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Can we just jump to January please? - 2014-11-14
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11:07 a.m. - 2010-11-15
Stinky Dog, even Stinkier Service.

Poor Princess got zapped by a skunk. Not the full monty, thank goodness, but even a little skunk juice goes a long way. She's in exile on the porch while I hunt down a groomer who can de-stink her. It's not that I'm too squeamish to bathe her myself (though skunk scent does make me urp) it's that we have nowhere to bathe the beast. In warm weather she gets her ablutions outside from the hose. However dousing the dog outside in 40 degree weather with ice cold hose water is cruel. She's too big for the kitchen sink, we don't have a working bathtub, and the shower stall in my bathroom doesn't have a hand-held shower attachment. I tried washing her in there once and rinsing her with the showerhead from way up high was nearly imposs. So, a professional groomer it is.

Right? I cut and color my hair myself, but the dog goes to the salon. Just who is the real princess around here? GAH!

(I kid, I'm sure these days I come in ahead of the dog. In the old days? Not so sure.)

Mick and I went out for a date night last night. The usual dinner and a movie. And as is unfortunately becoming the norm, it was a good movie and a crappy dinner.

The movie was 'Morning Glory'. A nice fluffy cupcake of a movie in which perky Rachel McAdams wins the day, and thank the gods for small miracles was NOT forced into being Jurassic 68 year old Harrison Ford's love interest. I mean, seriously, she's what, 23? Any dude whose gravity-raddled stretched out old man balls hit the water when he sits on the bowl has NO business snogging with girls too young to be trusted with a rental car. Are you listening, De Niro?

There's simply no good reason for the lousy dinner last night. The place wasn't busy. Our server was just a clueless twit. It's not that fricken difficult to be a server at Ruby Tuesday. Everything is done through the computer, the food comes pre-assembled from a factory, nothing fancy or complicated, but somehow this airhead couldn't manage to bring us our burgers from the kitchen while they were still warm. Not hot, I know I'm dreaming too big there, but hey, with at least some residual heat left. But noooo. We waved, we glared, we did everything but stand up on the table and chant, "FOOD! FOOD! Bring us our FOOD!" Finally she minced over with our dead cold burgers and icicle fries and then while I was trying to speak to her floated away without acknowledging me or offering to refill Mick's very empty glass. I went bonkers.

Utterly disgusted and seeing red, I stalked out and left it to Mick to settle the score and the tab. The manager comped us our dinners and offered profuse apologies. He should be grateful he only had Mick to contend with. If he'd had to get the barrage from me I doubt he, his dimwit server, and his restaurant would have survived. See, I'm no impossible to please noogie, but I've done my time as a server. I know how to wait table and do it well. When faced with lazy inept servers I get nuts. My experience on the other side of the order pad means I have plenty of empathy and patience, and I'm a fantastic tipper, but it also means I know when I'm being jerked around. Grr.

Okay, onto less ranty topics.

We had a bit of time to kill before the movie. Usually we'd go to the bookstore but I was hearing the siren call of the clearance section at Pier 1 of all places. Not my usual haunt at all. Oh, their stuff is very fun, but horribly overpriced. Sure, on the decorating shows the precious designers come down off Designer Olympus to burble about the 'cheap' little flourishes they picked up at Pier 1, but here in the real world I don't know too many people who have the scratch to blow $300 on a wicker giraffe or think $85 for a throw pillow is a bargain. Yet I ignore the clearance siren to my peril. And TA DAH! THIS was waiting. Doesn't look like much in the pic, of course. It's brighter and sturdier looking in 3-D. The cut glass baubles on the ends of the hooks are pretty too. I bought two sets, my pashmina collection has become unruly and far too crowded on the existing set of wall pegs, the new triptych hooks will help a lot. And to celebrate having more places to hang my stuff I picked up a new pashmina. This one is a solid red in a matte-finish weave.

Why such a plain one? Well it's to go with my new winter hat. The crimson silk swashy scarf I had already was far too fancy and the wrong color to go with my hat. I picked up the hat when we were at the craft show a few weeks ago. A funny fleece hat with a red crown, a black band and a thick grey roll brim. A goofy hat that's almost too unbearably Blossom for words. Ask Ms Steph. She was there when I bought it.

It is NOT a Red Hat red hat. It's a hat that's red, dig? I am getting old and yes, more than a little batty, but I haven't signed up with THE Red Hats yet (or ever). More power to 'em. I'm not about to be harsh on anyone who encourages women to have some fun and do right by themselves. It's just I'm not much of a joiner. Rock on, ladies, I'll be over here being a strong, powerful, gaudily decorated crone in my own weird way, thanks.

So to that end I got a red scarf to go with my Blossom hat, which I'll wear with my tatty pea coat that's going out at the elbows, jeans and square-toed pirate boots.

Word up, table servers. If a middle-aged giantess in a goofy hat is seated at your station put on a happy face, do your job promptly and well, keep her glass topped off and ye shall be rewarded handsomely. Screw around and woe unto you.


You've been warned. ~LA

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