two titties and a funeral

Way back when, the spring before John and I were married to be precise, John's grandparents passed away within six weeks of each other.  This story takes place after one of their funerals.  I can't remember which, though I'm pretty sure it was his Grandma's.  I don't actually remember going to his Papa's funeral, now that I think about it.  But, I'm sure I did... I guess.

At any rate, we'll say it was his Grandma's funeral.  If you were there, correct me if I'm wrong.

It was a pretty day, and after the funeral part was over, John's family loaded up to drive to the nearest Golden Corral.  I don't recall how this place was chosen, but I do know that this was the only instance in which I had ever been around his aunts and their children for any length of time.  The meal has not been repeated since.  Surely it isn't because of what happened, but I guess we'll never know.

The meal was a jolly one, which I thought was strange to follow the burial of the family's matriarch.  But, I guess family needs to let of steam when someone who has been sick and cared for for so long passes on.  Regardless, we weren't having a solemn meal, and I guess that was a good thing.

 Towards the end of the lunch, John finished up his plate of food and went off in search of dessert.  He came back with two sumptuous cupcakes placed atop his plate.  Side by side, they sat, with their perky little gumdrops sitting straight up in the air.  This was before cupcakes were fashionable dessert items, but nevertheless, John had an intense love for them.  And, these... the way they were place side by side on his plate... well... we all looked at one another and smirked.  Then, John's most-proper mother, of all people, exclaimed, "They look just like titties!"

Well, maybe not quite.  But, she did point out, rather indelicately, that John had brought a couple of pink-tipped knockers to the table.  And, she wasn't referring to mine.

* Photo Credit:
Spring has Sprung, Some rights reserved by jurvetson on Flickr
Hearts for Haiti, Some rights reserved by norwichnuts on Flickr

texas shithouse

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I just had the worst restaurant experience ever. Really, it was horrific. I suppose the main problem, aside from the crap they called "food," was that the place just did not meet our expectations. But, our expectations were based on previous experiences, which should set a precedent for visits to come. Boy, were we wrong.

Recognize the name?  If so, stay away.  Stay far, far away.  At least if you live in Roanoke, that is.  Other locations may be better, but the menu's still the same.

Walking into the restaurant, we noticed that the decor was all wrong.  It's like there wasn't really any.  When it opened, this location closely resembled an Applebee's.  There was crap all over the walls.  Even sitting through a long wait could be made interesting by a rousing game of I-SPY.  License plates adorned the walls of the bar, taxidermied animals were placed in prowling positions, and there was a plethora of old neon signs, glass bottles, framed photographs, tin signs, flags, and more.  Now, the walls are brown and red, with generic framed posters that should exude a "Texan" feel.  To me, it is no better than a Golden Corral.

Also, there used to be a jukebox.  That's now gone.  Along with all the music.  There isn't even canned muzak coming from the speakers.  Now, there's just none.  The place sounds like a cafeteria, with forks and glasses clinking, people chatting, and nothing drowning it all out in the background. 

So, we get our table after a short wait and find that the waitress is incredibly green.  Now, this can happen in any restaurant, but the Steakhouse used to have the most experienced waitstaff in town.  Their standards were ridiculously high.  I know.  I used to work there busing the tables and it was near impossible to get a position as a hostess, let alone as a server.  Now, they'll hire anyone who passes a drug test, by the looks of it.  (Or, maybe even if they don't!)   From wrong beverage orders to no butter on the bread, to reusing the glasses, to not knowing the selection on the menu, she was bad.  Just really bad.

My biggest pet peeve with our waitress, Provolone (name has only been slightly changed), was that whenever we asked for a drink refill, she would reply, "Please take your straw."  Let me tell you, I have NEVER been asked to remove my straw from a drink in any place other than Chick Fil A.  Never.  Not even once.  Well, okay.  Maybe at McDonald's when they still had the fountain behind the counter.  But, never in a sit-down eatery.  What is that?  My drink was the only one at the table that she was refilling, so she couldn't have possibly given it to the wrong person.  Beyond that, I had tea, my mother had coke.  How hard is that to mix up.  And, even if she did think she might just get confused, it isn't to hard to remember that the right hand is Coke and the left hand is Tea.  That is, if she knew her right from her left.  That's a maybe.

The food came eventually.  We had ordered the "Blossom Petals" as an appetizer.  Anyone remember that Texas Steakhouse used to actually have a blooming onion?  Uh-huh.  When this location first opened, before Outback ever thought of coming to Roanoke, they did.  It was delicious.  There was a kick to the batter and the dipping sauce had a bite.  Not so anymore.  We received a platter of bland, tasteless, limp onion sticks and a cup of thousand island dressing.  This was something straight from the freezer section of the dollar store.  Nasty.  We had to send it back.

After another half hour wait, we received our entrees.  I had ordered the Black and Blue Salad and my mother ordered the ribeye.  Mine should have been medium (warm pink center), her's medium rare.  The waitress put our plates on the table and requested that we cut into our steaks right away to make sure that they were cooked okay.  Then, she stood there and watched us do it.  Again, annoying.  Go away, let me enjoy my first few bites, then come back and check on us after a minute or two.  At any rate, we both gave a perfunctory nod because we just wanted to be left along.

Looking at my mother's plate, I noticed that she had a very bloody pulp of meat staring at me from across the table.  As she started to cut into it, I informed her that she COULD NOT eat that.  Now, we aren't the type of sissies who would turn up our noses at a little bit of undercooked meat, but this was definitively raw.  Not just pink like prime rib, but bloody, stringy, bright red, raw.  It looked like there was a dissected, used tampon thrown across her plate.  Yes.  That nasty.

Upon closer inspection of my own plate, I quickly found that my steak was oozing thick red blood into my bed of lettuce.  I'm sorry, but a medium steak should not be dripping with blood.  I like it juicy, but not THAT juicy, my friend.  The dressing was in a bowl, but had congealed around the edges.  You know, like when you leave a salad plate out over night?  That yellowing slime that forms around the rim of any leftover ranch?  Yeah, that.  That's the sort of funk that was ringing my blue cheese. 

The good news is, after a short conversation with the insanely young manager, our bill was taken care of.  Good thing, because the only thing we actually ingested was the dinner rolls.  He did offer to recook our food, but I wasn't up for a nuked steak on a bed of bloody lettuce, and my mother was so disgusted she was no longer hungry.  I can see why.  My tummy is still rolling at the mere thought of it.

Long story short, we won't ever return to Texas.  The restaurant just is not what it was in its heyday.  I should know.  My stepdad was the first general manager of that location.  Does that make me a little biased?  Probably.  I spent many afternoons in that place before it ever opened, many weekend evenings in its first year or two, and many, many, many nights working there as a teen.  Though my stepfather only worked there a few years, the restaurant retained the character that he poured into it until very recently.  It's a shame that the swinging saloon doors are gone, that the decor is more Western Sizzlin', and that the waitstaff is no longer top-notch.  The place was good.  Now, it's just a chain-smoking dump.

Would I feel the same way if I had never been there before tonight?  Probably.  I'm not willing to pay $17 for a steak from a cafeteria.  Texas Steakhouse is no better than K&W in that regard, just lots pricier and quite a bit shabbier.  I'll pass, thank you very much.

home invasion

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There I am, sitting on the toilet, and the smell hits me. It is absolutely atrocious, almost like celery... or cumin. I can't quite place it, but I know that THAT smell should not be coming from MY ass.

I had eaten dinner at the Village Grill.  I ordered the Buffalo Chicken Quesadilla, which is very good, but always gives me tummy trouble.  I think it has to do with the buffalo sauce.  Buffalo sauce and my stomach never get along.  I should know better, and I do, but sometimes good food is worth the price of a hard poop later on.  Sometimes I'm just a glutton for punishment, as my Granny would have said.

I'm not surprised to be on the toilet.  I'm actually pleased that my tummy isn't bothering me as much as it usually would after having eaten such a meal.  I am, however, mortified by the odor.  It isn't the usual smell of my poop.  My shit doesn't stink, you know.  Rather, this is the smell of something utterly horrifying.

Recognize that little fella?  If you live anywhere on the east coast, you might.  These stink bugs have invaded my home over the past few years.  However, this year has been the absolute worst.  And, now one was swimming in my toilet.  Given the fact that it was emitting it's awful stench, I figure that it must be alive.  Starting to panic, I imagine the pest crawling up the rim of the toilet and squirming across my hindquarters.  "Oh my God!  Don't let that thing touch me," I think to myself.

Quickly, quickly now, I gather myself and finish my business.  Getting up, I have to look.  There is no other option.  I must make sure that it is still in the bowl, and not in my pants.  Sure enough, there he is, swimming along the surface of the water, kicking his legs and spraying the area with his foul odor.  Thank heavens!


Flussssshhhhhhhhh
Gone, now.  I'm so thankful.  This is worst than living with roaches in my father's house.  This is worst than seeing a snake crawl away from the tents at camp last summer.  This is worst than the giant spider that lived under the stairs when I was a kid.  (And that thing was the size of a saucer... humongous, I tell ya!)  

I loathe the existence of these little, funky bugs.  The stink bugs terrorize me in my own home, flying around with that annoying "bzzzzzzt." sound and crawling along the walls at a super-sonic place.  Falling out of dishes that had been put away, nestling down into boxes in the pantry, hibernating between the pages of my favorite books.  And, there is no getting rid of them.  We're in for the long haul, until the stink bugs make their way back outside in the spring.  Assuming they do go back out.  Assuming they aren't super-comfy in my 72 degree home.  Assuming they don't die here, first. 

Supposedly, the little suckers can't reproduce inside.  I don't believe it.  I've found baby stink bugs, too.  Or, maybe they're midgets.  I don't know.  I don't care.  I just want them gone.  Still, the stink bugs are crawling in from the frigid outside temperatures.  Flattening themselves like pancakes, they squeeze in through our super-tight windows.  This past fall, I couldn't open a door without finding at least a dozen stink bugs hanging on the inside of the door jamb, just waiting for the perfect opportunity to invade.  Stealthy little crappers, they are.

Worst yet, you can't kill them.  Stink bugs don't give a satisfying squish if you step on them, they just juice you with their funky odor.  They can't be swatted, either.  Some people will suck them up in their vacuum cleaners, but I've heard of some vacuums being ruined by the lingering funk.  We gather them up and flush the buggers.  However, given my experience in the toilet last night, apparently some of them can swim.  

Do you live in an area that has been infested with stink bugs?  Do you have experience eradicating their presence?  If so, please help!  I'm pulling my hair out here!  I swear, if I have one more fly into my hair in the middle of the night, I'm outta here.  I'll even neighbor up with Sarah "dim-wit" Palin if I have to, just for a little mercy.  Seriously.  This is worst than the locusts.  

spell check!

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Spied outside an Intelos Store in Bedford, VA.  You can tell from the writing that it was a woman who obviously misspelled "messenger."  Unless, that's a new sort of phone, of course.  Doubtful.

This was the same store that sold my husband a car charger for his mini-usb compatible phone, that was not mini-usb at all.  Upon returning the device, the clerk attempted to blame the mistake on my husband, saying that John had told him mini-usb, which is what he gave him (supposedly), but that the phone didn't take mini-usb at all.  So much for saving your own ass when you have to phone the manager.

 

And, again, while waiting in the car outside the Verizon store, I noticed this tacked up on the door to an empty storefront next door.  The owner (or the owner's helper) misspelled the type of food they will serve.  The front of the store was plastered with these bright neon posters, all misspelled.  

The number of misspellings in this one shopping center?  Countless.  The amount of time we were stuck in this little town, trying to get a car charger for his DROID and a fast food dinner for my hungry tummy? 50 minutes.  oy.

pino gelato

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Recently, a new ice cream shop, pino gelato, opened up in my hometown.  Having first eaten gelato while on trip to Italy about ten years ago, I was eager to try what this new place had to offer.  After retrieving Alex from school yesterday, we stopped by for a little mid-afternoon treat.

 

pino gelato is located in a strip mall right across the road from another ice cream shop, interestingly enough.  However, one can only try to go out for ice cream on a hot summer night to know that the demand for cool treats is great in this area.  The only downside to the location that I can see is that there may not be enough parking for the many customers who will invariably flock to this convenient location.

The inside of the store is bright and happy, with citrus-y orange walls and pops of color everywhere.  Black tabletops are punctuated with pretty yellow flowers.  This is the sort of place that would make me feel all summery in the dead of winter.

 Look at all those flavors!  And, that's only a portion of the case.  I didn't want to be all stalker-y and take too many pictures, you know?  There were probably 20 selections, all displayed in such a lovely manner.  This isn't your average flavors-in-a-tub ice cream store.  Everything looked so delicious, but I wound up choosing Cookies and Cream, to share with Kate, and Alex picked out Mint Chocolate Chip.  When I go back, I'm definitely getting that Tiramisu.  Or, maybe, the Dulche de Leche.  Or the Limoncello.  

Heck.  I see lots of visits in my future.

 

Katie eagerly waited beside a sunny yellow display case, chanting "i ceam, i ceam" while the Man in the Orange Shirt (quite similar to Curious George's Man in the Yellow Hat) dipped out our selections.  In addition to gelato, this shop also serves cannoli and cheesecake.  Yum!

Just ignore the why-are-you-taking-my-picture look and admire that little ice cream cup.  It's a green plastic flower!  How cute!  The ice cream spoon was actually a little plastic paddle-like thing.  It didn't occur to me in the moment, but I so should have brought these home for use in Alex's bentos, rather than tossing them in the trash.  That's alright, there's always next time.

See that cute little cone?  It comes atop each serving of gelato.  a.dor.a.ble.!!!

So, to sum it all up in a neat little cone for you, pino gelato is fabutastic.  We'll definitely be going back.  The gelato is delicious.  However, this ice cream isn't cheap ($3.50 for ONE scoop), so it won't be an everyday thing.  Not even every week.  But, it is a super place to go for a cool treat on a hot afternoon, or after a date night, or even by yourself.  Hey, then you could afford TWO scoops!

* Pino Gelato is a chain location.  Maybe there's one near you!  

** I was not compensated in any way to write this post.

Saltwater Cowboys

(source)

Yum, yum!  Last night, I had the pleasure of dining at St. Augustine Beach's Saltwater Cowboys, a quaint restaurant and bar that sits beside a marsh at the end of a narrow, residential road.  If you didn't know what you were looking for, you'd never find it.  Luckily for the owners of this establishment, which claims to have been featured on the Travel Channel, lots of people go looking for their delectable seafood and ribs. 

We sat outside on the deck, overlooking the marshy sunset.  Our table was situated beneath a huge moss-draped tree.  I like to think the tree was a crepe mertle, but I really have no idea what a crepe myrtle looks like, so we'll just pretend.  Upon placing our drink orders, we soon noticed a trio of tabby cats lurking nearby.  They wound themselves around our ankles, sat underneath our table, and generally made themselves at home.  A man from Atlanta was sitting at the table next to us and, apparently disliking cats, he kept on making comments about their uncleanliness.  He scatted them away multiple times in loud, ugly movements set to scare the cats off, but which really only garnered the attention of the fellow diners.  At one point, I very nearly turned to him to inform the gentleman that we were sitting in the kitties' home and that they had every right to be there.  However, given that he appeared to be the unruly sort, I logically kept my mouth closed. 

Closed, that is, until the food arrived.  We started with some delicious slices of cheese bread, followed by green salads topped with freshly made creamy salad dressing.  Afterward, I devoured a plate of boiled Florida rock shrimp, which delightfully tasted more like lobster, while my mother, son, and daughter dined on shrimp and scallops, gator tail and catfish, and clam strips and fries, respectfully.  Our meal concluded with a slice of fresh key lime pie for me and chocolate pie for my mother.  (Alex didn't finish his dinner, so he didn't get a treat.)

All in all, we had a lovely dining experience that was well worth the 20 minute drive north of Hammock Beach.  Delcious food, a quaint atmosphere, and a relaxing sunset combined to make one memorable meal in St. Augustine Beach.