $250 a plate).

Long story short. We haven't been back since.

So. A few times the Boy has tried to coax me back into BBQ food, which, honestly, prior to my low-carb lifestyle I was never into. He started raving about some Cajun place a couple of towns over that had the best food. So. one day I relented and we went there. I read all the articles on the wall and looked at all the pictures and I was lead to believe that I was about to eat some real Cajun food that will rival something I'd find in the streets of the Big Easy. That the owner spent most of his life in the New Orleans cooking for the locals and now he wanted to bring a little of that to Connecticut. It was tasty and I happily devoured everything in my plate while listening to some blues.

We had gone back a few times since that amazing day. And every time we returned the food was more delicious than the last and my desire to see N'awlins was dying because this was just like being there. This past weekend, we stopped in for some lunch and the owner was there (as he usually was). He asked us if we wanted to try some chili and when we said sure he came over with generous samplings piled high over sausage filled jambalaya.

Feel those arteries clog. A slow death never tasted so good.

He asked the boy and I if we've ever been to New Orleans and when we said no he said, "this is what it's like. Good food and jazz playing". he went onto say how so many restaurants in Fairfield County lack hospitality. Amen to that. And how they act like they're doing you a favor to get you more water when you're spending $30 a plate. Amen to that too.

Then he screwed himself. He asked us where we were from and when we said Stamford, he said "I was raised there too. West side." I said "me too" ready to start slinging some gang signs as soon as I moved my Dooney & Burke to a less sauce soaked spot on the table. But faster than i could do that the vision of eating tasty food cooked by a Ragin' Cajun disappeared faster than those FEMA e-mails. *POOF* Gone. Duped again. He told me how he was trained at an Italian restaurant I knew very well because I was best friends with the chef's daughter. Then to add insult to injury he asked if i was around in the 60's or 70's. Oh my god, do I look like I am pushing 50? Most people don;t even believe I'm in my 30's.

Moments ago i was talking to the boy about having him cater our Superbowl Party but now I may as well have been sitting in Chi Chi's.

Duped again. Just for that I threw out the rest of his free sample. Lie to me!!!!

If the eyes are the windows to the soul than your words are Saran Wrap

So my friend who broke up with his lunatic ex girlfriend seems to be healing nicely. I wrote a match.com profile rife with only the sarcasm I can achieve with the attitude he can carry and he is getting some bites. I kinda figured as I was writing it that she would more than likely read it. I mean any girl who meets a guy on Match stalks him for a while after the break up to see what their new profile reads and how often they are active. I can't tell you how many phone calls from my friends that started with, "we broke up three days ago and his ad is already back up." I remember after ending things with jersey boy I was a bit disturbed that barely two whole days passed when his ad went back up including a picture I took of him. Tacky.

Anyway, I knew that the ex-loon would see his ad so I tried to be careful not to be too mean when I wrote it. But. he asked me to honest and sometimes the lines between honest and mean get a bit blurred and I can't be to blame.

So. A few days after i came home from my honeymoon my friend called. "You'll never believe this," he said. Ohhhh, I bet i will. Try me. I was scared for a second he was going to tell me he was back together with her in which case I would have to move and join the Witness Protection Program. Thankfully that was not the case.

A few months ago when he was under the impression he was going to buy her a very large and very expensive engagement ring, she sold her engagement ring from her first marriage to a jeweler my friend knows. Now she is calling my friend asking him to help her get the ring back.

"Can you believe that thieving whore wants me to do a favor for her?" he asked me.

Well. Yes. I can.

"I should have told her that i would do her a favor when she returned everything she stole from my house and repaid me for a first class ticket to San Francisco I let her use after we broke up. Technically i could have canceled that ticket."

His argument was valid but I knew he would never say these things to her. He wanted to but he wouldn't because that is too mean (even for him). I told him he should have said these things and then some and then tell her to stick that diamond up her ass. However, my interest was mildly piqued. Why did she want the ring back? Was she feeling guilty that she sold the only ring her crazy ass would probably ever get? Or was she trying to live out some deranged fantasy where he shows up with the ring to give back to her and she somehow tricks him into proposing.

"No," my friend said, "Get this. She told me she is going to work things out with her ex-husband."

Oh now she didn't. She went through the oldest jealousy BS trick in the book. She would have been better off having sex on his lawn with someone else. The old ex-husband trick is boring and cliche. I expected more from someone so batshit crazy. I expected a faked pregnancy, sex with one of the guys who works for him, sex with his dad. Anything but this old gag. All that crazy and a huge let down.

"Well. That's nice." I said. Maybe those two crazy kids can make it work this time."

Then he told me how she sent him some text messages saying how she read his match profile and how she is concerned about him because it sounds so angry and she loves him, cares about him and wants him to be happy.

Um. Okay, hons, if you are trying to work things out with your ex why are you cruising match and looking at your ex boyfriend's profile? Genius. Why not just give yourself away.

Oh. And Angry? Obviously she has no sense of sarcasm and humor. Or maybe the line, "I like a girl who knows how to have fun as long it doesn't result in a 3 a.m. call from the police" hit too close to home.

Hell on earth has a home away from home

I used to think the phramacy line at CVS was hell on earth. And it still is but now I discovered there was another place that was hell on earth - the Stop & Shop deli department.

I know. It is dreadful to think that one might spend a few moments on a Friday or Saturday night grocery shopping. And I'm not talking after work hours. I'm talking 9 p.m. when most people are doing normal Friday night activities. And now, it's not because I am married now and have no life, but because the store is not weighed down with the mass of morons drunk driving their carts while trying to calm screaming kids or old people who think it's okay to park their cart in the middle of the aisle while they take 20 minutes to decide on what brand of prune juice fits their needs. I go to the grocery store only at these times. But sometimes I find myself having to go after work to pick something up for dinner. I hate these moments. In fact, it's these times that warrant eating out okay even if we ate out all of the preceding evenings as well.

The last time I braved the afterwork grocery store rush I knew it was a bad idea as soon as I stepped inside. The joint was FREEZING. Granted, I was in produce but this odd new sensitivity to the cold instantly turned my feet numb and blue. I went to the deli counter and took a number 194. What does that tell you? They have this new thing now where you can punch your order into a machine and they will have it ready for you while you shop for other things rather than wait. This is a great idea except I was only here for cold cuts.

My number 194 looked bad but looked less scary when I looked up and saw they were on 190. It should go fast. But my hopes were dashed by the fact that despite 6 people behind the counter, there was only one person slicing cold cuts. That means 5 people were there to do nothing but raise my blood pressure. And the one worker . . . . well slow would be an understatement. I watched as she could not find the Land O' Lakes white American in the fridge. Obviously, this called for the opening of a new one. But rather do that, she talked to the fridge for a few minutes trying to coax it out of hiding.

I realized there was an unusually large crowd gathered by the deli counter because it was raining the day before and rain, you know, melts people.

By the time the counter called for 191, my fingers were white with frostbite and it had been 5 minutes. I started pawing through the pre-packages cold cuts but became angry when I realized that you are paying about $2 more for the conveninece of that and I wanted more than a quarter pound of proscuttio. Call me crazy. Five minutes later they were still on 191 so I began collecting prepackaged cold cuts fightig back the hot stinging tears of defeat as Stop & Shop took my money because they failed to hire proper management to get the deli department in working order.

Screw that!!! No way would I let them win. I put the cold cuts back and decided to wait.

192 was called and I saw another deli person washing their hands as if ready to pitch in and help his slower than slower than slow co-worker. I realized then what took so long. The clerk would slice a piece of whatever and hold it up for the customer to see if it was cut to their liking. Now, who is watching their deli clerk that intently that they would see them hold up a slice of ham. Most people are talking on their cells, walking around produce getting other things or watching their kids trying to wriggle free from the confines of their cold steel cages with wheels. And rather than just let the customer slide, these clerks were waiting for the customer to acknowledge them without making any attempt to get their attention.

Here's a concept. How about just slicing your cold cuts to a usual standard unless the customer specifies a different way. I always specify and therefore I am always fast to answer when the clerk holds up a slice for me to inspect. Not specifying = not caring. So, slice away deli people. Slice away.

By the time they got to 193, my feet were so frozen walking was painful and I thought for sure they were doing this on purpose. I began collecting my cold cuts again while carefully watching the counter to see if it would change before I finished. I balled my number up into a tight little ball and just about pitched into the trash when I thought, "You waited this long, dummy. What's one more number?" So i waited . . . and waited . . . and waited . . . . and waited.

194 Finally! I over ordered everything on purpose and threw in a few extra so that the people behind me had to wait like I had to wait while the Suzie Homemakers before me ordered enough cold cuts to feed army troops. I highly doubt all those people were making antipastas. There is just no excuse.

$22 later, I left the store and vowed to never returned.

Boiling rabbits

I have a theory and sometimes that theory is right. Okay, it's OFTEN right but I hate going around saying, "I told you so" because, really, what good does it do? I don't claim to be a relationship expert and I only claim to have made about four good decisions in my entire 34 years so far so really, who should listen to me? I'm crazy but in an okay way. I have really weird unexplained quirks and I'm the only person who begs to be on trials where afflictions of the skin are involved. These are weird and a bit crazy but I like to think I am the good crazy not the kind that requires you to have the police on speed dial.

But this theory I have is one that a lot of people (except the people going through it) agree with. It's the theory of couples counseling.

Now. For the record, let me state here that I'm not against couple's counseling. Sometimes couples just need a little extra help communicating. They need an unbiased party to set their shit straight and put them on a path to success. Couples counseling has helped people I know avoid divorce or decide to divorce. It certainly has its benefits. However, I have seen an awful lot of people I know lately who aren't even engaged going to counseling.

Let me just throw this out there as food for thought. If you have to go to counseling before you're even engaged, isn't that setting off some kind of red flag? Isn't that saying, "gee, we're having a problem communicating now, let's get married and cure it." To me, it's like having kids to save your marriage. I can understand it. You love this person, you want to spend the rest of your life with this person but they need some work. All couples need work. All couples have growing pains. Every person walks into a relationship with a clusterfuck of issues. It's a fact of life. If you think you're not going to be effected by this then you live in a fairytale. Sometimes these issues can only be helped by a professional. Sometimes they can only be helped by that individual but the fact of the matter is that person has to really want to overcome their issues for their sake and the sake of their partner. They have to be open to being helped.

So, it's not a very big surprise to me when non-engaged couples who are in therapy break up. It's also no surpise to me that when I'm looked to for encouraging words about said break up I bring aboslutely nothing of emotional value to the table except a a very strong urge not to say, "well, duhhhhhhhh!"

I got nuttin'. I know that may come off as cold and I've been called "black hearted". But, wouldn't you rather have that than me blowing Doctor Phil psychobabble up your ass? Recently a friend of mine broke up with his girlfriend. I saw all the red flags practicaly shooting sparklers and he chose to ignore all of them until he had to change his locks to protect himself from them.

Red flag #1 - I pegged her as crazy (the bad crazy) the minute I met her. I know I make snap judgments about people but I'm not usually wrong. On the rare occassion that I misjudged someone I am the first to admit it.

Red flag #2 - At a dinner party more than one of her friends (and one guy who didn't know her all that well) suggested she had an alcohol problem. Granted, they may have been joking but there is truth in every joke.

Red flag #3 - He's witnessed more drunken rages than he cares to admit to. I learn about a new one he failed to tell me everyday. During one rage he witnessed her display Herculean strength pushing a heavy, filled armoire across the room like it was a cottonball in an effort to cause him physical harm.

Red flag #4 - They don't even live together yet and they are in therapy.

Red flag #5 - They narrowly escaped breaking up twice before they were six months into their relationship. Six months is still the honeymoon period as far as I am concrened. You should still be on your best behavior around your significant ther. This means that you're not farting in front of eachother and you're still closing the bathroom door.

But of course all those times he told me he was enaggement ring hunting and I kept telling him to keep the receipt, I was being "mean." And all those times I said, "she is crazy, could very well have a problem with the vino so beware" apparently wasn't enough because when they broke up this past time, I was blamed for not telling him what I thought about her. Mind you, this is the second girl in two years who displayed a major crazy side. Both of which I said, "you know she is crazy, right?" after meeting them for the first time.

And now he wants supportive words. I had to tell him I am not good with break ups. I never have been. In my thought process you break up because you're not compatible. End of story. If the other party is having a hard time accepting it then it is their bag. And we've ALL been in the place of unacceptance before. We've all said something so mean and hurtful to our exes with the intention of having it sting like a swarm of bees. I know it's hard to watch someone you care about cry and convulse but it's pretty shitty of them to think that breaking up with them had no effect on you whatsoever so they can carry on like they're having an epileptic fit. You just happen to be in more control of your emotions than they are.

I'm probably the last person anyone should want encouraging words from right now. I'm still a newlywed (despite the fact it feels like I have been married ten years already) so everything is all roses and kissy faces and shit. But, I've always had that, you live and you learn now move on attitude about relationships. I guess I just naturally assumed there is someone else out there who is better for you if you deserved it. Plus, I sometimes find it an exercise in futility to console someone who has a track record of getting back together with their crazy ex. I mean why expend the energy if it's ignored anyway. I learned that the hard way which is probably why I am the way I am.

He said he wants to know how to tell if a girl is crazy or not. I told him that I would be his crazy barometer. Invite them out and have me meet them, if I tell you she is crazy then dump her. So far I haven't been wrong.

No rules must mean no reservations

This will be short. Can someone tell me, please, what the hell is the difference between a regular reservation and what Outback calls it - "call ahead"? They do not take reservations. I'm sorry but if I call a restaurant to make reservations I give them my name, how many people in my party and what time I want to come and when I get there, my table is ready.

Usually.

Unless it's a case of what happened a week ago. A week ago, I put hubby in charge of calling P.F. Chang's in the Westchester mall. When we got there after a long evening of shoe shopping, they said our reservation didn't exist. We waited a while, eventually sat down and ate and came home. That is when my darling realized he made the reservations for Woodbury, New York and not Westchester.

But this past Friday I wanted Outback. Friday and Outback are never a good mix. That place is always busy. However, I used their call ahead system and when we got there, we were escorted past waiting diners and right to our seat.

Again, I ask, what is the difference between this stupid call ahead and a reservation. Just call it what it is. I'm sure they want to reserve the right to bump a party of two for a party of six but that's not good business practices. When my Mother-in-Law and I were planning the boy's surprise 30th birthday there, they wouldn't even guarantee me a table for 15 so it really can't be for the sake of the bump that they don't take reservations.

Beefer-ella

Mirror mirror on the wall, who is the most bitter of them all?

You are Beefer-ella, you are.

Damn skippy. Beyotch.

So. I got suckered into a responsibility at work because I lacked the common sense to share something with my co-workers. I mistakenly shared the fact that I have half a brain. Now I am being punished for it. I got roped into being the "go-to" person for the software we use. Being that there's 30 or so computers in the building that use this software, I don't get a moment's rest. It's my fault really. I mean, I can turn a computer off and on so I was an obvious mark to take on this thankless duty. I figured it would give me some kind of job security and then I realized with a state job, there is no such thing. It's all about tenure. Technically all i have to do is show up every day and try not to fuck up too much and so long as people come in after me, I will slowly move up the ladder. So, taking on the additional responsbilities is an exercise in futility. I used to do nice things until I saw that I was being taken advantage of. And by being taken advantage of, i mean people were asking me to fix their personal computer and software issues and asking me to email the helpdesk when they were perfectly capable of such duties.

I used to pop down to the mailroom and get the mail if I had nothing to do. I had another motive as I was always hoping there would be a check for me. Even if there wasn't, I would still bring all the mail up and distribute it. Now, i go down, sift through it and if there is no check for me, I leave it. I leave it even if there is a check for me.

So, yesterday I was ready to beef as soon as I got in. I tend to walk in at 9 to a desk full of bullshit notes. I wouldn't mind so much if a good chunk of these issues were not someone simply forgetting to turn on a switch or not knowing where the master volume on the computer is. Honestly, i don't know any more about computers than the next person but I am not afraid of pressing buttons to figure out what the issue is. I know that the way our techs have the computers set up, it's virtually impossible to change a setting so much that a good old fashion restart couldn't cure it. Our administrative duties on the computers are very limited.

Needless to say, it is virtually impossible for me to get any work done during my two fifteen minute breaks a day and one hour lunch. So, while the helpless are taking their lunches or smoking outside I am working. Constantly. I've taken to making up imaginary doctors appointments just so I have to leave the building for lunch. I used to sit at my desk and get some typing done but now I dread going back to the office because I know as soon as I walk through that door I am going to get inundated with BS. Like I said, I wouldn't mind if 95 percent of the issues didn't make me want to smack them on the forehead and say, "Uh-duh!"

The feeling of swimming in a pool of dopes continued after work. On may way home I happene dto get in front of a driver who was paying no attention whatsoever to the road. I only noticed this because he looked familiar and I thought he was one of my mom's friends' husband. I am not sure what he was doing. It appeared that he was reading a book, newspaper or trying to dial a cellphone but when I stopped at a red light, he would roll to a stop behind me. There was a lot of traffic so I had to wait at a light for more than two rounds before passing. Each time I moved up, he was digging into another chapter and would let a space the size ofa football field come between us before rolling slowly while reading. I kept looking at him in my rearview mirror. I could care less if i recognized him, his complete lack of attention while driving was pissing me off.

So.

Of course.

A few seconds after thinking this. I watched the asshole slowly roll right into me. There was no damage. he was rolling so slowly, I knew he was just going to bounce off my spare tire anyway. But, he didn't even look phased except for a momentary look of guilt on his face and then he went right back into being a clueless ignoring-the-road asshole. I was going to get out but I was so pissed off all i would have done was yell at him and ended up in jail. However, i did take his license plate number down in case there was damage. I know it's harder to prove later but I figured if anything I would have my dad run his plates and crank call him at 3 a.m.

Good luck? What kind of a shitty thing is that to say?

Sundays are lonely for me now that football has started. The boy usually takes off to sit with his friends watching the game in some lousy bar with lousy service and lousy food that I have to hear an incessant amount of bitching about when he comes home. Meanwhile I'm trapped in the house most of the day (because I equate going out with spending money and now that I am married I seem to have no money) with a TV that I can't work because there are way too many remotes and I have no clue which is which.

This past Sunday the boy was feeling guilty for working an overnight on Friday and losing Saturday night to a family gathering so he decided he would stay home Sunday and spend some time with me. Here's how spending time with each other goes these days. I play Sims in one corner of the living room while he sits behind me and watched football.

But, we're together, right?

I began dropping hints around 2:30 that I was starving. So, he did what any football fan would do whose wife said she was starving more than 6 times in 10 minutes. He took me to a bar he knew would have food AND TVs. I don't mind, I actually happen to like this place and frequent it at least 2 times a week during every season, not just football. I ordered the usual, a salad pizza and some wings. Now, for those of you not familiar with a salad pizza, it's pretty much thin crust with cheese melted on top and layer of cold tossed greens with vinegar. I particularly love dousing it in grated cheese, crushed pepper and salt. Actually, sad to say, I smuggle this in in my purse.

Try it and seasoning will never be the same.

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So, anyway, where was I?

We're sitting there munching on wings and the bartender brings over the salad pizza.

Two men to right remark, "I've never seen that before."

I didn't think they were saying anything to us so I continued my ritual of grated cheese and Hot Rocks.

Again, the man says, "I've never seen that before. What is it?"

I looked up and he was pointing at our pizza. I said, "It's salad pizza." And the man asked again what it is because apparently he never heard of a salad and a pizza. DUH! I explained (fighting the urge to speak slowly, loudly and use small words), "It's a salad on a pizza. It's good."

"Interesting," he says, "Good luck."

Good luck?

I thought it was the strangest thing I ever heard. The last time someone saw my salad pizza they ordered it and quickly became fans. But "good luck"? Exactly what did that mean? I thought about it for my entire meal. The only thing I could think of was the guy thought I was on a diet hence why I ordered salad on a pizza and he was wishing me luck on my diet.

This upset me for a couple of reasons. I know I put on a few pounds since the wedding but I reigned myself in with 135 grams of protein a day and under 50 carbs. So, this was my splurge day. Actually, despite the fact I was eating a salad, I was still being bad because my salad was on a crust. That rationale led me to think the man thought I was fat and SHOULD be on a diet so I got really self-conscious. But, hello, he just saw me shovel some wings down my gullet and I was pouring grated cheese on it thus canceling all the good out of it being a salad. Hmm . . . Maybe he meant good luck because I was OBVIOUSLY failing at my diet by doing this.

I wanted to ask Stew what the guy meant. Sometimes I think Stew can translate guy-ese better because he's a guy and therefore he must know what men are thinking all the time. However, with the guy sitting so close I couldn't ask Stew. So, I waited the whole meal (which felt like forfuckingever) and when Stew and I were safely in the car (okay, so it was really right when the door to the bar closed behind me), I asked Stew what the guy meant by saying good luck. Of course, Stew being a guy, forgot the whole event even transpired and I had to give him a play-by-play of something that happened twenty minutes ago. Ignorance is bliss. I wish i was a guy and forgot about shit like that so easy.

This was Stew's explanation.

"Maybe he doesn't like vegetables so he was wishing you good luck eating it." Like I was eating something exotic you'd find on a menu in some foreign country. Good luck with that plate of live worms and side of fried locusts.

"You know, Lulu, some men just don't like vegetables."

I patted Stew's sweet face. I think his baseball hat was too tight and cutting off circulation to his brain with that explanation. "Well, I guess I'm lucky to have found the only guy out there who will eat vegetables with me."

He made the face. You know the face. The face that almost looks pained because he is only doing something because I want to do it but he doesn't have the heart to tell me. "It's different," he explained, "those vegetables are sitting on cheese and crust so they're okay."

So, it's official. The guy at the bar thought I was fat and should be on a diet. However, he wishes me all the luck in the world.

My husband, the size queen

I always thought it was a few hormones and genitalia. But it's not. The difference between man and womyn is much more simple than that. It's not biological, hormonal or genital.

It's electronic.

All my life I could have cared less about a TV. I mean I watched it. I enjoyed it but I could care less about the size. Twenty inches, twenty five, twenty seven, whatever. I was fine with it. My whole freshman year of college I lived without a TV. I remember if we wanted to watch 90210 we all crowded around my friend Marcie's 12-inch tv.

I had no issue with my TV since my parents got me the one for my first place. It fit into my beloved entertainment center (the recipient of MANY compliments) and life was good.

Until.

It took a couple of weeks after the boy moved in for him to start dissing my TV. The one he had at his place was enormous. I gave up my office so he could make it into his den and fit his TV. His TV would simply not fit into my entertainment center and I wisely chose my entertainment center over that monstrosity of a TV. I was not sacrificing Pottery Barn life for a corner of Best Buy. No way. I got my satisfaction when the mother of a Halloween trick-or-treater poked her head inside my crib and said, "wow, what a beautiful entertainment center." I closed the door, looked at Stew, who by the way was dressed like a pirate, and said, "did you hear that. She called it beautiful. It took her breath away." He immediately dismissed her as "a broad' and said my entertainment center lacked entertainment. he went on to trash the fact that it only had two outputs and I committed the sin of all sins by adding to my crappy TV a DVD/VCR combo which he practically threw up knowing we had to watch a movie on it. Geeze, don't hold back. He told his friends about my small TV and my combo and they ridiculed me incessantly. I fed into it by sending them pictures of how my crap-tastic TV would somehow change to Spanish subtitled around 9 p.m. every night. It annoyed Stew but i loved it. It helped make me bi-lingual and that comes in handy.

So. It was no surprise when Stew's parents gifted us with a check ear-marked for a TV on our wedding day. Anticipating this I put an entertainment center I found comparable to mine on our registry. I knew nobody was going to buy it for us but just having it on there would earn us 20% off when we did purchase it. The week after the wedding we sat in Fortunoff's as the saleslady went nuts trying to figure out how to discount it. Sadly enough we didn't have the TV yet but I knew it was just a matter of time. I pushed the delivery out as far as I could go and within a couple of weeks, Stew happily wrote me an email saying he picked out his TV. He sent me the link (like I actually had an input on it) and I pretended like I actually cared. I only cared about one thing, how much was delivery of this thing going to fuck my day up. When he got home he told me how pissed his friends were because his Tv will be two inches bigger. TWO INCHES. That is when I realzed, a man's TV is like a how a girl compares her boobs with those of another girl. Size does matter.

The entertainment center came first. Actually, we cheated a bit. The one I had was vanilla distressed wood and so was the new one so we just bought the expandable stand and the bridge saving ourselves about $1000. I did a little returning, some gift card schmoozing, "what do you mean that promotion had an expiration date, nobody told me. Can you go get your manager?" It ended up costing us a lot less. I never take no for an answer. Unacceptable. When the entertainment center came, Stew literally sat on the couch in front of the new and improved LOTSAENTERTAINMENT center with a huge smile on his face. I swear if he could have put his hand down his pants at that moment, he would have. I quickly put my 20 inch TV in the massive void. I thought the smile was disappear but it didn't. He was thinking ahead.

We both played hooky the day the TV got delivered. They gave us the generous window of 12-6. Stew "worked from home" and I just took the day off. I actually did work at home tho'. Stew spent the day pacing, perking up and running to the window every time he heard a truck. We live next door to a shopping center and trucks are always making deliveries so stew's hopes were dashed - A LOT. The TV came around 5 like we suspected. As soon as he confirmed it was the right truck he quickly (seriously, I never saw him move that fast) pushed the door open and waited there like a kid at Christmas. As soon as the guys left he quickly got to work with the wiring (special cables only), hooking up the Blu-Ray dvd player. We had some minor set-backs with the cable box but as soon as everything was done, his world was complete. He misses the TV more than me during the day now.

I guess he won't miss me then when I reclaim my office so I can get some work done since the TV is always on. I need some compensation tho', he made me get rid of my beloved L-shaped desk and that's going to cost a trip to Ikea.

Pie in the sky . . . or trash

The sugar free "pie" lasted until this evening. It's Wednesday for you late comers. I decided to give it another whirl when I walked into the kitchen to get some Cadbury mini-eggs.

Now, I know what you're thinking:

1.) How did you score mini-eggs in August?

The answer is simple. I have an Easter candy addiction. As we know Easter is my favorite candy holiday so I leave no shelf unturned in every store I go in around Easter time. Normally, I buy Easter candy after the official holiday to get it at 50 and sometimes 75% off but those mini-eggs have to be scooped up early. They are almost NEVER left on clearance racks. So, i buy a few bags and that way i have them throughout the year. In fact, I recently opened a bag I had leftover from LAST year. As in Easter 2006. Oh yeah. I still have Peeps too. It's Easter everyday in my house. I went a wee bit crazy this year and came home with about $25 worth of candy every time I went to CVS or Target. It got to the point where my chocoliscious loot was taking up and entire cabinet in my fridge. The sick part of me feels safe having it. Knowing it's there. I do not eat some everyday. I save it for PMS moments. I save it for the peanuts when they visit. I offer it up when a visitor says, "i wish i had something sweet." I'll share . . . unless I am down to my last cream egg and then you're on your own, pal.


2.) Why would you go into the kitchen for sugar ridden mini-eggs and suddenly get side-tracked by sugar free "pie."

Again, the answer is simple. I already had a handful of mini-eggs a little earlier and now I was planning to undo the damage (or curb the urge for another handful of mini-eggs) by attempting the "pie" again. Maybe another go at it wouldn't be too bad.

Two bites later that thing was in the garbage and I was digging in the freezer for some Reeces eggs.

Throwing out pie is unheard of. Unless it sprung mold (not that it lasts that long to turn bad) it is a sin to throw pie out in this house. But alas, it went bye bye.

Sugar Free Pie

Okay folks, let's face it. Sugar free and pie are two words that should NEVER go together in the English language. Pie without sugar, may not affect your glycemic levels while giving you the illusion of eating pie but the fact of the matter is Sugar Free pie tastes like shit.

Actually, I take that back. It does not actually taste like shit. The first bite renders some satisfaction that this Sugar Free confection may not be so bad afterall. The second bite tests your endurance and the third bite makes you throw your fork down and just give up.

In case you don't believe me. There is still some pie left. Pie left untouched since Saturday is unheard of in my house. If anything that pie would have been wolfed down for breakfast Sunday morning.

But, alas, I am glad I tried it because I would have always wondered. Now I know. It tastes like shit and gives you a horrendous case of garbage ass.

Spiders in my ear and Triscuits in my eye

So. Imagine this. You are me and you have NO insurance. None. And you're eating Triscuits and you finish the box and you get to the best part. All those yummy salty crumbs in the bottom of the bag. You run into the kitchen, grab a scissors and slice off the crinkled messed up part of the bag so you have a smooth, straight sailing, easy slide right into your mouth. How many times have you done with a bag of chips? many. You don't think that this particular time will be the time that may cause you great embarrassment and shame.

I tip the bag so that all the deliciousness goes to one side. I tilt my head back and prepare for decadence. I forgot to close my eyes realizing this after it was too late and dozens of triscuit shreds (they were cheddar flavor too so nice and fake orangey yellow and salty) poured right into my right eye. It felt like I have several shards of salty glass scratching at my eyeball.

I panicked.

Stew was upstairs in the den playing a computer game and I was covering my left eye and blindly flailing about in the living room trying not to DIE from embarrassment that I may have to go to the hospital because I had Triscuits in my eye. Not only would they look at me like I was uncontrollable chubby wubby who has just to put the Triscuit bag over her face like a feedbag and couldn't face the fact the bag was empty; but this was going to cost a small fortune. I'd almost rather go blind and tell people a lie like I woke up one morning and was blind in my left eye than admit I went blind because I had Triscuits in my eye.

I could not stand the pain anymore and ran up the stairs. Stew heard the clumsy stomping and opened the door to his den. I couldn't really see if he was coming so I casually screamed, "get outta my way, I have Triscuits in my eye." That's right, pal. You married Mama Cass. I'm only a good 10 years away from choking on an Italian combo. Who loves ya, baby?

Stew just stood back while I ran into the bathroom and put on the water with every intention of flushing out my eyeball. Those plans quickly ended after the first splash revealed I put on the hot water. Stew stood there looking at me and wondering what he did to commit himself to a girl who blinded herself with Triscuits.

"How did you do that?" He asked but answered his own question. "Lulu, were you pouring the bag into your mouth."

You know. I wear glasses. they should be just as good as safety goggles in events like this but apparently I contorted my head far enough back to reach Linda Blair proportions. Stellar.

"Yes," I growled at him as I inspected my eye looking for soggy bits of yellowy orange wheat shreds. "I feel something way back there."

Stew told me it would work itself out but I was convinced it was going to rot first and cause an infection in my brain and produce maggots in my head.

"Just try not to rub your eye," he warned.

Um. Okay. Easy for you to say. Your eye didn't just get sprinkled with granules of salt and dried fake cheese.

Eventually, the feeling went away. I don't know if the Triscuit bits did work themselves out or if they just got soggy enough from eye juice that they broke apart and went away. By the time I went to sleep that night, I just felt a mild scratching behind my eye. However, for some reason there was this bad itch in my ear. Surely it was a spider.

"Stew," I said from under the covers, "My ear itches. I think it's a spider."

He assured me I was wrong. "I'm sure you don't have a spider in your ear."

Hah! How does he know? I have Triscuits in my eye.

Love, Honor and What . . . .

For those of you wondering, I do not feel any different. I probably would if Stew and I did not live in sin for almost two years before we got married. But, it's not like I'm suddenly picking up his dirty boxers off the bedroom floor. I've been doing it far too long to admit. However, strategically placed hampers have now eliminated that problem.

The only time I feel slightly different (and it's more weird than it is different) is when I refer to him as "my husband." I never really referred to Stew as my "boyfriend." I always just called him Stew. Rarely did I say "my boyfriend" because I remember being single and internally rolling the shit out of my eyes when some broad used to say, "my booyyyfriend." And even after we got engaged, "fiancee" rolled off my tongue about as well as if I tried to speak French. Even when I talked about him, his title was still "Stew" or "my boyfriend" but almost ALWAYS Stew. So, you can imagine how much I stutter the word "husband". I have to get in the habit of saying it but everytime I do, it jolts me something fierce and I have to start asking myself, "really? a husband? Are you sure? You barely look a day over 22, you can't possibly have a husband." Heck, if it weren't for my dental hygenist pointing out my gray hairs I wouldn't look a day over 13.

Having a husband has led to the great name change debate. Everybody keeps asking me what I am going to do. Am I going to take his, leave mine or compromise and hyphenate. The plan was to leave it alone. If someone wanted to call me Mrs. Doodyhead, I was fine with that. I wasn't going to take their head off and say "I am still Lisa Craplips." The other option was to hypenate but honestly, doing that makes me sound like a staunch german womyn who wants you to make her lick her boots. And, if you have ever looked into changing your name, it is a GIANT pain in the ass. I need my marriage license to do anything and THAT is currently being processed. I was just going to leave well enough alone until I met the branch manager at my bank.

A few days after the wedding I went to the bank to DEPOSIT the monetary gifts we received. The account has BOTH of our names on it. When I log into my account online I also get the joint accounts listed. From there I can move money around all I want. I can take from the joint and put it in my account and I can do whatever I want with it.

However, going there that day to deposit money into the joint account where they could see I was REALLY Lisa Craplips was probably harder than robbing that very same bank. Because some of the checks were made out to: "Mr. and Mrs. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Lisa and Stew Doodyhead" or "Mr. Stewart Doodyhead" or "Stewart Doodyhead and Lisa Craplips Doodyhead". I had Stew sign the back of every check. That was not good enough for the manager. The manager, who was talking to himself. The manager who was sniffling and choking on his own phlegm like a 2 year-old. The manager I wouldn't even trust to count my change jar. Suddenly, despite my having FULL access to this money online; I was trying to pull a fast one on him. I pointed out that I have online rights. I also pointed out that until this very moment I made weekly deposits into that same account without there ever being an issue.

I smiled. I made small talk with the girl he was training thinking this was going to be a very good lesson for her. I sat there while he looked like he was genuinely struggling with the decision to let me do this or not. I made this phlegm-bot's decision very easy for him. I sat back in the chair, crossed my arms like Sitting Bull and simply said, "all those checks are signed by Stewart Doodyhead so they are as good as cash. I am not leaving until all those checks are deposited." We were both there in person when we opened it. We both gave them our licenses. There was NO reason he could not do this.

He did it. But not without warning that there might be a problem. There wasn't.

And not without saying that he really shouldn't be doing this. Give me one good reason why? I am DEPOSITING money.

He said I should change my license. That some piece of identification on me needs to say that my lastname is Doodyhead or Craplips-Doodyhead. Something. Anything. So, I came home and looked into it and you know what, it's just too much f-ing trouble. I'd rather change banks.

Btw, this was a sponsored link. http://www.kitbiz.com/?AID=806247&PID=1116763

Flavor my coffee with coffee

I get annoyed by little things. That's no shock. Big things do not annoy me as much as little things. Little things annoy me because most people think that it is so small and insignificant they can get away with it not making any sense. And, most of the time they sit back and have a laugh over how dumb the consumer is to fall for a ploy like that. Well, not this consumer.

The other day I heard a commercial for McDonald's new iced coffee. The announcer said, "now available in three flavors, french vanilla, hazlenut and regular."

Regular is not a flavor. Infact, it's UNFLAVORED.

How can coffee be coffee flavored?

I may have to write McDonald's a letter.

Wheelchair Asshole

I know, from the title you thought I was going to make fun of people in wheelchairs. Well, the truth is, I am. But, not until a bit later in this blog. This blog is actually about entitled assholes but the direct quote “Wheelchair Asshole” was too funny not to spotlight.

The term entitlement seems to reign supreme in my family. I think it has a lot to do with the fact that we have no fear of red lights, stop signs, speed limits and the like. It’s not that we don’t obey the rules of the road but just that if we should get pulled over by the po-po, it’s not going any further than radioing in our plates. This has carried over to other aspects. Recently, the final stages of wedding planning has caught me in a time bind. While I understand that I have to work around the schedules of others, my mother can’t grasp that concept. She is ready to throw down with my wedding coordinator. When I informed her to believe that the weight of our name was leaving the confines of our small town, she refused to believe me. REFUSED.

Everyday , when I pull into the parking garage at work, I am faced with the inconsideration of others. It seems like everyone here cannot park their cars. They either pull over the line or park crooked. This results in me having to park miles away because every car is taking up two spaces. And one person had the nerve to shoot me a look because I pulled in straight next to her crooked ass. My apologies that I can park and you can’t.

Often, I am faced with some traffic dilemma near the bakery by my house. People like to park in the firelane outside the bakery because parking in a space like everyone else must just be too fucking inconvenient for them. The problem is, the area where the bakery is a corner and the road in front of it where the firelane is a two lane road. It makes rounding that corner when a car is stopped at the Stop sign next to a vehicle parked in the firelane IMPOSSIBLE and forces the person trying to make a left to drive through the parking lot way out of their way because someone was too fucking lazy to walk 20 feet.

I feel like following these people in the bakery and asking them what makes them think their time is ANY more important that mine that I can spare the few extra seconds to walk from a legitimate space to the door but they can’t. Instead the inconvenience a few people.

This brings me to the wheelchair asshole. The boy and I went to a fancy party hosted by a vendor. There was a gentleman there in a wheelchair. At first he had my admiration because despite being in a chair he was one of the few people on the dance floor most of the night. You go sir. You go. But my admiration quickly turned to dislike when I felt something ram into me at top speed a few hours later. I looked down to see what almost knocked me over and it was wheelchair asshole. See, he had plenty of room to pass but instead he decided that he needed to weave his way through the group of people I was standing with rather than wheeling an extra foot over. But I gave him the benefit of the doubt and figured it couldn’t be easy to navigate a chair. However, it didn’t stop him from saying, “Oh, I’m sorry” and stepping to the side while speaking to him like he was a cute 5 year-old boy whose cheeks I wanted to pinch.

Later in bed I expressed my frustration at wheelchair asshole and the boy said “that guy was an idiot.” I was like, “Oh my god, you can’t call someone in a wheelchair an idiot.” The boy explained that I didn’t see the half of it. Apparently, while I was in line for the raw bar, the wheelchair asshole rolled up to our table because wanted to help himself to the box of cigars. One of stew’s co-workers was using the top of the box to put her plate on because the tables were very small. Wheelchair asshole rolled up, moved her plate while sticking his thumb in her shrimp and helped himself to a fine Cuban cigar. Who remembers that Denis Leary song. Oh yeah. Sing with me.

That is where the term was born. The words I knew I had to spotlight in my most offensive blog ever.

“He was an idiot acting like he was entitled because he was a wheelchair asshole.”

Bridezilla attacks

The gods must be crazy.

I woke up today before the boy. That is not a shocker if you think of how I have been sleeping lately . . . or not sleeping. As I went to carefully sneak out of the bed as tho not to disturb sleeping beauty, he wakes from his slumber and asks me to tell him a story. It's far too early to be creative and all that is running through my veins is poison at the forces around me trying to push every button in my body as I try to plan this huge wedding I did not want to have to plan.

See, yesterday, I got a call from my Bridal Shop who I now consider to be holding my dress hostage. Let me go back to July 28th , 2006, a lovely Friday when I had summer hours. On Friday, July 28th, against my better judgment, I purchased my wedding dress because I was advised by the lady at the bridal shop that I should purchase a gown at least 9 months ahead of time. She measured me and we plunked down a deposit. Now, knowing how my body is (ever changing) I stated this point to her and she still ordered me the size she thought would fit me like a glove because "they usually are big when I get them."

A cold day in March, my dress comes in. I rush to the shop to try it on and it's way too tight. She accuses me of gaining weight. While I did put on 6 pounds, that hardly means my dress should fit like I went up two sizes. She says they can let it out. In April, I find out they can't. After much finger pointing where she even tells me that when she measured me I was between two sizes but "I went with the smaller size since most of my brides say they will be that size that day." I explained, I am not like most brides and I would have told her to err on the side of caution instead of being where I am now, WITH A DRESS THAT DOESN'T FIT. I now see why people pay thousands of dollars for a dress as an uppity bridal salon because I don't think this would have happened at one of those. I also don't think I would have to wait for Sally Teenybopper to vacate the dressing room with her $99 prom dress. Long story short, we had to order another dress. The same dress. Just a larger size. Well 4 sizes larger since they didn't have the next size up in my dress in stock. I had to also pay a restocking fee, a shipping fee and a size fee tacking on an extra $150 to the cost of my dress. My new dress comes in some time in May. We begin the alterations.

June 20th. That was my last fitting. June 20th, all she had to do was hem it. I went. She measured, she pinned. I figured the next time I came in, I could take my dress home. When I went with my mom on July 5th, my dress still had not left the shop. So, yesterday I called to make an appointment. I was asked if I could come in on my lunch. I said I could only if she promised to take me as soon as I walked in at 1:10 and I HAD TO BE DONE by 1:50. That meant if Sally Teenybopper was trying on a $99 dress or she was not done with her appointment before me than that girl better sit down and wait until I was done. She did not like that. She asked if I could get there any day before 5. I explained that I work UNTIL 5 and while, yes, sometimes I get out early. I don't know what days I can get out early until that day and any day I told her I could be there by 5, I always got stuck at work until 4:58 and then I had to deal with a snotty attitude when I walked in. My mom told me she had a Saturday morning appointment open so I asked if I could have it. She said she would check with the seamstress but if I came in, I had to be done by 10:15 because she had another appointment.

How come everyone else can get appointments except me? Apparently, I was not being an enormous Bridezilla with the attitude that everyone is there to cater to me.

She called me back a few minutes and yelled that I had to make time. That my wedding was in 10 days.

I took a deep breath. I had to before I spoke or only fire would have shot through and I can't burn my bridge with her until my dress is out of that shop. Yes, My wedding was in 10 days but whose fault was it that my dress was just sitting in her shop for two fucking weeks? Not mine. But now I have to pay the price of her poor customer service. I have two words for thsi bitch. LENS CRAFTERS. Remember my vendetta against them? Well, that was nothing compared to this.

Lucky for me (and her) I was scheduled to leave work early Thursday so I scheduled something for 2:30 Thursday. Itw as dicey for a minute there. Later when my mom called to make her appointment, teh lady said something that really set in stone the fact that she was batshit insane. She said, "I swear. These brides. They act like work is more important than their wedding gowns."

Without a job. I wouldn't have said money to buy said gown. Ih-Duh!

So, this comes full circle when the boy asked me to tell him a story this morning. It went a lot like this.

There was a girl named Lulu and she could not sleep. It's too bad because Lulu loves her some sleep. But she woke up one morning with her heart pounding and determined to solve the insomnia issue. She went downstairs and filled up all her water bottles with gasoline. Then she went to her rag bag and stuffed the rags inside the bottles soaking them real good. She left a little bit out to act as a . . . .

The boy ruined my story.

"Lulu burns down the bridal shop, doesn't she?"

Ruiner.

There is a fine line between insult and flattery

I went for a cleaning yesterday. I only have 21 more days to brighten and whiten this smile the cheap way. I had a different hygenist an Asian/Korean/Japanese/Chinese/Contonese/Taiwonese (I'm sorry but I don't know the difference) womyn who was so gentle with me that I almost forgot she was there.

I wish I were Asian/Korean/Japanese/Chinese/Contonese/Taiwonese because these people don't seem to have a filter on what is appropriate to say and what's not. I'd kill to go through life dissing people in broken Engrish and then smiling and laughing a slight shy laugh that makes the person you dissed wonder if it was a insult or a compliment. A friend of ours married a Korean girl who said to him on their first date, 'You're really fat, you must want to lose weight, huh?" And when he went to Korea to meet her family they mocked him incessantly about being stocky. He told us how her uncle would giggle and say, "fat boy, I bet you want some ice cream, don't you?" if they passed an ice cream place.

So, yesterday, I sat down in the chair and started flipping channels which is always a moot point since I have to take off my glasses when they start the process. It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't have a "fixed volume" and I could at least hear what's going on even if I can't see it. And to add insult to injury, it's permanently on closed caption. I may as well have been Helen Keller. The hygienist kept rolling back and forth looking at me and looking at my chart.

Then she finally said, "I had to look at your chart because I thought you were a teenager."

Wow! A teenager. I am genuinely flattered. I have been mistaken for a college student or in my mid-twenties but never my teens.

"But then I saw the hair and knew you couldn't be a teenager. Not with that."

The "that" she was referring to (and pointing to) was the patch of gray hairs that were starting to break through from my last hair appointment. And she had to have really good vision because they are still so new they're barely noticeable still.

"Well, thanks . . . . I guess," I said. One might think my engagement ring would give away the fact that I was not a teenager (since we don't live in Alabama) not the less than a quarter of an inch of gray roots on a one-inch section of my temple.

"You look really young," she kept saying, "I would have thought you were a teenager if not for that. I didn't think you would get that so young. Your chart has your birth date so that is why I looked."

Ummm.... okay, you wanna stop making me feel really old and just get to the scraping and polishing, lady.

After a few more minutes she asked me if I work. Now, mind you, between the broken Engrish, the mask, the fact she is soft-spoken and dental equipment is whirring she is even more difficult to understand. I explained that I took the day off because my appointment was smack in the middle of the morning for two hours (following the cleaning I had to see the real doctor and get my temporary crown put on) so there was no point in my going to work and telling them they couldn't put me in court when it was my job to be in court. She asks me what kind of court I work in and I tell her I am in every court from family to criminal and she said that my job sounds like fun. I told her it is but her work seems like fun too.

"No, it's not," she said. "It's boring. It's really boring. Like you. You are boring. I'm bored."

I've been called a lot of things in my life including (but not limited to) "Hitler," "black souled" and a "black widow" but I have NEVER been called boring. How do you respond to that? That's even a worse slam than the aforementioned in my book.

"Some people are really boring," she elaborated. "You're boring because there's not much for me to do. Your teeth are pretty clean."

Okay. I felt a little bit better. At least I was boring for a good reason and not because I wasn't entertaining. I pride myself on being entertaining . . . even if I am the only one who thinks that. I wouldn't want to be old AND boring. Heavens no!

After a few more minutes of scraping and awkward silence, she puts the goggles on me signaling its time to administer the baking soda power washing. She turned around to set up and I quickly put my glasses on under the goggles (because scraping dried on baking soda off glasses is a real bitch) just in time for the Breakfast Club to start on one of the channels I landed on.

When she turned around and saw what I did, she laughed. "You so funny and cute," she said.

Hah! I'll show you boring and old.

"So funny. So funny. Do you have kids?"

I told her I did not have kids yet. I had to get through the wedding first and then I'd think about kids.

"I can tell," she said. I was waiting for some sort of backhanded compliment. I was starting to think she should just cut me in half and count my rings (read: scar tissue) so she could know everything about me.

"You're still very . . . " and she made this gesture with her hands and her face (which was half obscured by her mask). It's hard to describe the half that I did see, but she kind of put her hands up by her head and waved them around while bobbing her head. Its the gesture you might make if you found someone to be an airhead or flighty. However, it could also be interpreted as carefree and without worry. Did she just call me immature by way of charades? Her confusing gesture, much like her, was like a fortune cookie. Confucius say what?

"People who have kids are very . . ." and she made stern face and held her arms in a rigid manner. "I don't like them. They very different. Very . . ." and she made the gesture again.

Okay. I get it.

Finally she was done. I couldn't get out of the chair fast enough even if they were at my favorite part in the movie where they're all in the library taking out their lunches and Judd Nelson launches into his "woe is me" routine. Whatever happened to Judd Nelson?

She bid me farewell and wished me good luck and sent me off with a toothbrush and trial of floss. "Thanks," I said muttering "for nothing" under my breath.

I came home and told Stew what transpired between me and my Hyde-gienist. He started complimenting me in a Chinese accent saying he was reversing the days misfortune. 'You so young," he said, "so young and not boring." Later he put it into perspective. "She basically backhanded you for an hour or so and you paid her to do it AND because there was barely anything left to clean, you paid for nothing."

Way to make me feel better.

B.Y.O.D.C. - Bring Your Own Damn Coffee

It started. The end of my convenience.

I can only function in the morning after a cup of coffee. I reheat some cold coffee from the fridge and chug it before I get in the shower. Then, because I live right next to a bakery, I drop in there to get a cop before going to work because the cafeteria in the courthouse charges $1.50 for about 6 ounces of coffee when I can pay $1.75 for 20 ounces at the bakery. It doesn't take a genius to figure out what is the better deal . . . and better cup of joe. I don't care of the guy at the courthouse has a sign by the exorbitant price that says, "it's not quantity, it's quality" it's bullshit and it sucks either way.

The bakery is stop is not without annoyances because they have the coffee station set up in some half-ass manner. One might think they would put the trash by the station at the end where you stir your coffee and maybe have to use a napkin or two. But now, they have the garbage all the way in the middle of the station where all the coffee is. It's a narrow aisle and it's usually clogged so getting back to the trash is not an easy feat. Everybody that goes in there comments on what a dumb place that is to have the garbage but apparently those complaints have fallen on deaf ears. Other than that, the only other minor annoyance is that they occasionally run out of half and half. Sometimes, it is for a couple of days which blows my mind as to why they would even let this happen because they are next door to a grocery store.

After the third day of having to use milk (I know it doesn't seem like a hardship but i HATE milk) I thought I was going to have tos tart bringing my own cream. I thought of how if I had to bring my own cream, I deserved some sort of discount. But that is when I noticed the sign posted to the empty black holder that housed Splenda stating, "Please ask for Splenda at the counter."

Okay. People steal Splenda. It is completely retarded that people steal Splenda and my mom is one of those people. So, I get their rationale for hiding their Splenda. But, how many people are standing there in that narrow and totally exposed aisle stuffing their pockets with Splenda that you feel the need to hide it. And I go in there every morning (albeit only for a few minutes) and I have never seen anyone hoarding Splenda. Also, if you are charging $1.75 a cup and I see you sell at least $10 worth of coffee in the 5 minutes I am there, I think you can afford some Costco Splenda . . . . and some f-ing Half and Half.

Ask for it at the counter. In theory it seems fine. It seems effortless. But in reality, it's not and here's why:

I have a system for doing my coffee up which goes against the flow of the ass backwards way they have their silly station set up.

Step 1. Grab a cup

Step 2. Walk past all the coffee to the opposite end of the stations to pour in some half and half (if they have it)

Step 3. Walk back to the mid-point to fill my coffee cup. If nobody came in behind me it's easy, if someone did, it's a bob-and-weave maneuver.

Step 4. Go back to where the cream was to add two Splenda packets and stir some in.

Step 5. Bob-and-weave back to the midpoint to throw out my stirrer in the trash slot which is at crotch level with most of the patrons so I have to be careful not to give some stranger a morning thrill.

Step 6. Pay.

But now that i have to ask for Splenda, my flow is ruined.

Step 4 becomes - Go to the counter and wait for other customers to finish up deciding how many scones they want until the girl (because there are usually two girls but one is always busy and the other one is missing) is freed up to get my Splenda. Meanwhile my coffee is getting cold at the end of the counter with the lid off as strangers shuffle around it while they are helping themselves to the real sugar which seems to grow on trees judging from the way they just leave it out for anyone to use.

Step 5 - Go back to the counter to put in the sugar and stir.

Step 6 - throw out my trash.

Step 7 - Pay.

Yes, I am well aware there are ways to avoid the extra step. I have tried waiting patiently to get the Splenda when I first walk in but there is usually a mob of people there. I have also paid for my coffee when I get the Splenda to avoid having to go back.

But honestly, the only way to really save the time is to just bring my Splenda and if I am now bringing my own Splenda and my own cream, I should just get a coffee pot with a timer and a travel mug.

I liked your cookies, bitches!

Dear Dunkin Donuts,

I have to say that i really dig your new cookies. I dug the old ones at 69 cents a pop but the new, larger and more expensive ones are a pretty good trade up.

However, I couldn't help but notice that you have altered the peanut butter cup recipe. The point of the peanut butter cup cookie is that it was loaded with hunks of melted peanubutter cups. Sweet fancy goodness!!! The last two I got looked like peanut butter cookies with peanutbutter chips and maybe one piece of "cup." Not cool. It's just a peanubutter cookie. It's almost too much a good thing and void of that delicious combo of peanutbutter and chocolate. That is okay if you want to start selling peanutbutter cookies, but then you should advertise them as such and drop the "cup" part completely. Seriously, if it ain't broke, don't try to fix it.

Bring back the original recipe. I don't know a single person who didn't find that cookie to be out of this world.

Both Coke and the Colonel messed with their original recipe and took a lot of heat for it. You know what happened? Original recipe and Coke Classic back on the market. Learn from them.

- Dr Horder

Hep C and a Wii

As you know I am on a Coke cap quest. My goal is to get enough caps to get a Nintendo Wii. We averaged it out and I have to drink like 5 Cokes a day for the next year in order to get one. Considering I only drink about 1 a month that is quite a jump.

I've started soliciting my friends to send me their reward codes. When I see someone drinking a Coke, I ask for their cap. It's more or less co-workers at this point but I am starting to consider asking strangers. When I see an abandoned bottle on the ground, I unscrew the cap, wrap it in tissue and bring it home like a coveted prize.

Sunday, after feasting on gyros and souvlakis at the Greek Festival, we were walking back to the car when I spotted a crushed Sprite bottle. I pulled my sweatshirt sleeve down over my hand and unscrewed the cap. Stew tried to tell me not to, insisting I was going to get some disease but I did not care.

157 Reward points baby. Less than 6000 to go.

One, extra hot Hoff with whip

I had this rather disturbing dream the other night. I'm not quite sure what to make of it so if anyone is good at deciphering dreams, give this one a crack.

I know there was way more to the drea than this part but this is the only part I can remember. And for good reason.

I was in Walmart shopping for some things quickly before I came home. For soem reason, Walmart had a hopping (and might I add packed) coffee bar. It was Starbucks-like but with Walmart prices. I scanned the menu and decided on a latte. The line was huge but I waited. I gave my order to the Wal-rista and she whipped it up amazingly fast. This was a dream for the simple fact I didn't have to repeat my order ten times. It came time to pay and I asked the Wal-rist how much I owed. She said, "$1.60." I got out my wallet to pay when she snagged the latte back behind the counter and said it was only $1.60 if I saw the episode of Sienfeld where David Hasselhoff played a pizza delivery guy.

Now, I was fucked for two reasons. One, I was never a regular Sienfeld watcher. I mean, i mwatched it but never tuned in every Thursday night. Two, i am 99% sure David Hasselhoff never played a pizza delivery guy on the show but never having watched every episode, I could not be sure.

I told the Wal-rista that i was not familiar with the episode and asked what the non-Hoff price was. She said, "$3,000."

I argued with her about why this episode was so great that it warranted a "2,998.40" price increase. Apparently, i was the only person in the line that never even heard of it because the whole line was aghast at the fact I let this episode slip by. I was offended for two reasons. One, i am a pop culture queen and if i even heard anybody talking about it, I would have done everything in my power to find it somehow and watch it. Two, christ people, it was just one scene in one show.

I paid $3,000 for my latte (I musthave needed coffe somethig fierce) and went to find the manager to tell him that his employees are running the coffee bar any way they choose. I found him berating some younger employee about how if he doesn't pay attention to detail he will never become a Wal-mart manager like his almighty greatness that stands before him. "You'll never be worthy of wearing a blue vest with a gold star if you keep this attitude up, young man."

I interrupted him by saying, "after i am done with you, he won't even want to be the shit on your shoe. Did you know your Wal-rista are charging anything they want for latte? They charged me $3,000 for this latte because I didn't see some lame ass episode of Sienfels thathad David Hasselhoff delivering pizza."

They both recoiled in horror. Even the young employee who I was sure was going to take my side just to give his manager the "what's up, how you like me now, punk" look.

The manager told me it was store policy. I debated what a silly policy it was. I'd like to add that teh scalding hot latte was searing my hands. I guess a hand protector ring was extra. I'm not sure why i accepted this policy and di not empty the contents of my moletn latte on his head but for some reason I didn't.

I swear. I think I am going nuts.

It's 3 a.m., do you know where my sanity is?

I like sleep.

Actually, let me amend that. I LOVE sleep. If you asked me to describe my perfect day it would surely start off with me sleeping in as long as I possibly could. Sleep it does the body good.

But here I am. Staring at my computer for what will be the fourth consecutive night of having no more than 4 hours. Tonight, it will be around 90 minutes. And all this wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have RAGING cramps and drinking the mass amounts of coffee I need exacerbates the crampage.

Catch 22.

Flow was two days late and she is making me pay. It's not like i didn't have her room all ready for her. She just missed the train.

Among the things keeping me awake tonight other than cramps and my usual amount of bitterness is the phrase, "you're too much?" Can someone tell me what this means and is it a compliment?

I was in court the other day and an attorney who is relatively cool comes in and starts commiserating with the clerk and I about having to "hurry up and wait" in this particular courtroom. She looks down at my foot and asks if that is a tattoo on my toe. I say, "yup" and she laughs and says, "you're too much."

What does that mean and why am I too much because I have a tattoo on my toe? I know it's just a figure of speech but if you think about it, it makes no sense. Is being too much a good thing? Should people be scared? Watch out for her, she's too much. Too much of what?

Too much crazy apparently because any sane person would be sleeping now. I have nothing to really say. No enlightening thoughts, news or otherwise. What I have learned today? There are a ton hymen disorders out there (don't ask). While interesting, this bit of knowledge is virtually useless to me having never had a hymen disorder and not having a hymen for quite some time now.

Why have I taken up a Triscuit addiction and Stew is helping himself to my Red Stripe? And why does he think that I am crazy to think that every place should carry Red Stripe? They looked at me like I was smoking crack when I was at T'Gin last and asked for a Red Stripe. Okay, so it wasn't a Guinness, go ahead and boil me like a freaking potato but don't insult yourself (and me) by offering me a Corona instead because if you're going to turn your nose up at a Jamaican beer don't get all UN on me, Mon. That would be like me saying I want Mexican food and Stew taking me to Taco Bell.

"Not every bar has Red Stripe, Lulu," he says like I'm asking for something so exotic.

Why f-ing not? If almost every bar we go to has Guinness. So I insult Stew's senses and order a Heineken just for spite.

Actually, I am off the sauce. The last time I was out I had 3 pint glasses of Stella and despite the fact I was buzzed after half of glass one I kept swallowing anyway. Stew had to pretty much lead me to the car where he said I quickly became "a mess." I passed out but apparently not before thinking i could have an entire conversation with Stew using a series of gutteral "mmmmms" "nnnnths" and "mhhheemmms" I still can't believe he couldn't understand me. If I have to learn to tell the difference between a witnesses' "uh-uh" and "uh-huh" the least he could do is decode my mumbles and not force me to use words. Anyway, I was hungover so bad the following day that just thinking about it turns me off of drinking despite the fact that I want to.

It's wing night tonight. Salad pizza and wings. Twenty cent wings. Yum. Sad to say the thought will keep me going all day despite the fact I have had no appetite for anything not coated in chocolate for the past three days.

Will you still love me even after a lap dance?

There is something going on around here and I don't like the smell of it. Don't get me wrong. Stew is usually very attentive and wonderful and thoughtful and sweet to the point where I often feel unworthy. But lately, it has been poured on sticky sweet giving you a sugar rush with the first whiff.

It started on Tuesday night.

"I'm not going to poker tomorrow night."

"Why not?' I asked, "Were they not able to get enough people?"

"No, they were but I want to spend time with my Lulu because I am leaving her this weekend."

"Ummmm. Okay." I said before realizing what an ingrate I was. "Thank you. That is very sweet."

"Oh and where do you want to eat on Friday night?"

"It's only Tuesday. I don't even know what I want for dinner yet tonight." Then the ingrate feeling crept in more. "Brasita's" I suggested.

"Okay," he agreed. "I'll make reservations."

"Oh no wait," I said remembering a place we haven't been to in about a year despite it being the most phenomenal food we've had altho' quite pricey. Why not cash in on the niceness? "How about Columbus Park?"

"Anything you want."

And he was on the phone making reservations for two.

But wait, there's more.

"Okay, I may as well tell you."

"There's more?" I asked growing more skeptical by the second.

"I am going to get us tickets to see Knocked Up too after dinner."

This was a big step because we RARELY see movies I want to see altho' it's hardly like I drag him to chick flicks. Knocked up is by the writers of The 40 year-old Virgin. He acts like I ask him to rent Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants or something.

"Cool," I said fully aware of what this was all about but willing to ride it out.

And with that, he quickly jumped online and ordered the tickets. He didn't even want to use our AAA cheapy vouchers or make me wait for the second week to try and use them. This was no hold barred wooing.

Wednesday night after filling my belly with wings and salad pizza we're laying on the couch and he is sucking up a head massage.

"I was going to surprise you . . . . " he starts to say.

Now, keep in mind, Stew often says this and then blames me for spoiling the surprise. Hellooooo .... does that make sense?

"I was going to get you a stuffed baby Shrek so you could sleep with it when I am gone this weekend."

Okay, that was kinda low. I am totally in love with Baby Shrek and now he was holding it over my head yet reminding me I was going to be sleeping alone this weekend while he is off to Atlantic City with his head buried in some stripper's implants partaking in lord knows what else.

"But i couldn't find one like the girl had," he said referring to the little stuffed one I saw some 6 year-old hauling around on Monday afternoon. "The only one I found was like a Cabbage Patch kid with a hard head."

Bitterness starting to fester thinking about titty bars, I stopped massaging and said, "Well, maybe you need to look harder."

So, I helped him look only able to locate stuffed baby Shreks at Build-A-Bear, the enemy of parents everywhere.

"Looks like you're going to the mall tomorrow." And then I danced around giddy with the thought singing, "I'm gonna get a baby Shrek baby Shrek." You'd swear I was less the girl about to be married and more a 5 year-old.

Thursday night, Stew came home defeated. Both Trumbull and Danbury were out of Baby Shreks.

"I feel like the parent who couldn't find the toy my daughter wanted. I feel like a failure."

And rather than offer support and tell him it's okay, I patted his back and said he could order it online which he ended up doing.

All this because he wants to go to Atlantic City with the guys for his bachelor party and he doesn't want me to come unhinged thinking about all the trouble they could get into. And even tho threats were made and wooing was in full effect, I still didn't feel like I could relax about it. So, out came the contract which he said he would not sign but ultimately did.

I, _________ , promise not to do any of the following things during my bachelor party festivities on Saturday, June 2, 2007 and Sunday, June 3, 2007 in Atlantic City, New Jersey or the surrounding areas of New Jersey, Philadelphia, New York and Connecticut.

Breaking of this contract results in the cancellation of my wedding. In the event the wedding is cancelled due to my breaking any of the following rules, _____________ of ______, Stamford, Connecticut is allowed to keep the engagement ring, both wedding bands, my big TV, game systems, games and DVDs so she can pay her parents back what they have spent for the wedding and all articles relating to the wedding. This includes, but is not limited to, invitations, postage, down payments, apparel, and etc.

I, _____ , will not do the following:

- End up in the hospital. Exceptions to the rules are car accidents (as long as I was not driving drunk or a passenger in a car where someone was driving intoxicated), a fire in the hotel/club or restaurant.

- Allow myself to get intoxicated to the point of blacking out.

- Allow my friends to peer pressure me into drinking more than I can handle.

- Get arrested.

- Get in a fight.

- Become injured by my own stupidity. Refer to Mr. Olympus.

- Kiss strippers or strangers in clubs.

- Have any physical contact whatsoever with strangers met in clubs/bars/boardwalk haunts or hotels.

- Gamble more money than I have.

- Take a stripper or stranger home

- Get a stripper’s or stranger’s number

- Touch a stripper’s or stranger’s private parts

- Have sex (oral or otherwise) with a stripper or stranger. This applies to giving and receiving.

- Do body shots off females.

- Go to a filthy massage parlor.

- Meet up with Sweet potato.

- Meet up with Zoobas.

- Not forget to bring Lulu home a magnet.

- Not cast my photo identification or other identification I need on the floors of clubs/hotels and bars.

I, ______, sign this contract in good faith, willingly and fully aware this will hold up in court.

Dear Sirs, you suck.

So, Dunkin HQ actually wrote me back. They wrote to say that they appreciated my letter but they were returning it to me. However, I would like to note it has not been returned. For starters, I emailed it.

But regardless. They assured me that they "have entire departments whose job it is to come up with fresh and exciting concepts, products, flavors, programs, advertising, etc. We also receive many unsolicited suggestions from our friends outside the company . . . Most of the time, the suggestions are things our teams have already thought of and may be working on."

Ummmm..... they seriously should be working on this as a cup of properly made iced coffee could make or break someone's day.

"Therefore to prevent any possible misunderstanding, we are returning your original letter to you. we cannot accept or review unsolicited ideas including: patented or unpatented, trademarked or un-trademarked ideas, copyright protected materials, advertising slogans, marketing programs, promotional programs, patent applications, trademark applications, copyright applications, product suggestions, prototypes or models."

Now, you and I both know they will end up using my idea. Within a few months you can bet your bippy you will be seeing a sign in a Dunking advertising that their flavors are sugar free. And, within a year, you will no doubt see new cups with mysterious lines so the workers know how much milk/cream and ice go into an iced coffee. Honestly, I am fine with that as long as it means that anywhere I go, I am guaranteed a properly, well-made cup of iced coffee.

I would like to add that they did include a $5 booklet of Dunkin bucks. Personally, I thought they could have spared something more, maybe $10 or $15 but it was almost enough for stew and I to each get a large iced coffee. I still had to kick in $0.38 out of my own pocket.

So, that got me thinking, I should write more letters, sending more unsolicited ideas and get more free stuff. No sooner should I get this idea than a coupon for a free medium ice cream from Coldstone Creamery comes for me in the mail.

Coldstone is my enemy. For two reasons.

1.) I am not much of an ice cream fan.
2.) I think their ice cream is way overpriced.
3.) They never have enough help.
4.) They ruined my Valentine's Day.

You see, Stew likes their ice cream and last Valentine's Day I took advantage of this promotion they had for $2 off a Valentine's Day cake for two. The coupon said nothing about having to pick it up on Valentine's Day just that it was only good while supplies lasted. So, I went there the day before Valentine's Day and that was when I was informed I had to wait until Valentine's Day. The kid behind the counter was young and I was feeling particularly cute that day so I pretended to be way more bummed than I really was and gave him the sob story that V-day was our anniversary and we had 6 p.m. dinner reservations and I got out at 5:30 and had to hightail it to the restaurant with no time to come back for the cake. So, the kid went into the backroom, got me a cake (which was actually two small chocolate cakes with chocolate hearts in the center and could not have looked more like two boobs) and rang me up.

So, this past Valentine's day, I thought i would re-create the magic and stew was all excited. there was no coupon offer this year so I had to wing it. I figured being an ice cream shop they would have tiny pre-made cakes like they USUALLY do. It was a Monday and I was early but I figured I had time to order it. While waiting on line (because they only had one person mashing up ice cream for a long line) I was commiserating with a lady who was pissed off they had no Birthday cakes for her daughter's birthday. However, she couldn't bitch too much because what shitty mom waits until the last minute to get her daughter's cake.

I asked the girl behind the counter if they had any tiny cakes in the back. She said no and I would have to order one that would be ready no earlier than Wednesday after 5:30. So, i placed an order and left. Wednesday came, the night of the HUGE ice storm. I got out of work early because they forced us to leave the building. Stew came home early too and we risked life and limb to get to Coldstone around 5:30 and the place was closed.

I'm understanding and I am sure they closed early because they were worried about their employees and I am cool with that. But damn, they could have at least called and said they were closing early and if i wanted the cake for that night I had to come get it before they closed at X time. So, I wrote a letter to the headquarters. A few days later I got calls from the store manager and owner telling me to come and get my cake free of charge. I called to arrange a pick up and the cake was not there. I wasn't going to really push the issue. It was just principle. A few days later a coupon came and now I just got another one.

Stew is on me to write XM radio because he wants to know why Opie and Anthony got suspended for Bush jokes. I mean, isn't the point of satellite radio paying to hear radio that is not being censored? But, I say pick your own battles.

I have coffee wars to win and free ice cream to get.