My philosophy about blind dates was pretty simple. I wasn't opposed to them because I figured this:
The best that can happen is I find my soulmate; the worst that can happen is I die (and we all have to do that eventually, anyway.)
Ah, the set-up. The blind date. The fix-up. (I was fixed up so often I was literally a walking, breathing, "fixer upper.") Everyone seems to think they are a matchmaker. I was single for a long, long time (I didn't get married until I was 40), so I heard this a lot: "Hey, I know someone who would be perfect for you!"
Perfect? Not likely. Most people's idea of someone "perfect" for their single friend can be summed up by this simple equation:
1 (random single person) + 1 (random single person) = 1 (Perfect Couple)
Singleness is usually the single attribute required for someone to think someone else will be "perfect" for you. Occasionally, prospective matchmakers get extra creative and add a second attribute. My mother-in-law, who stands at over six feet tall, relates that people would be smugly sure that their fix-up for her would be perfect because he was both single and tall.
I'm not sure why it is, but people who are in a relationship seem to want to get people who aren't in one into one. I have an aunt who likes to brag about her matchmaking prowess, saying that she has introduced about a dozen couples to each other. (She then adds, "Although, I shouldn't count Jasper* and Brenda*, because he turned out to be such a jerk.) [*Names have been changed to protect the jerk (and his wife.)]
Unfortunately (for her, anyway) I proved difficult for her to fix up for a variety of reasons (besides being a nerd and a doofus.) Most notably, because she lived in Boise and I lived in Salt Lake City. A Boise-to-Salt Lake relationship might work just fine for a budding college athletics rivalry, but not for a budding romance, especially when the two parties are only minimally interested in each other to begin with.
Over the years I've been on my fair share of fix-ups. They started in college. (There were no blind dates in high school because, growing up in a small town like Arimo, I already knew who every girl was.) (And worse yet, they knew who I was, too.)
The first blind date I remember, I was fixed up by my college roommate's married friend with a girl from one of her classes. My date was a very beautiful young woman who happened to be a former gymnast. (She had, a few years earlier, been in competitions with Mary Lou Retton!)
I thought the date went rather well. (I made it through the entire evening without farting or spilling anything on my shirt!) So, a couple of days later I tried to call her to set up a second date. No one answered. I tried again. Still no answer. I tried yet again. Her roommates said I had just missed her. I tried several more times. She was never home. Or, she was busy. She was washing her hair. She was washing the dishes. She was giving her cat a manicure. She had a mouth full of Skittles and literally couldn't talk. For whatever reason, she simply could not come to the phone. I bumped into her once on campus and tried to talk to her, but she was late for something and had to get going. "Maybe later," she said. I never saw her or talked to her ever again. It is quite possible that at the end of the semester she entered the witness protection program to get away from me. (I hope she likes her new life in Nebraska.)
A few years later I was fixed up by my aunt (a different aunt than the one I mentioned earlier) with a gal she worked with at the college. My date was a tall (6'1"), attractive woman who played on the college volleyball team. We went on a double date with my aunt and uncle, which I thought would be awkward, but wasn't too bad because my aunt and uncle are pretty cool.
I thought the date went rather well. (I made it through the entire evening without burping or talking with my mouth full!) So, a few days later I called her to try to set up a second date. Unfortunately, her team had away games on seemingly every single night for the next three months. I wished her good luck with her games. She replied by saying, "Good luck with...your truck driving."
Now, maybe I was just being overly sensitive about my job, but I took "Good luck with...your truck driving" to mean "You're just a truck driver. I have no interest in you." Looking back, I probably misjudged her. She was probably just trying to be nice, but didn't know exactly what to say to me. Maybe I should have tried harder to persue her. (After all, it would have been more difficult to hide a 6' 1" woman in the witness protection program.)
As time went by, my singleness became legendary. (Okay, not exactly legendary, but at the very least well known.) Everyone knew about that "weird old guy who is still single." So, I would get blind date offers from strange and unusual places featuring strange and unusual match-ups. One time I was fixed up with my friend's sister's chiropractor's sister-in-law! (I am not making that up.) Once again, she was a perfectly attractive woman (I think she was a nurse), and once again I was unable to make a connection with her.
After that date (the one with my friend's sister's chiropractor's sister-in-law), people still talked about setting me up, but few people actually followed through with the fix-ups. People would mention that they knew other single people that would be "perfect" for me, but they wouldn't actually set me up with them. For my part, I made little to no effort to help these people. With my blind date track record I saw little use in trying. I had pretty much given up and had settled into my role as "weird, nerdy uncle." If people wanted to fix me up, they would have to do all of the arranging for the date. I would show up if I was set up, but I wasn't going to call anyone I didn't know.
I was locked into this status for the next several years. People talked about setting me up, but nobody actually did. And, I didn't do anything on my own, either. I went several years without going on a date. And then, a co-worker set me up with his sister. We double-dated with my co-worker and his wife.
I thought the date went rather well. (I didn't fart, burp, or pee my pants!) And then, when I called her to set up a second date, she actually answered her phone! I was so excited to be going on a date that I overdid things. I set up a triple date with two of my best friends and their wives. So, here was my poor date, quiet and shy, getting completely overwhelmed by these two couples who have been married for 18 or 19 years. She didn't get a word in. She didn't even take off her windbreaker. I, obviously, had no idea what I was doing.
Looking back, I think this date with my co-worker's sister was a very good thing. (For me. Not for her.) I got some of my spastic "Look at me, I'm going on a date!" energy out of my system so that when someone fixed me up again a few months later I was a little less gonzo.
That someone was the wife of one of my best friends from high school. For the purposes of this story, we'll call her "Terri." (Which makes sense, because that's what her name is.) Terri was neighbors with a cute, nerdy schoolteacher. Unlike many fixer uppers who thought that any two single people would be "perfect" together, Terri knew each of us well enough to see some possible compatibilities.
We were at a get-together of the Arimo Mafia (the four buddies from my small town who grew up together) when Terri mentioned that she thought she knew of someone to fix me up with. I shrugged. Whatever. I had heard it all before. I didn't think anything would come of it.
Still, I wasn't too surprised when I got an invitation a few weeks later to have dinner with Terri and her husband (we'll call him "Chris") (because that's what his name is.) When she invited me, Terri did not mention that she had invited someone else. But, I knew that was the reason for the invite. I thought it would be funny if I brought someone with me. (It would have been funny, but it never would have happened. Because it would have involved me finding a date for myself.)
The four of us had a nice dinner and played some games. The four of us being Terri, Chris, some girl named Amber, and I. I thought it went rather well. (No inappropriate bodily functions or discharges.) But, there was also no "love at first sight" or fireworks. (Those would come later.) When I left that night I thought of it like just about every other blind date I had been on. Despite what it sounds like from what I wrote above, I actually didn't drive all of my fix-ups into the witness protection program. Most of the time I left the date not being able to tell if the girl had any interest in me. So, more often than not, I let it drop right there. Asking for a second date meant putting forth a little effort and, even more damning, putting myself out there for an opportunity to be rejected. So, I usually just let it be.
This time, however, things were different. The next day, I got an e-mail from Amber. It was a quick, simple e-mail that effortlessly conveyed this message: Nice meeting you. I had a good time. I wouldn't mind getting together again some time. (I later found out that Amber, with Terri's help, had spent a good bit of time carefully choosing every word of that e-mail so that it would sound quick, simple and effortless.) (I now call it the Most Important E-Mail I Have Ever Received!)
This was new territory! A blind date had actually expressed interest in a second date! (Okay, this wasn't the first time a girl had been interested in me after the first date. But it was one of the first times it had happened with a girl that I was interested back in.)
We sporadically exchanged e-mails for the next couple of months, then finally got together for our first real date. And the rest, as they say, is history. (But don't worry, you won't have to remember any of it for the test, because you'll be lucky if your history professor gets as far as the Vietnam War before the semester runs out.)
So, for those of you who are still single, remember my philosophy about blind dates. (The best that can happen is you find your soulmate; the worst that can happen is that you die.) I went on a lot of blind dates and I never died. Not once. Not even a little bit. So, I guess from my experience I'd say that if you go on enough blind dates, that "soulmate" thing might actually work out for you. (It did for me!)
[Special message to Amber: Happy Valentine's Day, SweetSweet!!!]
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Thursday, February 7, 2013
The Family Super Bowl Party (A Running Diary)
The Super Bowl has an interesting holiday-ish feel to it. There are a lot of different angles to it. The game. The commercials. The half-time entertainment. The food. There is something there for everyone to latch onto.
Since I've been married, most of my Super Bowl watching experiences have involved my kids, my wife, her parents, and her sister, none of whom are very big fans of the NFL. This year was no different. (We were invited to my brother's house, but the 4:30 PM kickoff didn't jibe with the 1:00 PM-4:00 PM church schedule we are on, combined with the hour drive between our houses.)
So, we set things up to have our Super Bowl "party" here at our house, mostly because we now have the big screen television. (For years The Wife promised me we could get a big screen television as soon as the Minnesota Vikings made it to the Super Bowl. Happily, The Wife waived that requirement last year because: 1) our old tv died, and B) she had seen enough Viking football to realize she didn't want to wait that long.)
This year, I thought it might be fun to chronicle the game and the party, so I borrowed (well, actually stole) an idea from Bill Simmons, also known as "The Sports Guy" on espn.com and grantland.com. I decided to do a running diary of our Super Bowl party. (You know what, I'm going to go back to saying I'm just borrowing the concept. He and his millions of readers can have it back as soon as me and my seven readers are through with it.)
So, without further ado, here is the running diary of our Super Bowl party:
4:01--Church lets out. I stand at the door with the 4-year-olds that I teach, waiting for their parents to come pick them up.
4:15--All the kids from my class have been picked up, our kids are gathered and loaded up, and we finally leave the church house to come home.
4:20--Work on changing my clothes and getting the kids changed, as well. I decide to wear my #40 Jim Kleinsasser Minnesota Vikings jersey because A) if I waited to wear it when the Vikings are in the Super Bowl, I might never get to wear it, and 2) I had already worn my #28 Adrian Peterson Minnesota Vikings jersey the day before, to commemorate A.P. being named the NFL MVP.
4:31--The actual game kicks off. No one in our house is watching. We have it recording on the DVR. (It has been several years since we started watching the game when it actually started.)
4:31--The Wife, from the kitchen where she is working on food, yells this in my direction: "Joe, either throw the cat outside or clean up the cat barf!"
4:32--It's just a hairball. I clean it up, go wash my hands, and let the cat stay inside.
4:37--Grammy and PopPop (my in-laws) arrive, bringing lots of food with them. (Turkey, pastrami, cheese, soda, banana bread, bar cookies, a shrimp tray, pizza bagel bites, and cheesy-bacony tater skins.) (Meanwhile, The Wife has made homemade hoagie rolls for sammiches and cheesy Rotel dip for tortilla chips, along with other sammich fixins and chips.)
4:44--While taking some of the food downstairs to the family room, I discover another cat hairball on the stairs. I quietly clean it up (and wash my hands again) before anyone else notices it. (Especially the kids.)
4:58--Finish making my two big, overflowing sammiches upstairs. (The sammich fixins are upstairs. The rest of the food is now downstairs.) (And yes, I know the word is spelled "sandwich," but I prefer "sammich." I'm hoping that if enough people join in with this new formation of the word that we can get it changed forever, like when we, as a nation, were able to successfully change "catsup" into "ketchup.")
5:00--Sister-in-law Kimmie walks in just as we start the game on the DVR. Two-year-old Buzz, when asked who he wanted to win before even seeing the teams, says "Purple." Roni and I want the 49ers to win. Roni wants San Francisco because it is the opposite of what Buzz wants. (And because it is closer to Disneyland.) Everyone else is cheering for the Ravens. This is mostly because they are all BYU football fans, and former BYU tight end Dennis Pitta plays for Baltimore. Also, the kid from The Blind Side, Michael Oher, has some sway. I, personally, am leaning only slightly towards the 49ers because I'm not very fond of the history and histrionics of Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis. (I'm sorry, but no linebacker should be known for his own pre-game dance.)
5:09--Ravens receiver Anquan Boldin scores the first touchdown of the game, making himself the early leader in the clubhouse for the Super Bowl MVP award. (You know, if they were to ever give that to someone who isn't a quarterback.)
5:10--The first commercial of the Super Bowl is...very disappointing. It's just a standard beer commercial, featuring a bunch of pretty people getting drunk. The only difference is all these people (and the beer bottle itself) are dressed in black. (I'm supposing this makes Black Crown Beer more "hip" or something.)
5:22--The card table with all the food on it is not blocking the view of the television. But, (or should I say Butt,) whenever anyone gets up to get more food, their posterior does block the view. So, we move the food table to a place more out of the way. (The Wife pauses the game while we move the table, so that I don't get distracted and dump the food off while trying to move it.)
5:24--The 49ers kick a field goal to get on the board.
5:26--The self-promotional CBS ad for The Big Bang Theory gets the biggest laugh of the night so far. (It helps that most of us are nerds and relate to the characters on the show.) (Except for my sister-in-law Kimmie, who relates to Penny on the show.)
5:30--I finish my second big, delicious hoagie sammich. I am completely satisfied and full. Will I stop eating? Of course not!
5:41--Vernon Davis is having his way with the Ravens secondary. He's making a case for a possible Super Bowl MVP award. (You know, if they were to ever give it to someone who isn't a quarterback.) (Vernon Davis. I wonder if anyone ever calls him "VD" for short?)
5:43--49ers fumble! (Even though he's not the one who fumbled, this is still going to hurt the possibility of a VD MVP.)
5:48--Dennis Pitta makes a nine-yard catch, to cheers from everyone in my basement. Roni says, "Uh-oh!" Everyone turns to her to see what is wrong. "He fell down," Roni explains, referring to Pitta.
5:56--Pitta catches a one-yard touchdown to put the Ravens up 14-3! BYU football hasn't been this unstoppable since Robbie Bosco in 1984. (Or maybe Steve Young in that Super Bowl against the Chargers.)
5:59--49ers QB Kaepernick overthrows Randy Moss and is intercepted by Baltimore's Ed Reed. The Wife asks, "Didn't Randy Moss used to play for the Vikings?" I am surprised and impressed.
6:15--Taco Bell commercial featuring old people acting like hooligans. I really like this commercial, mostly because the big, behemoth green car they are driving reminds me of the car I drove my freshman year at college. (I named the car "The Hulk." It got about 12 miles per gallon.) (On the highway.)
6:18--Jacoby Jones scores a long touchdown on a ball severly underthrown by Joe Flacco.
6:28--Halftime! (21-6 Ravens.) We fast forward through the halftime commentary. (No one in our house is interested in anything Shannon Sharpe has to say.) The biggest surprise of the game so far: I have not yet had a single chip! (Oh, don't worry, I've had plenty of everything else.)
6:30--We do not fast forward through Beyonce's halftime show. Everyone wanted to fast forward through it, except for Kimmie, who is a Beyonce fan. I see bits and pieces of her show, as I spend much of halftime putting away perishable foodstuffs and attending to kids. (I will say, however, that Beyonce is certainly more attractive than Prince, The Who, Tom Petty and everyone else they've thrown up on the stage the last few years.)
6:32--This exchange happens:
Me: "Roni, did you go potty?"
Roni: "Not all the way."
I have no idea what that means.
6:46--Jacoby Jones runs the second half kickoff back109 108 yards for a touchdown! Coupled with his 56-yard TD catch late in the first half, this all but clinches him the Super Bowl MVP award. (You know, if they ever gave it to anyone other than a quarterback.)
6:51--The lights go out at the Superdome.
6:55--Steve Tasker is probably the greatest special teams player in the history of the game. (I think he should be in the Hall of Fame.) If you need someone to cover a punt or break up the wedge, he's your guy. However, he is not the person you want holding the only working microphone when there is a power outage at the Super Bowl. (Sorry, Steve.)
6:56--We are very glad we started the game a little late. We fast forward through most of the blackout.
7:02--We are now caught up with the rest of the world. (I miss my fast forward button.)
7:06--PopPop wonders if the blackout was caused by someone from a Buffalo Wild Wings commercial.
7:07--Grammy wonders how many of next year's Super Bowl commercials will be about the blackout.
7:08--How bored are we? We are comparing the ties worn by Jim Nantz and Phil Simms. The consensus is, even though we aren't sure about the color combination, we prefer Nantz's striped tie.
7:16--The game is going again, and they are repeating commercials that they ran during the blackout. I feel very powerless that I can't fast forward through them.
7:20--Roni holds up a chip, waves it at the television, and says, "Eat it, crowd!" (It's nice that she's trying to share.)
7:31--People at our party are starting to lose interest in the game. Kimmie has left for a few minutes. Buzz has been sent upstairs to his room because he thought it would be a good idea to throw a cup full of soda.
7:32--It's always great when the punter makes a tackle!
7:36--Commercial break: There is a fish serenading a bottle of beer. I have no idea what this means. (This makes me want to buy the beer because.....?)
7:58--There is a half-eaten chip on my leg. Buzz (back from his banishment) put it there. (I find that as a parent, when I am not paying complete attention, my lap will become a depository for whatever things the kids may be carrying.)
7:59--The Paul Harvey "God Made a Farmer" commercial airs. I immediately think of my Dad. Not only because my Dad was a Farmer, hard-working and tough, but because when I was growing up on the farm we used to listen to Paul Harvey's news and commentary whenever we had the chance. It came on at noon and lasted for fifteen minutes, so if we were in a position to take our lunch break, we would do so then so we could listen to Paul Harvey. (It's amazing how much a voice from the past can take you back.) I loved every single thing about this commercail, until the very end when the farmer's son says he wants to be a farmer, too. And then I felt guilty for not being that son.
8:19--Kimmie is bored. She has some of her make-up out. Buzz walks up to me and says, "I'm a lip gloss!" (Roni got some lip gloss, so Buzz felt he needed some, too.)
8:24--Buzz says, "I want to play Iron Man and Hulk!" A few years ago I made the comment that as a kid I had always wanted some "Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots." So, my mother-in-law got it for me for Christmas. Buzz calls the red robot "Iron Man" and the blue robot "Hulk." So, I get "Iron Man and Hulk" down. Grammy and Buzz take on Kimmie and Roni in a heated robot fight on the floor in front of the television as the game on the screen is reaching its dramatic conclusion.
8:36--It's fourth down and the game is on the line. And the 49ers call....a fade pass? Really? Yes, there was defensive holding that should have been called, but I still don't like the fade pass, especially on fourth down. There is just too much that can go wrong.
8:41--As time is running down, PopPop is impressed that I bring up the possibility of Baltimore taking an intentional safety before the announcers do. (Ouch. I think I pulled something while patting myself on the back just now.) The Ravens decide on the safety, and it is perfectly executed.
8:46--Game is officially over! (Ravens win, 34-31.) Grammy declares it "The longest game ever!"
8:48--Baltimore quarterback Joe Flacco is named the Super Bowl MVP. (Because, you know, they have a tendency to give that award to the quarterbacks.) In fairness to Mr. Flacco, he did have a very good game. In fact, now that I think of it, a startlingly high percentage of Super Bowls have been won by quarterbacks named "Joe." (Joe Namath, Joe Montana, Joe Theismann, and now Joe Flacco.)
Maybe I need to teach Buzz how to throw a football and start calling him "Little Joe."
Since I've been married, most of my Super Bowl watching experiences have involved my kids, my wife, her parents, and her sister, none of whom are very big fans of the NFL. This year was no different. (We were invited to my brother's house, but the 4:30 PM kickoff didn't jibe with the 1:00 PM-4:00 PM church schedule we are on, combined with the hour drive between our houses.)
So, we set things up to have our Super Bowl "party" here at our house, mostly because we now have the big screen television. (For years The Wife promised me we could get a big screen television as soon as the Minnesota Vikings made it to the Super Bowl. Happily, The Wife waived that requirement last year because: 1) our old tv died, and B) she had seen enough Viking football to realize she didn't want to wait that long.)
This year, I thought it might be fun to chronicle the game and the party, so I borrowed (well, actually stole) an idea from Bill Simmons, also known as "The Sports Guy" on espn.com and grantland.com. I decided to do a running diary of our Super Bowl party. (You know what, I'm going to go back to saying I'm just borrowing the concept. He and his millions of readers can have it back as soon as me and my seven readers are through with it.)
So, without further ado, here is the running diary of our Super Bowl party:
4:01--Church lets out. I stand at the door with the 4-year-olds that I teach, waiting for their parents to come pick them up.
4:15--All the kids from my class have been picked up, our kids are gathered and loaded up, and we finally leave the church house to come home.
4:20--Work on changing my clothes and getting the kids changed, as well. I decide to wear my #40 Jim Kleinsasser Minnesota Vikings jersey because A) if I waited to wear it when the Vikings are in the Super Bowl, I might never get to wear it, and 2) I had already worn my #28 Adrian Peterson Minnesota Vikings jersey the day before, to commemorate A.P. being named the NFL MVP.
4:31--The actual game kicks off. No one in our house is watching. We have it recording on the DVR. (It has been several years since we started watching the game when it actually started.)
4:31--The Wife, from the kitchen where she is working on food, yells this in my direction: "Joe, either throw the cat outside or clean up the cat barf!"
4:32--It's just a hairball. I clean it up, go wash my hands, and let the cat stay inside.
4:37--Grammy and PopPop (my in-laws) arrive, bringing lots of food with them. (Turkey, pastrami, cheese, soda, banana bread, bar cookies, a shrimp tray, pizza bagel bites, and cheesy-bacony tater skins.) (Meanwhile, The Wife has made homemade hoagie rolls for sammiches and cheesy Rotel dip for tortilla chips, along with other sammich fixins and chips.)
4:44--While taking some of the food downstairs to the family room, I discover another cat hairball on the stairs. I quietly clean it up (and wash my hands again) before anyone else notices it. (Especially the kids.)
4:58--Finish making my two big, overflowing sammiches upstairs. (The sammich fixins are upstairs. The rest of the food is now downstairs.) (And yes, I know the word is spelled "sandwich," but I prefer "sammich." I'm hoping that if enough people join in with this new formation of the word that we can get it changed forever, like when we, as a nation, were able to successfully change "catsup" into "ketchup.")
5:00--Sister-in-law Kimmie walks in just as we start the game on the DVR. Two-year-old Buzz, when asked who he wanted to win before even seeing the teams, says "Purple." Roni and I want the 49ers to win. Roni wants San Francisco because it is the opposite of what Buzz wants. (And because it is closer to Disneyland.) Everyone else is cheering for the Ravens. This is mostly because they are all BYU football fans, and former BYU tight end Dennis Pitta plays for Baltimore. Also, the kid from The Blind Side, Michael Oher, has some sway. I, personally, am leaning only slightly towards the 49ers because I'm not very fond of the history and histrionics of Ravens linebacker Ray Lewis. (I'm sorry, but no linebacker should be known for his own pre-game dance.)
5:09--Ravens receiver Anquan Boldin scores the first touchdown of the game, making himself the early leader in the clubhouse for the Super Bowl MVP award. (You know, if they were to ever give that to someone who isn't a quarterback.)
5:10--The first commercial of the Super Bowl is...very disappointing. It's just a standard beer commercial, featuring a bunch of pretty people getting drunk. The only difference is all these people (and the beer bottle itself) are dressed in black. (I'm supposing this makes Black Crown Beer more "hip" or something.)
5:22--The card table with all the food on it is not blocking the view of the television. But, (or should I say Butt,) whenever anyone gets up to get more food, their posterior does block the view. So, we move the food table to a place more out of the way. (The Wife pauses the game while we move the table, so that I don't get distracted and dump the food off while trying to move it.)
5:24--The 49ers kick a field goal to get on the board.
5:26--The self-promotional CBS ad for The Big Bang Theory gets the biggest laugh of the night so far. (It helps that most of us are nerds and relate to the characters on the show.) (Except for my sister-in-law Kimmie, who relates to Penny on the show.)
5:30--I finish my second big, delicious hoagie sammich. I am completely satisfied and full. Will I stop eating? Of course not!
5:41--Vernon Davis is having his way with the Ravens secondary. He's making a case for a possible Super Bowl MVP award. (You know, if they were to ever give it to someone who isn't a quarterback.) (Vernon Davis. I wonder if anyone ever calls him "VD" for short?)
5:43--49ers fumble! (Even though he's not the one who fumbled, this is still going to hurt the possibility of a VD MVP.)
5:48--Dennis Pitta makes a nine-yard catch, to cheers from everyone in my basement. Roni says, "Uh-oh!" Everyone turns to her to see what is wrong. "He fell down," Roni explains, referring to Pitta.
5:56--Pitta catches a one-yard touchdown to put the Ravens up 14-3! BYU football hasn't been this unstoppable since Robbie Bosco in 1984. (Or maybe Steve Young in that Super Bowl against the Chargers.)
5:59--49ers QB Kaepernick overthrows Randy Moss and is intercepted by Baltimore's Ed Reed. The Wife asks, "Didn't Randy Moss used to play for the Vikings?" I am surprised and impressed.
6:15--Taco Bell commercial featuring old people acting like hooligans. I really like this commercial, mostly because the big, behemoth green car they are driving reminds me of the car I drove my freshman year at college. (I named the car "The Hulk." It got about 12 miles per gallon.) (On the highway.)
6:18--Jacoby Jones scores a long touchdown on a ball severly underthrown by Joe Flacco.
6:28--Halftime! (21-6 Ravens.) We fast forward through the halftime commentary. (No one in our house is interested in anything Shannon Sharpe has to say.) The biggest surprise of the game so far: I have not yet had a single chip! (Oh, don't worry, I've had plenty of everything else.)
6:30--We do not fast forward through Beyonce's halftime show. Everyone wanted to fast forward through it, except for Kimmie, who is a Beyonce fan. I see bits and pieces of her show, as I spend much of halftime putting away perishable foodstuffs and attending to kids. (I will say, however, that Beyonce is certainly more attractive than Prince, The Who, Tom Petty and everyone else they've thrown up on the stage the last few years.)
6:32--This exchange happens:
Me: "Roni, did you go potty?"
Roni: "Not all the way."
I have no idea what that means.
6:46--Jacoby Jones runs the second half kickoff back
6:51--The lights go out at the Superdome.
6:55--Steve Tasker is probably the greatest special teams player in the history of the game. (I think he should be in the Hall of Fame.) If you need someone to cover a punt or break up the wedge, he's your guy. However, he is not the person you want holding the only working microphone when there is a power outage at the Super Bowl. (Sorry, Steve.)
6:56--We are very glad we started the game a little late. We fast forward through most of the blackout.
7:02--We are now caught up with the rest of the world. (I miss my fast forward button.)
7:06--PopPop wonders if the blackout was caused by someone from a Buffalo Wild Wings commercial.
7:07--Grammy wonders how many of next year's Super Bowl commercials will be about the blackout.
7:08--How bored are we? We are comparing the ties worn by Jim Nantz and Phil Simms. The consensus is, even though we aren't sure about the color combination, we prefer Nantz's striped tie.
7:16--The game is going again, and they are repeating commercials that they ran during the blackout. I feel very powerless that I can't fast forward through them.
7:20--Roni holds up a chip, waves it at the television, and says, "Eat it, crowd!" (It's nice that she's trying to share.)
7:31--People at our party are starting to lose interest in the game. Kimmie has left for a few minutes. Buzz has been sent upstairs to his room because he thought it would be a good idea to throw a cup full of soda.
7:32--It's always great when the punter makes a tackle!
7:36--Commercial break: There is a fish serenading a bottle of beer. I have no idea what this means. (This makes me want to buy the beer because.....?)
7:58--There is a half-eaten chip on my leg. Buzz (back from his banishment) put it there. (I find that as a parent, when I am not paying complete attention, my lap will become a depository for whatever things the kids may be carrying.)
7:59--The Paul Harvey "God Made a Farmer" commercial airs. I immediately think of my Dad. Not only because my Dad was a Farmer, hard-working and tough, but because when I was growing up on the farm we used to listen to Paul Harvey's news and commentary whenever we had the chance. It came on at noon and lasted for fifteen minutes, so if we were in a position to take our lunch break, we would do so then so we could listen to Paul Harvey. (It's amazing how much a voice from the past can take you back.) I loved every single thing about this commercail, until the very end when the farmer's son says he wants to be a farmer, too. And then I felt guilty for not being that son.
8:19--Kimmie is bored. She has some of her make-up out. Buzz walks up to me and says, "I'm a lip gloss!" (Roni got some lip gloss, so Buzz felt he needed some, too.)
8:24--Buzz says, "I want to play Iron Man and Hulk!" A few years ago I made the comment that as a kid I had always wanted some "Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots." So, my mother-in-law got it for me for Christmas. Buzz calls the red robot "Iron Man" and the blue robot "Hulk." So, I get "Iron Man and Hulk" down. Grammy and Buzz take on Kimmie and Roni in a heated robot fight on the floor in front of the television as the game on the screen is reaching its dramatic conclusion.
8:36--It's fourth down and the game is on the line. And the 49ers call....a fade pass? Really? Yes, there was defensive holding that should have been called, but I still don't like the fade pass, especially on fourth down. There is just too much that can go wrong.
8:41--As time is running down, PopPop is impressed that I bring up the possibility of Baltimore taking an intentional safety before the announcers do. (Ouch. I think I pulled something while patting myself on the back just now.) The Ravens decide on the safety, and it is perfectly executed.
8:46--Game is officially over! (Ravens win, 34-31.) Grammy declares it "The longest game ever!"
8:48--Baltimore quarterback Joe Flacco is named the Super Bowl MVP. (Because, you know, they have a tendency to give that award to the quarterbacks.) In fairness to Mr. Flacco, he did have a very good game. In fact, now that I think of it, a startlingly high percentage of Super Bowls have been won by quarterbacks named "Joe." (Joe Namath, Joe Montana, Joe Theismann, and now Joe Flacco.)
Maybe I need to teach Buzz how to throw a football and start calling him "Little Joe."
Thursday, January 31, 2013
It's Apparent You're a Parent
It's apparent you're a parent when you attempt to put your work gloves on and find a fruit snack in one of the fingers.
It's apparent you're a parent when there are more than four hours of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on your DVR.
It's apparent you're a parent when you need a band-aid and are forced to choose between "Strawberry Shortcake" or "The Muppets."
It's apparent you're a parent when you have half a dozen used Kleenex in your pocket, and you haven't used any of them.
It's apparent you're a parent when you start speaking in rhymes because you've been reading Dr. Seuss all day.
It's apparent you're a parent when you can name every character on Super Why (Super Why, Wonder Red, Princess Pea, and Alpha Pig) but can only name one member of the President's Cabinet. (Jon Kerry just replaced Hilary Clinton, right?)
It's apparent you're a parent if you've even heard of the show Super Why.
It's apparent you're a parent when your chicken nuggets are shaped like dinosaurs.
It's apparent you're a parent when you know which McDonald's have PlayPlaces and which ones don't.
It's apparent you're a parent when you know the entire PBS mid-day schedule.
It's apparent you're a parent when you go out to eat at one of your favorite places and, along with your food, you get a cup full of tokens.
It's apparent you're a parent when you are a heterosexual man and you take a large green bag with ducks on it with you wherever you go. (Thankfully we have since upgraded to a more "manly" diaper bag.) (Assuming, of course, that any diaper bag could be considered "manly.")
It's apparent you're a parent if you've ever uttered the phrase, "Don't lick the pool water!" (I borrowed that one from The Wife.)
It's apparent you're a parent if you notice whether or not the public restroom has a diaper changing station or not. (And you're a little indignant if it doesn't.)
It's apparent you're a parent if you see kids behaving badly and mutter to yourself, "Well, at least that's not my kid. (This time.)"
It's apparent you're a parent if, when fueling up the car, you make faces through the windows in hopes of getting a smile or two in return. (And it makes forking out $50 for a tank of gas seem almost worth it.)
It's apparent you're a parent if you know what time the school bus comes every morning, not because your kids are old enough to get on it, but because seeing the bus pull up across the street is one of the highlights of their day.
It's apparent you're a parent when you no longer get to sit next to your wife at church. Instead you're each on one end of the row, hoping to contain the kids in between you.
It's apparent you're a parent when you wish, for more than one reason, that Barbie would wear clothes that weren't so tight fitting. 1) So your daughter doesn't think she can wear clothes that tight; and B) so you can change her clothes without it seeming like you are trying to peel a grape.
It's apparent you're a parent when the lock on the bathroom door is the most used, trusted, and important lock in the entire house.
It's apparent you're a parent when you've finally found an audience that will laugh every time you try to use a banana as a phone.
It's apparent you're a parent when there's a smile on your face whenever you think about them.
It's apparent you're a parent when there are more than four hours of Mickey Mouse Clubhouse on your DVR.
It's apparent you're a parent when you need a band-aid and are forced to choose between "Strawberry Shortcake" or "The Muppets."
It's apparent you're a parent when you have half a dozen used Kleenex in your pocket, and you haven't used any of them.
It's apparent you're a parent when you start speaking in rhymes because you've been reading Dr. Seuss all day.
It's apparent you're a parent when you can name every character on Super Why (Super Why, Wonder Red, Princess Pea, and Alpha Pig) but can only name one member of the President's Cabinet. (Jon Kerry just replaced Hilary Clinton, right?)
It's apparent you're a parent if you've even heard of the show Super Why.
It's apparent you're a parent when your chicken nuggets are shaped like dinosaurs.
It's apparent you're a parent when you know which McDonald's have PlayPlaces and which ones don't.
It's apparent you're a parent when you know the entire PBS mid-day schedule.
It's apparent you're a parent when you go out to eat at one of your favorite places and, along with your food, you get a cup full of tokens.
It's apparent you're a parent when you are a heterosexual man and you take a large green bag with ducks on it with you wherever you go. (Thankfully we have since upgraded to a more "manly" diaper bag.) (Assuming, of course, that any diaper bag could be considered "manly.")
It's apparent you're a parent if you've ever uttered the phrase, "Don't lick the pool water!" (I borrowed that one from The Wife.)
It's apparent you're a parent if you notice whether or not the public restroom has a diaper changing station or not. (And you're a little indignant if it doesn't.)
It's apparent you're a parent if you see kids behaving badly and mutter to yourself, "Well, at least that's not my kid. (This time.)"
It's apparent you're a parent if, when fueling up the car, you make faces through the windows in hopes of getting a smile or two in return. (And it makes forking out $50 for a tank of gas seem almost worth it.)
It's apparent you're a parent if you know what time the school bus comes every morning, not because your kids are old enough to get on it, but because seeing the bus pull up across the street is one of the highlights of their day.
It's apparent you're a parent when you no longer get to sit next to your wife at church. Instead you're each on one end of the row, hoping to contain the kids in between you.
It's apparent you're a parent when you wish, for more than one reason, that Barbie would wear clothes that weren't so tight fitting. 1) So your daughter doesn't think she can wear clothes that tight; and B) so you can change her clothes without it seeming like you are trying to peel a grape.
It's apparent you're a parent when the lock on the bathroom door is the most used, trusted, and important lock in the entire house.
It's apparent you're a parent when you've finally found an audience that will laugh every time you try to use a banana as a phone.
It's apparent you're a parent when there's a smile on your face whenever you think about them.
Thursday, January 24, 2013
Our Bacon Anniversary
Earlier this month The Wife and I celebrated our wedding anniversary. We've been married for six years. In some ways it seems like we've only been married for about a year and a half. (Admittedly, I wasn't the one who endured two long pregnancies, so I'm sure the time went faster for me.) And, in some ways it seems like we've been married for 20 years. (It certainly feels like I've changed 20 years worth of diapers!)
A lot has changed in the six years that we have been married. Six years ago no one had ever heard of Facebook, Barack Obama was a first term senator, Brett Favre was still playing for the Packers (and had only threatened retirement four times), and phones weren't "smart," but they did flip open like a communicator from Star Trek (which was AWESOME!!!)
The Wife and I celebrate things differently than we did when we were first married. For our six month anniversary, we got a room at the same bed and breakfast we stayed at on our honeymoon. For our six year anniversary, we took the kids out for pizza.
Actually, it was better than it sounds. We went to a place called "Planet Play." They had an all-you-can-eat pizza/dessert buffet, plus little rides and games for the kids, and games for the adults, too. (Basically, it was like Chuck E. Cheese on steroids.) (Or should I say it was the "Lance Armstrong-ed" version of Chuck E. Cheese?) We had a ball.
And, truth be told, our anniversary celebration really began earlier in the day. The Wife made me bacon for breakfast! Bacon!!! (It was a special treat.) That's not to say we never have bacon. We just don't have it very often. (The Wife told me she'd make me bacon on a more regular basis, but she actually wants me to be around for our several more anniversaries.)
And then, with the leftover bacon, we.... (Just kidding! There is no such thing as "leftover bacon." Leftover bacon belongs to the realm of make believe and fantasy, like unicorns, bigfoot, and honest politicians.)
To reciprocate for the bacon she made me, I made The Wife some french toast. (French toast is one of the few things that I'm pretty good at making. My french toast is well-regarded by people from at least two different states and several counties.) The Wife really likes my french toast. Of course, I've had her french toast, and it is easily as good as mine, if not better. (I think the reason she likes my french toast best is because she didn't have to make it.)
So, all told, I had a really good day. I got bacon, french toast, all the pizza I could eat, all the soda pop I could drink, and I got to have fun with The Wife and the kids. (Buzz discovered air hockey, Roni had fun riding the bouncy snail, and I "let" The Wife beat me at pop-a-shot basketball.) (For clarification, so I don't get myself in more trouble, the quotation marks around the "let" are there for sarcastic purposes. She beat me fair and square.)
It wasn't the traditional anniversary celebration. After it was over, I remembered that each anniversary is supposed to have a theme or a gift associated with it. (You know, like the 25th anniversary is the "silver" anniversary, and the 50th is the "golden" anniversary.) So, I looked it up on the interwebs and found out that the sixth anniversary is supposed to be the "iron" anniversary.
The "iron" anniversary? I'm not sure what that even means. Am I supposed to get her an iron for our anniversary? (I already got her one for Christmas a few years back.) (She was delighted.) Maybe an iron handrail for the front steps? I could give her my entire collection of Iron Man comic books. Or, better yet (from The Wife's perspective) I could sell all of my Iron Man comic books, clearing up room in the "comic book closet" for more of her scrapbooking stuff. I just don't know what I'm supposed to do for an "iron" anniversary.
All of these different anniversary "gifts" seem pretty weird to me. According to Wikipedia (which is NEVER wrong) only the "big" anniversaries had gifts associated with them until 1937, when the American National Retail Jewelers Association (not to be confused with the National American Association of Retail Jewelers) made up a list for the rest of the anniversaries. The list goes like this:
1st: Paper
2nd: Cotton
3rd: Leather
4th: Linen
5th: Wood
6th: Iron
7th: Wool
8th: Bronze
9th: Pottery
10th: Tin
11th: Steel
12th: Silk
13th: Lace
14th: Ivory
15th: Crystal
20th: China
25th: Silver
30th: Pearl
35th: Coral
40th: Ruby
45th: Sapphire
50th: Gold
This list seems rather silly to me. First off, I'm wondering how tin managed to snag such a good anniversary. You'd think the 10th anniversary would get something a bit more prestigious. I mean, really? Tin? (Nothing says "romance" like tin!) And some of the other things that made the list are a bit iffy, too. Pottery? Lace? Linen? I'll bet aluminum, ceramics, and macrame are feeling really left out.
Personally, there aren't many things on this list that I care much about. I think we should rebel. Let's forget what the American National Retail Jewelers Association (not to be confused with the Association of National Retail Jewelers of America) tried to shove down our throats. I think we should make our own list. I'm thinking food items would make a better list. (After all, wouldn't you rather have a baked potato than some ivory?) So, here we go:
1st: Ice cream
2nd: Muffins
3rd: Spaghetti
4th: Pudding
5th: Waffles
6th: Bacon
7th: Churros
8th: Potato Chips
9th: Meatloaf
10th: Cake
11th: Jam
12th: Bananas
13th: Cookies
14th: Baked Potatoes
15th: Pizza
20th: Pork
25th: Beef
30th: Chicken
35th: Turkey
40th: Cheeseburgers
45th: Salmon
50th: Steak and Lobster
Now isn't that a much better list? There's so much more to like here. (I'm really looking forward to next year's churros!)
So, to conclude, I'd like to thank The Wife for six wonderful years! (And the best Bacon Anniversary ever!!!)
A lot has changed in the six years that we have been married. Six years ago no one had ever heard of Facebook, Barack Obama was a first term senator, Brett Favre was still playing for the Packers (and had only threatened retirement four times), and phones weren't "smart," but they did flip open like a communicator from Star Trek (which was AWESOME!!!)
The Wife and I celebrate things differently than we did when we were first married. For our six month anniversary, we got a room at the same bed and breakfast we stayed at on our honeymoon. For our six year anniversary, we took the kids out for pizza.
Actually, it was better than it sounds. We went to a place called "Planet Play." They had an all-you-can-eat pizza/dessert buffet, plus little rides and games for the kids, and games for the adults, too. (Basically, it was like Chuck E. Cheese on steroids.) (Or should I say it was the "Lance Armstrong-ed" version of Chuck E. Cheese?) We had a ball.
And, truth be told, our anniversary celebration really began earlier in the day. The Wife made me bacon for breakfast! Bacon!!! (It was a special treat.) That's not to say we never have bacon. We just don't have it very often. (The Wife told me she'd make me bacon on a more regular basis, but she actually wants me to be around for our several more anniversaries.)
And then, with the leftover bacon, we.... (Just kidding! There is no such thing as "leftover bacon." Leftover bacon belongs to the realm of make believe and fantasy, like unicorns, bigfoot, and honest politicians.)
To reciprocate for the bacon she made me, I made The Wife some french toast. (French toast is one of the few things that I'm pretty good at making. My french toast is well-regarded by people from at least two different states and several counties.) The Wife really likes my french toast. Of course, I've had her french toast, and it is easily as good as mine, if not better. (I think the reason she likes my french toast best is because she didn't have to make it.)
So, all told, I had a really good day. I got bacon, french toast, all the pizza I could eat, all the soda pop I could drink, and I got to have fun with The Wife and the kids. (Buzz discovered air hockey, Roni had fun riding the bouncy snail, and I "let" The Wife beat me at pop-a-shot basketball.) (For clarification, so I don't get myself in more trouble, the quotation marks around the "let" are there for sarcastic purposes. She beat me fair and square.)
It wasn't the traditional anniversary celebration. After it was over, I remembered that each anniversary is supposed to have a theme or a gift associated with it. (You know, like the 25th anniversary is the "silver" anniversary, and the 50th is the "golden" anniversary.) So, I looked it up on the interwebs and found out that the sixth anniversary is supposed to be the "iron" anniversary.
The "iron" anniversary? I'm not sure what that even means. Am I supposed to get her an iron for our anniversary? (I already got her one for Christmas a few years back.) (She was delighted.) Maybe an iron handrail for the front steps? I could give her my entire collection of Iron Man comic books. Or, better yet (from The Wife's perspective) I could sell all of my Iron Man comic books, clearing up room in the "comic book closet" for more of her scrapbooking stuff. I just don't know what I'm supposed to do for an "iron" anniversary.
All of these different anniversary "gifts" seem pretty weird to me. According to Wikipedia (which is NEVER wrong) only the "big" anniversaries had gifts associated with them until 1937, when the American National Retail Jewelers Association (not to be confused with the National American Association of Retail Jewelers) made up a list for the rest of the anniversaries. The list goes like this:
1st: Paper
2nd: Cotton
3rd: Leather
4th: Linen
5th: Wood
6th: Iron
7th: Wool
8th: Bronze
9th: Pottery
10th: Tin
11th: Steel
12th: Silk
13th: Lace
14th: Ivory
15th: Crystal
20th: China
25th: Silver
30th: Pearl
35th: Coral
40th: Ruby
45th: Sapphire
50th: Gold
This list seems rather silly to me. First off, I'm wondering how tin managed to snag such a good anniversary. You'd think the 10th anniversary would get something a bit more prestigious. I mean, really? Tin? (Nothing says "romance" like tin!) And some of the other things that made the list are a bit iffy, too. Pottery? Lace? Linen? I'll bet aluminum, ceramics, and macrame are feeling really left out.
Personally, there aren't many things on this list that I care much about. I think we should rebel. Let's forget what the American National Retail Jewelers Association (not to be confused with the Association of National Retail Jewelers of America) tried to shove down our throats. I think we should make our own list. I'm thinking food items would make a better list. (After all, wouldn't you rather have a baked potato than some ivory?) So, here we go:
1st: Ice cream
2nd: Muffins
3rd: Spaghetti
4th: Pudding
5th: Waffles
6th: Bacon
7th: Churros
8th: Potato Chips
9th: Meatloaf
10th: Cake
11th: Jam
12th: Bananas
13th: Cookies
14th: Baked Potatoes
15th: Pizza
20th: Pork
25th: Beef
30th: Chicken
35th: Turkey
40th: Cheeseburgers
45th: Salmon
50th: Steak and Lobster
Now isn't that a much better list? There's so much more to like here. (I'm really looking forward to next year's churros!)
So, to conclude, I'd like to thank The Wife for six wonderful years! (And the best Bacon Anniversary ever!!!)
Monday, December 31, 2012
Shopping for Some Happy Holidays
It seemed simple enough. I needed to get out and do some last minute shopping on Christmas Eve. The Wife wanted me out of the house so she could wrap some presents. And, we needed to get a few things at the grocery store. No problem, right?
It started out pleasantly enough. I pulled in to Shopko and, although the parking lot was crowded, I was able to find a spot in the first lane that I turned down. (For those of you who don't know, Shopko is a middle-class department store chain around here.)(Classier than Kmart, but not as "prestigious" as Target.)
It was snowing, so I had to pick through the shopping carts to find one that wasn't wet. The main reason I went to Shopko that day was to get a calendar for The Wife's uncle, who was visiting from New York state. (As opposed to New York City.) The Wife's uncle and aunt have talked about moving to Utah from New York, so we thought it would be a good idea to get him a calendar with scenic pictures from Utah to help encourage them to move here. (We like them. Them's good peoples.) And I knew, from previous visits to Shopko, that they had two big racks full of calendars to choose from.
But, since I specifically wanted a scenic Utah calendar, the one thing they did not have was, of course, a scenic Utah calendar. Oh, they had calendars featuring butterflies, lighthouses, cute puppies, ladybugs, cows, and Justin Biebers, but no scenic Utah.
(Isn't it annoying when you are looking for a certain thing, and you know you've seen it at the stores, but when it comes time to buy it you can't find it anywhere? The worst such instance for me was the year my brother caught my Mom reading a romance novel titled The Cowboy Under the Christmas Tree. We teased and teased her about it. That Christmas, I thought it would be funny to get her a toy cowboy as a present, so she could have an actual cowboy under her Christmas tree. But, I could not find a toy cowboy for the life of me. The Wife and I looked at five or six different stores and couldn't find a single toy cowboy anywhere, not even those cheap little plastic cowboy and Indian sets that are like the little army men! Of course, as soon as that Christmas had passed we saw toy cowboys everywhere. They mocked us with their abundance.)
(I now fully expect to see scenic Utah calendars in every store I go to for the next several months.)
Having found about 15% of the things that I wanted to find at Shopko, I made my purchases and sloshed my way back to the car. I had one more stop: the grocery store. I could see as I approached the store that it was pretty busy. Usually when I pull up to a store, I'll drive past a few distant parking spots in hopes that there will be one closer to the store. On this Christmas Eve however, that was not my strategy. I immediately determined that I would pull into any spot I could find.
That determintaion didn't help me in the least. The first lane I pulled into was full, from the street to the store. The second lane I pulled down also offered no empty spots. I tried another lane; not only were there no parking spots, but I couldn't pull through because there was a Christmas tree lot at the end of it. (Why, at the one time they actually need all of their parking spots, do they fill twenty or thirty of them with Christmas trees?) (Really, on Christmas Eve those parking spots are about as valuable as gold, frankincense, and maybe even myrrh!)
As I grew more and more frustrated with circling through the parking lot (along with twenty or so of my fellow parking spot seekers, some of whom had started to stalk shoppers heading back to their cars, hovering over their soon-to-be-vacant spots like vultures,) I decided to think outside the box. Based on my experience from delivering to grocery stores in the past, I knew that sometimes there were a few spaces behind the store where I might park. So, I worked my way over and found a spot behind the sporting goods store next to the grocery store. Sure it was a good, long slosh through the slush to get to the front of the store, but at least I had found someplace to park!
I was actually surprised to find a row of about fifteen shopping carts still available when I walked in the store. (When I left the store there were none. Outgoing shoppers were handing their used carts to incoming shoppers like Olympians handing the baton at a relay race.) The store was very crowded. I got the bread I needed without incident, but it was a bit of a fight to get the baker's chocolate that The Wife had on the list. Mostly because the brand she suggested I buy was sold out, so I had to check the labels of the stuff that was on the shelf. And the traffic clog of shopping carts trying to get down the aisle wasn't very patient with me and my slow label-reading skills. (Sometimes that fine print is very fine.)
I got what I needed and headed for checkout. (I looked for a scenic Utah calendar there, too. I'm sure I'll see several on next week's grocery trip.) On a normal day I sometimes wonder why they have so many checkstands. I was not wondering that on this day. All 16 checkout lanes were open. And all 16 checkout lanes had about ten people waiting in line at each one. Each checkout line worked its way down into one of the shopping aisles. It was a long wait to get to the register. And it was full of several exchanges like this:
Dumb guy (trying to get his shopping cart in front of mine): "Is this the line?"
Me (pointing towards the back of the store): "No. That is the line."
Eventually I made it to the register and purchased my foodstuffs. I got back to my car and drove home in the snow. And you know, it's great to have snow on Christmas Eve so you can have a "White Christmas." Until you have to go out and shovel it. (If Bing Crosby were still alive I just might punch him in the nose.)
Still, I made it through my Christmas Eve shopping experience, and we managed to have a very good Christmas! And I hope you all had some happy holidays, too!
Yes. I said "Happy Holidays." I've said it before and I'll say it again.
The term "Happy Holidays" has gotten a bit of a bad rap (or is it a bad "wrap?") lately. Some people think you should only say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" so you don't offend people who don't celebrate Christmas. Meanwhile, other people think that if you ever utter the phrase "Happy Holidays" it means you are buckling under to the politcally correct, and you are somehow trying to take the "Christ" out of "Christmas."
I'm sorry, but I'm going to say "Happy Holidays" whenever I darn well feel like it! (I'm also going to say "Merry Christmas" whenever I feel like it, too.) If you get offended, I'm sorry. Maybe you need to get some thicker skin. I'm not a mother, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy Mother's Day." I'm not a president, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy President's Day." I'm not a tree, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy Arbor Day." (Just for the record, no one has ever wished me a "Happy Arbor Day.") (Maybe this year.)
Back in the day (before the politically correct police and before the politically correct police backlash) "Happy Holidays" was a term that often was used as shorthand for "Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." You see, the "Holidays" in "Happy Holidays" is plural. (There's even an "s" on the end and everything!) Sometimes, people would even use "Happy Holidays" to refer to the entire season between Thanksgiving and New Year's. And that's okay.
So, just because someone says "Happy Holidays," it doesn't mean they are a left-leaning pinko commie. And just because someone says "Merry Christmas," it doesn't mean they are right-wing, gun-toting redneck. What it probably means, in either instance, is that they are wishing you well. So, don't be offended. Because it's better that they are wishing you well than meaning you harm.
That said, my suggestion is that if you truly want to have "Happy Holidays," you might want to get your shopping done before Christmas Eve.
It started out pleasantly enough. I pulled in to Shopko and, although the parking lot was crowded, I was able to find a spot in the first lane that I turned down. (For those of you who don't know, Shopko is a middle-class department store chain around here.)(Classier than Kmart, but not as "prestigious" as Target.)
It was snowing, so I had to pick through the shopping carts to find one that wasn't wet. The main reason I went to Shopko that day was to get a calendar for The Wife's uncle, who was visiting from New York state. (As opposed to New York City.) The Wife's uncle and aunt have talked about moving to Utah from New York, so we thought it would be a good idea to get him a calendar with scenic pictures from Utah to help encourage them to move here. (We like them. Them's good peoples.) And I knew, from previous visits to Shopko, that they had two big racks full of calendars to choose from.
But, since I specifically wanted a scenic Utah calendar, the one thing they did not have was, of course, a scenic Utah calendar. Oh, they had calendars featuring butterflies, lighthouses, cute puppies, ladybugs, cows, and Justin Biebers, but no scenic Utah.
(Isn't it annoying when you are looking for a certain thing, and you know you've seen it at the stores, but when it comes time to buy it you can't find it anywhere? The worst such instance for me was the year my brother caught my Mom reading a romance novel titled The Cowboy Under the Christmas Tree. We teased and teased her about it. That Christmas, I thought it would be funny to get her a toy cowboy as a present, so she could have an actual cowboy under her Christmas tree. But, I could not find a toy cowboy for the life of me. The Wife and I looked at five or six different stores and couldn't find a single toy cowboy anywhere, not even those cheap little plastic cowboy and Indian sets that are like the little army men! Of course, as soon as that Christmas had passed we saw toy cowboys everywhere. They mocked us with their abundance.)
(I now fully expect to see scenic Utah calendars in every store I go to for the next several months.)
 |
| Merry Christmas! Please buy some useless stuff! |
Having found about 15% of the things that I wanted to find at Shopko, I made my purchases and sloshed my way back to the car. I had one more stop: the grocery store. I could see as I approached the store that it was pretty busy. Usually when I pull up to a store, I'll drive past a few distant parking spots in hopes that there will be one closer to the store. On this Christmas Eve however, that was not my strategy. I immediately determined that I would pull into any spot I could find.
That determintaion didn't help me in the least. The first lane I pulled into was full, from the street to the store. The second lane I pulled down also offered no empty spots. I tried another lane; not only were there no parking spots, but I couldn't pull through because there was a Christmas tree lot at the end of it. (Why, at the one time they actually need all of their parking spots, do they fill twenty or thirty of them with Christmas trees?) (Really, on Christmas Eve those parking spots are about as valuable as gold, frankincense, and maybe even myrrh!)
As I grew more and more frustrated with circling through the parking lot (along with twenty or so of my fellow parking spot seekers, some of whom had started to stalk shoppers heading back to their cars, hovering over their soon-to-be-vacant spots like vultures,) I decided to think outside the box. Based on my experience from delivering to grocery stores in the past, I knew that sometimes there were a few spaces behind the store where I might park. So, I worked my way over and found a spot behind the sporting goods store next to the grocery store. Sure it was a good, long slosh through the slush to get to the front of the store, but at least I had found someplace to park!
I was actually surprised to find a row of about fifteen shopping carts still available when I walked in the store. (When I left the store there were none. Outgoing shoppers were handing their used carts to incoming shoppers like Olympians handing the baton at a relay race.) The store was very crowded. I got the bread I needed without incident, but it was a bit of a fight to get the baker's chocolate that The Wife had on the list. Mostly because the brand she suggested I buy was sold out, so I had to check the labels of the stuff that was on the shelf. And the traffic clog of shopping carts trying to get down the aisle wasn't very patient with me and my slow label-reading skills. (Sometimes that fine print is very fine.)
I got what I needed and headed for checkout. (I looked for a scenic Utah calendar there, too. I'm sure I'll see several on next week's grocery trip.) On a normal day I sometimes wonder why they have so many checkstands. I was not wondering that on this day. All 16 checkout lanes were open. And all 16 checkout lanes had about ten people waiting in line at each one. Each checkout line worked its way down into one of the shopping aisles. It was a long wait to get to the register. And it was full of several exchanges like this:
Dumb guy (trying to get his shopping cart in front of mine): "Is this the line?"
Me (pointing towards the back of the store): "No. That is the line."
Eventually I made it to the register and purchased my foodstuffs. I got back to my car and drove home in the snow. And you know, it's great to have snow on Christmas Eve so you can have a "White Christmas." Until you have to go out and shovel it. (If Bing Crosby were still alive I just might punch him in the nose.)
Still, I made it through my Christmas Eve shopping experience, and we managed to have a very good Christmas! And I hope you all had some happy holidays, too!
Yes. I said "Happy Holidays." I've said it before and I'll say it again.
The term "Happy Holidays" has gotten a bit of a bad rap (or is it a bad "wrap?") lately. Some people think you should only say "Happy Holidays" instead of "Merry Christmas" so you don't offend people who don't celebrate Christmas. Meanwhile, other people think that if you ever utter the phrase "Happy Holidays" it means you are buckling under to the politcally correct, and you are somehow trying to take the "Christ" out of "Christmas."
I'm sorry, but I'm going to say "Happy Holidays" whenever I darn well feel like it! (I'm also going to say "Merry Christmas" whenever I feel like it, too.) If you get offended, I'm sorry. Maybe you need to get some thicker skin. I'm not a mother, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy Mother's Day." I'm not a president, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy President's Day." I'm not a tree, but I don't get offended if someone says, "Happy Arbor Day." (Just for the record, no one has ever wished me a "Happy Arbor Day.") (Maybe this year.)
Back in the day (before the politically correct police and before the politically correct police backlash) "Happy Holidays" was a term that often was used as shorthand for "Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year." You see, the "Holidays" in "Happy Holidays" is plural. (There's even an "s" on the end and everything!) Sometimes, people would even use "Happy Holidays" to refer to the entire season between Thanksgiving and New Year's. And that's okay.
So, just because someone says "Happy Holidays," it doesn't mean they are a left-leaning pinko commie. And just because someone says "Merry Christmas," it doesn't mean they are right-wing, gun-toting redneck. What it probably means, in either instance, is that they are wishing you well. So, don't be offended. Because it's better that they are wishing you well than meaning you harm.
That said, my suggestion is that if you truly want to have "Happy Holidays," you might want to get your shopping done before Christmas Eve.
Thursday, December 13, 2012
My Crack Problem
I have a problem with crack.
And once you have a problem with crack, you will always have a problem with crack. It won't go away. It's just a matter of how well you can cover it up.
Some people have no idea they have a crack problem. They go through the course of their life as if nothing is wrong. But, if you truly have a crack problem, that's all anyone else will see. They won't see you as a person, they'll just see you for the crack. So, one of the first steps in successfully dealing with a crack problem is admitting that you have a crack problem.
I know I have a crack problem. My wife has been great in helping me with my crack problem. She has stood by me, not been judgemental, and offered to help in any way she can. And, she has come up with the best solution I have yet found for dealing with my crack problem: Really long shirts.
(I am, of course, talking about my butt crack problem.)
I've always thought of myself as a normal-ish looking guy. As I've said before, if you took 50 guys at random, I would not be one of the ten handsomest, nor would I be one of the ten ugliest. I would be one of the 30 guys covering the middle ground. I'm a fairly big guy, standing at 6' 2" and 240 pounds. Those numbers would be pretty good for an NFL linebacker or running back. (Unfortunately, my belly fat-to-muscle ratio numbers would not be anywhere near good enough for the NFL.) (Besides, as someone once said, "you gotta be fast to play linebacker.")
I never thought of myself as having an unusually long torso. But then, I met my wife. I'm a full four inches taller than her. (Which is a good thing, because standing at 5' 10" she made the decision that she would not date anyone shorter than her. I know it sounds a bit discriminatory, but I'm okay with it because it meant she was still available when I came around.) (Sorry, short guys.)
Even though I'm four inches taller than her, our legs are the same length. This is great for driving, because we never have to adjust the seat in the car. As opposed to when I was young and got in the car after my mom had been driving. I don't know how many times I whacked my knees against the dash and steering wheel because I didn't pre-adjust the seat. (My mom is 5' 2".) (Although some of those poofy 1970's hairdos bumped her up to as much as 5' 5".) So, I don't have to adjust the seat, but, because of my unusually long torso, I do have to adjust the mirrors, because when I get in after my wife has driven they seem to be pointing straight into the ground.
At first I thought that my wife and I having legs the same length was because she had unusually long legs. But then I thought it might be my unusually long torso. (It's probably a little of both.)
It took me a while to admit that I had a crack problem. Sure, I would feel that occasional breeze hit me between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my pants when I would bend over or sit down, but everyone gets that sometimes, right? I would think that my shirt wasn't reaching my pants in the back because of my oversized gut in the front. Maybe it was because my pants weren't tall enough. (The Wife actually thinks this is part of the problem. She thinks I wear my pants too low. It's a fair criticism, but I really doubt she would like it if I went full Urkel on her.) (No one wants to hear, as my aunt once said to my grandpa, "Hey, are those pants a little tight on your armpits?")
So, before I fully came to terms with my crack problem, The Wife was trying to fix it. She started buying me longer shirts. My regular shirt size is "extra-large." (XL) You would think if they made a shirt that was "extra" larger than regular large, that some of that "extra-ness" might go to the length of the shirt. No. All of that "extra-ness" is used to get around the belly and the chest. Adding another "X" (as in XXL, XXXL) doesn't help the length of the shirt. (Besides the fact that those bigger sizes seem like names for future Super Bowls.) (Maybe the Vikings can finally get a win in Super Bowl XXXL.)
The Wife was able to find a shirt size called "XLT," which stands for "extra large tall." These shirts were a godsend. I started wearing them and suddenly I wasn't noticing that butt-crack breeze as much. I could sit in a vinyl chair without having to peel my lower back off of it like a piece of fruit leather. It didn't take long for me to notice the difference between the "XLT" shirts and the "XL" shirts, and start seeking out the "XLTs." I think that is when I finally started to come to terms with my crack problem.
Unfortunately, the "XLTs" are pretty hard to find. Most stores don't offer them. The Wife usually has to scour the interwebs to find them. And even then, not all "XLT" shirts are created equal. Some "XLTs" still aren't long enough for my unusually long torso, especially after a few washings. And some of the "XLTs" are actually a little too long, seeming almost more like a tunic or a muumuu than a shirt. (But, and I think this goes to show how much I am determined to beat my crack problem, I would rather wear a tunic than expose my butt crack anymore.)
There are a lot of people who could benefit from "XLT" shirts. (I work in the truck driver industry. Believe me, there are a lot of people who could benefit.)(And not just the ones who wear the shirts.) I'm surprised an enterprising "XLT" shirt manufacturer doesn't set up shop at a plumber's convention. "XLT" shirts could also find huge sales if marketed as "tramp stamp" covers, especially as the bodies of those women who fell for the "tramp stamp" fad begin to age and sag. (Sorry for that image.)
So, yes, I have a crack problem. I know it, and I'm working on correcting it. It's going to be a lifelong problem. I'm going to have to be diligent about it for as long as I live. Because no one wants to see my butt crack. Not even (maybe even especially) my wife.
And once you have a problem with crack, you will always have a problem with crack. It won't go away. It's just a matter of how well you can cover it up.
Some people have no idea they have a crack problem. They go through the course of their life as if nothing is wrong. But, if you truly have a crack problem, that's all anyone else will see. They won't see you as a person, they'll just see you for the crack. So, one of the first steps in successfully dealing with a crack problem is admitting that you have a crack problem.
I know I have a crack problem. My wife has been great in helping me with my crack problem. She has stood by me, not been judgemental, and offered to help in any way she can. And, she has come up with the best solution I have yet found for dealing with my crack problem: Really long shirts.
(I am, of course, talking about my butt crack problem.)
I've always thought of myself as a normal-ish looking guy. As I've said before, if you took 50 guys at random, I would not be one of the ten handsomest, nor would I be one of the ten ugliest. I would be one of the 30 guys covering the middle ground. I'm a fairly big guy, standing at 6' 2" and 240 pounds. Those numbers would be pretty good for an NFL linebacker or running back. (Unfortunately, my belly fat-to-muscle ratio numbers would not be anywhere near good enough for the NFL.) (Besides, as someone once said, "you gotta be fast to play linebacker.")
I never thought of myself as having an unusually long torso. But then, I met my wife. I'm a full four inches taller than her. (Which is a good thing, because standing at 5' 10" she made the decision that she would not date anyone shorter than her. I know it sounds a bit discriminatory, but I'm okay with it because it meant she was still available when I came around.) (Sorry, short guys.)
Even though I'm four inches taller than her, our legs are the same length. This is great for driving, because we never have to adjust the seat in the car. As opposed to when I was young and got in the car after my mom had been driving. I don't know how many times I whacked my knees against the dash and steering wheel because I didn't pre-adjust the seat. (My mom is 5' 2".) (Although some of those poofy 1970's hairdos bumped her up to as much as 5' 5".) So, I don't have to adjust the seat, but, because of my unusually long torso, I do have to adjust the mirrors, because when I get in after my wife has driven they seem to be pointing straight into the ground.
At first I thought that my wife and I having legs the same length was because she had unusually long legs. But then I thought it might be my unusually long torso. (It's probably a little of both.)
It took me a while to admit that I had a crack problem. Sure, I would feel that occasional breeze hit me between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my pants when I would bend over or sit down, but everyone gets that sometimes, right? I would think that my shirt wasn't reaching my pants in the back because of my oversized gut in the front. Maybe it was because my pants weren't tall enough. (The Wife actually thinks this is part of the problem. She thinks I wear my pants too low. It's a fair criticism, but I really doubt she would like it if I went full Urkel on her.) (No one wants to hear, as my aunt once said to my grandpa, "Hey, are those pants a little tight on your armpits?")
So, before I fully came to terms with my crack problem, The Wife was trying to fix it. She started buying me longer shirts. My regular shirt size is "extra-large." (XL) You would think if they made a shirt that was "extra" larger than regular large, that some of that "extra-ness" might go to the length of the shirt. No. All of that "extra-ness" is used to get around the belly and the chest. Adding another "X" (as in XXL, XXXL) doesn't help the length of the shirt. (Besides the fact that those bigger sizes seem like names for future Super Bowls.) (Maybe the Vikings can finally get a win in Super Bowl XXXL.)
The Wife was able to find a shirt size called "XLT," which stands for "extra large tall." These shirts were a godsend. I started wearing them and suddenly I wasn't noticing that butt-crack breeze as much. I could sit in a vinyl chair without having to peel my lower back off of it like a piece of fruit leather. It didn't take long for me to notice the difference between the "XLT" shirts and the "XL" shirts, and start seeking out the "XLTs." I think that is when I finally started to come to terms with my crack problem.
Unfortunately, the "XLTs" are pretty hard to find. Most stores don't offer them. The Wife usually has to scour the interwebs to find them. And even then, not all "XLT" shirts are created equal. Some "XLTs" still aren't long enough for my unusually long torso, especially after a few washings. And some of the "XLTs" are actually a little too long, seeming almost more like a tunic or a muumuu than a shirt. (But, and I think this goes to show how much I am determined to beat my crack problem, I would rather wear a tunic than expose my butt crack anymore.)
There are a lot of people who could benefit from "XLT" shirts. (I work in the truck driver industry. Believe me, there are a lot of people who could benefit.)(And not just the ones who wear the shirts.) I'm surprised an enterprising "XLT" shirt manufacturer doesn't set up shop at a plumber's convention. "XLT" shirts could also find huge sales if marketed as "tramp stamp" covers, especially as the bodies of those women who fell for the "tramp stamp" fad begin to age and sag. (Sorry for that image.)
So, yes, I have a crack problem. I know it, and I'm working on correcting it. It's going to be a lifelong problem. I'm going to have to be diligent about it for as long as I live. Because no one wants to see my butt crack. Not even (maybe even especially) my wife.
Thursday, November 29, 2012
I'm NOT Loving It: Finding a Foreign Object In My McDonald's Burger
First of all, let's get one thing straight: The arches are yellow. They are NOT golden. Anyone who ever had a 64-count Crayola set knows that "yellow" and "gold" are two different colors. Those arches are yellow.
Over the years I've learned a lot of things from McDonald's. As a kid, I learned that's it's okay to put cheese on a fish sandwich. (The lesson? Cheese makes everything better.) I learned, as a very young boy, that my Grandma could eat two Big Macs in one sitting. (The lesson? Grandma was AWESOME!!!) I learned that it is possible to have "too much of a good thing." (The lesson? I shouldn't have had that third triple cheeseburger.)
As a guy who was single until he was 40, I frequented McDonald's frequently. And now, as a father of a two year old and a four year old, I still frequent McDonald's (just not quite as frequently.) As a concerned parent, giving consumers the choice of apple slices or french fries in Happy Meals was very smart. Then, deciding to include both apple slices and french fries was brilliant.
Not all of McDonald's moves have been smart, though. I remember when they tried to introduce "McPizza." It was like a slab of school lunch cafeteria pizza, only not as good. Then there was the "McDLT," which promised to keep the "hot side hot and the cool side cool." Instead, it was killed by this unspoken motto: "Same amount of burger; twice as much styrofoam."
And then there is the "McRib," a limited-time sandwich with a cult-like international following, which proves the old axiom: "People Is Stupid." The "McRib" is Horrible On a Bun. It is a pre-formed slice of meat-like substance (which looks and tastes like a bathroom sponge,) covered in sauce. (They say it is barbecue sauce. I disagree. It tastes like some sort of mixture of barbecue sauce and dish soap.) Every five years or so, I try a "McRib" again to see if they improved it or if my assessment of it was wrong, and every five years or so I am again completely disgusted. (I have a friend who gets the dry heaves at the mere mention of the "McRib.")
What makes the success of the "McRib" so infuriating is that around the time it came out, McDonald's offered another limited-time sandwich that was actually worthy of a cult-like international following. It was called the "Cheddar Melt," and it was fantastic! It was a quarter-pound burger on a rye bun with sauteed onions and cheddar cheese sauce (similar to the cheese sauce from Arby's Beef N Cheddar.) Unfortunately, the "Cheddar Melt" was only given a couple of limited-time runs, and then it was never heard from again.
So, that's why I was so excited when I saw that McDonald's was offering the "CBO," a new limited-time burger with some similarities to the old "Cheddar Melt." The "CBO" stands for "cheddar," "bacon" and "onions."
(Just for clarification, McDonald's "CBO" should not be confused with the Star Wars droid C3PO.)
(Also, for the record, C3PO is golden. The arches are yellow.)
Let's break the "CBO" down. Cheddar: I like cheese. Melted cheese makes everything taste better. We have a saying around our house: "Cheese is for heroes!" (I think it's a quote from Chuck Norris.)
Bacon: I'm a big fan of bacon, and everyone who knows me knows this. So much so, that when anyone sees anything related to bacon, they post it on my Facebook wall. In fact, my Facebook wall is almost literally wallpapered with pictures of bacon. (I'm just not sure if it should be a "bowlful of bacon" or a "bowl full of bacon.") (Either way....bacon!!!)
Onions: I used to not like onions. Then I figured out what I didn't like were raw onions. Cook those onions up and they are delicious!
So, one late Saturday evening I was quite happy to ditch my regular dollar menu fare and splurge on a "CBO." We had gone as a family to a wedding reception. It was late, and we were hungry, so we stopped at McDonald's. (Parenting tip: If you want your kids to be able to play in the Playplace without having to deal with all those other unwashed, misbehaving kids around, take them there at 9:00 PM or later. Most other parents are responsible enough to have their little heathen tykes home and in bed at that hour. Even in Redneckia, Utah.)
And then, I bit into it. I was immediately disappointed. The burger was dry. (It would have moistened it up a bit if the cheese had been in sauce form.) I didn't know anyone could ruin bacon, but they did. It was overcooked past the point of "crispy." It was hard and dry and more resembled the bacon-ish dog food "Beggin' Strips" than any bacon I had ever eaten. And the onions were chopped up so small that they looked like slugs or boogers.
I was not enjoying my burger. And then, it got worse. It's never good when you have to stop what you are eating and say, "Wait, what is this thing?" I had just taken a bite when I noticed a piece of clear plastic roughly the size of a 50-cent piece. I didn't know exactly what to do. So I showed it to The Wife. "This was in my sandwich," I said to her, pointing at the plastic.
I then debated what to do next. Should I finish my burger? Of course not. (Although I did wonder for a few seconds because I was hungry.) I thought about just putting the burger down and saying nothing, but The Wife (rightly) said I needed to bring it to their attention, if for no other reason as to make sure it didn't happen to someone else. Also, I wanted to find out what exactly it was that was in my sandwich.
You always hear about people finding foreign objects in their food. Usually it's either a finger or a mouse. My foreign object was a piece of plastic. (Of course, I'm not sure if my foreign substance was actually foreign or not. It may have been domestic.)
I took my burger and its protruding plastic up to the counter and asked for the manager. Through a bit of detective work it was determined that the plastic in my burger was from the wrapping around the cheese slices. She asked if I wanted a new burger. I pondered for a second, then said yes. (I really was hungry.) She also offered me a shake. I wasn't sure I wanted one until she mentioned that one of the flavors was egg nog. I love egg nog. The Wife, however, hates egg nog, so I wouldn't get to share my shake with her. (Or wouldn't have to share it with her, depending on your point of view.)
I took my new, free burger back to my booth and ate it. I didn't enjoy it. It was as dry and uninviting as the first one was, except it didn't have any plastic in it. (That I know of.) (Although the chance of it being laced with the spit of McDonald's employees was significantly higher.) I probably should have asked for a different sandwich (a Filet-O-Fish or something) or insisted the whole meal be comped or something.
Maybe, like with the "McRib," I'll try the "CBO" again in five years or so and hope for a better experience. But, for now, I think I'll avoid the yellow arches for a while. My last expereince there was far from golden.
Over the years I've learned a lot of things from McDonald's. As a kid, I learned that's it's okay to put cheese on a fish sandwich. (The lesson? Cheese makes everything better.) I learned, as a very young boy, that my Grandma could eat two Big Macs in one sitting. (The lesson? Grandma was AWESOME!!!) I learned that it is possible to have "too much of a good thing." (The lesson? I shouldn't have had that third triple cheeseburger.)
As a guy who was single until he was 40, I frequented McDonald's frequently. And now, as a father of a two year old and a four year old, I still frequent McDonald's (just not quite as frequently.) As a concerned parent, giving consumers the choice of apple slices or french fries in Happy Meals was very smart. Then, deciding to include both apple slices and french fries was brilliant.
Not all of McDonald's moves have been smart, though. I remember when they tried to introduce "McPizza." It was like a slab of school lunch cafeteria pizza, only not as good. Then there was the "McDLT," which promised to keep the "hot side hot and the cool side cool." Instead, it was killed by this unspoken motto: "Same amount of burger; twice as much styrofoam."
And then there is the "McRib," a limited-time sandwich with a cult-like international following, which proves the old axiom: "People Is Stupid." The "McRib" is Horrible On a Bun. It is a pre-formed slice of meat-like substance (which looks and tastes like a bathroom sponge,) covered in sauce. (They say it is barbecue sauce. I disagree. It tastes like some sort of mixture of barbecue sauce and dish soap.) Every five years or so, I try a "McRib" again to see if they improved it or if my assessment of it was wrong, and every five years or so I am again completely disgusted. (I have a friend who gets the dry heaves at the mere mention of the "McRib.")
What makes the success of the "McRib" so infuriating is that around the time it came out, McDonald's offered another limited-time sandwich that was actually worthy of a cult-like international following. It was called the "Cheddar Melt," and it was fantastic! It was a quarter-pound burger on a rye bun with sauteed onions and cheddar cheese sauce (similar to the cheese sauce from Arby's Beef N Cheddar.) Unfortunately, the "Cheddar Melt" was only given a couple of limited-time runs, and then it was never heard from again.
So, that's why I was so excited when I saw that McDonald's was offering the "CBO," a new limited-time burger with some similarities to the old "Cheddar Melt." The "CBO" stands for "cheddar," "bacon" and "onions."
(Just for clarification, McDonald's "CBO" should not be confused with the Star Wars droid C3PO.)
(Also, for the record, C3PO is golden. The arches are yellow.)
Let's break the "CBO" down. Cheddar: I like cheese. Melted cheese makes everything taste better. We have a saying around our house: "Cheese is for heroes!" (I think it's a quote from Chuck Norris.)
Bacon: I'm a big fan of bacon, and everyone who knows me knows this. So much so, that when anyone sees anything related to bacon, they post it on my Facebook wall. In fact, my Facebook wall is almost literally wallpapered with pictures of bacon. (I'm just not sure if it should be a "bowlful of bacon" or a "bowl full of bacon.") (Either way....bacon!!!)
Onions: I used to not like onions. Then I figured out what I didn't like were raw onions. Cook those onions up and they are delicious!
So, one late Saturday evening I was quite happy to ditch my regular dollar menu fare and splurge on a "CBO." We had gone as a family to a wedding reception. It was late, and we were hungry, so we stopped at McDonald's. (Parenting tip: If you want your kids to be able to play in the Playplace without having to deal with all those other unwashed, misbehaving kids around, take them there at 9:00 PM or later. Most other parents are responsible enough to have their little heathen tykes home and in bed at that hour. Even in Redneckia, Utah.)
And then, I bit into it. I was immediately disappointed. The burger was dry. (It would have moistened it up a bit if the cheese had been in sauce form.) I didn't know anyone could ruin bacon, but they did. It was overcooked past the point of "crispy." It was hard and dry and more resembled the bacon-ish dog food "Beggin' Strips" than any bacon I had ever eaten. And the onions were chopped up so small that they looked like slugs or boogers.
I was not enjoying my burger. And then, it got worse. It's never good when you have to stop what you are eating and say, "Wait, what is this thing?" I had just taken a bite when I noticed a piece of clear plastic roughly the size of a 50-cent piece. I didn't know exactly what to do. So I showed it to The Wife. "This was in my sandwich," I said to her, pointing at the plastic.
I then debated what to do next. Should I finish my burger? Of course not. (Although I did wonder for a few seconds because I was hungry.) I thought about just putting the burger down and saying nothing, but The Wife (rightly) said I needed to bring it to their attention, if for no other reason as to make sure it didn't happen to someone else. Also, I wanted to find out what exactly it was that was in my sandwich.
You always hear about people finding foreign objects in their food. Usually it's either a finger or a mouse. My foreign object was a piece of plastic. (Of course, I'm not sure if my foreign substance was actually foreign or not. It may have been domestic.)
I took my burger and its protruding plastic up to the counter and asked for the manager. Through a bit of detective work it was determined that the plastic in my burger was from the wrapping around the cheese slices. She asked if I wanted a new burger. I pondered for a second, then said yes. (I really was hungry.) She also offered me a shake. I wasn't sure I wanted one until she mentioned that one of the flavors was egg nog. I love egg nog. The Wife, however, hates egg nog, so I wouldn't get to share my shake with her. (Or wouldn't have to share it with her, depending on your point of view.)
I took my new, free burger back to my booth and ate it. I didn't enjoy it. It was as dry and uninviting as the first one was, except it didn't have any plastic in it. (That I know of.) (Although the chance of it being laced with the spit of McDonald's employees was significantly higher.) I probably should have asked for a different sandwich (a Filet-O-Fish or something) or insisted the whole meal be comped or something.
Maybe, like with the "McRib," I'll try the "CBO" again in five years or so and hope for a better experience. But, for now, I think I'll avoid the yellow arches for a while. My last expereince there was far from golden.
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