As a typical rule, I am not a huge fan of cupcakes. I would rather have a cake. Why? Because there's more of it to eat. (Unless you are referring to a mini bundt cake. In those cases a cupcake may actually contain more substantive sweet content than said cake. On the flip side, "mini" and "cake" do not belong in the same sentence.) And, I don't like edge pieces, which is essentially what a cupcake is all the way around. I like soft and gooey center pieces. (While that reminds me of the current state of my mid-section, the soft and gooey center piece of a cake is MUCH more appealing.) At any rate, a cupcake connoisseur I am not. But that is not the case with Artis.
As sad as it is to admit, we have traveled 30 miles each way just to go to a cupcake shop for one single cupcake, simply because Artis had a craving. (Sadly, this has not been a singular event. However, the first time we did that it was also a great excuse to break in the Porsche convertible. Nothing like wind blowing through your hair and frosting flying into your face to make for a perfect summer evening...) In fact, Artis would eat cupcakes every meal of every day if he could. And not just any cupcake...vanilla cupcakes with vanilla frosting. I describe that as "boring". But, as one who is not a fan of chocolate, vanilla suits him best. By the way, don't even get me started on his non-love of chocolate. Let's just say that an otherwise-fantastic relationship has almost come to an abrupt end on more than one occasion because of his expressed disdain for the blessed food I so cherish...nay, worship...however, being the good Christian I am, I forgive him and allow him back into the fold/relationship each time. (But only after he bribes me with promises of Godiva.) Alas, I digress so as to get back to the subject at hand...imposter cakes.
About two months ago, Groupon had a special for a half-dozen cupcakes with free delivery from a local baker. (I say "baker" as opposed to "bakery", as I do believe the woman operates her baking operations from her own kitchen & I call that "kitchen" not "bakery".) It was a great opportunity to surprise Artis with a little gift. So, I ordered a couple of the gift certificates and used one to send him some cupcakes at work, retaining the other for use at a later time. (i.e., for me) My gift note read something like "Happy day, Honey Bunches! Love, me" I knew that Artis would know exactly who sent it, while still keeping his personal life private from his staff. (He's big on that whole separation of work and personal life thing. Therefore, one can imagine my horror upon discovering that the co-worker he most affectionately discusses at home did not, in fact, know he's gay & yet I had invited said individual and her husband to his surprise birthday party last year. There was an emergency conference call with his brothers over that one, which started with me saying, "Boys, what the hell have I done?! He'll kill me." Gratefully, it all worked out splendidly in the end and we now hang out with this other doctor & her glorious husband.) Again, I digress...
So, Artis got the incognito cupcake delivery & I immediately got a text thanking me for sending them, in which he also exclaimed that they were the best cupcakes he's ever had. Surely, I thought, he's just being kind so that I won't think he's ungrateful. However, once I got home I realized he wasn't being kind...he'd eaten all but two of the six cupcakes in a matter of a couple of hours. On my drive home I'd had a phone conversation with him, in which I'd requested he save me at least a bite of these bits of gold with frosting. (He swore that each cupcake had at least one pound of butter in it. I suggested that logistically it would make more sense to assume the cupcakes were made with crack, rather than a pound of butter, in order to make them so addictive and yet small in nature. He relentlessly stood by his bulk butter claim.) He told me I'd need more than a bite & even offered up an entire cupcake to me. As previously stated, I'm not a cupcake fan, so I didn't think I'd really want more than a bite. And then I took that bite... I apologized later for eating 1/6th of the gift I'd sent him, but I just couldn't help myself. They were actually THAT good! So, it stands to reason that when it came time to decide upon his birthday dessert (his birthday is this coming Saturday), I would go the vanilla cupcake route...despite it being against my nature & all that is good and holy.
I managed to convince myself that I could make a superior cupcake, so I set out to find the perfect recipe. Have you ever tried to seek out the perfect cupcake recipe? Everyone seems to claim theirs is "the one". This did not help my cause. Eventually I decided upon a vanilla bean cupcake and was going to make salted caramel buttercream frosting. While tasty sounding, I just prayed the recipe would turn out to be correct, as there would be no time for a trial run. In entertaining, one of the rules of thumb is that you never use your guests as guinea pigs--particularly if it's the main dish being served. But, I was ready to throw caution to the wind (heck, I did it with the orange mustard lil' smokies we served at our Christmas party, and to much success at that) and even went so far as to buy a pastry bag and tips so that I could do more than just glob the frosting on with a butter knife. (Note: I have never used a pastry bag. That is how dedicated I was to making this venture a success.)
Along the way, I got another brilliant idea to incorporate (that I can't divulge here yet; I don't know that Artis will read this, but in case he does I don't want to ruin my surprise) and that sealed the plans to do the cupcakes. And then a funny thing happened...I got busy. I mean busier than normal. MUCH busier than normal. So, I scrapped all plans to be Marty Stewart (a clever nickname assigned to me by a coworker) and reverted back to ordering from the baker that produced those delicious crack-infused cupcakes. (I was also quite relieved when Artis said he'd rather go out than stay in for his birthday dinner, thus saving me from cooking an outlandish meal for 12 people. He's so good to me.)
All was lining up nicely...and then I came across this blog tonight during a moment of non-motivation (similar to the one I'm having now)-- http://mingmakescupcakes.yolasite.com/
Do most of those recipes/pictures not look incredible?! And easy?! It has me questioning my plans all over again & I'm all sorts of ready to crank up the Kitchenaid and break out the cupcake tins right this very second. (Granted, despite his dedication to the cupcake--he's requested we go out to get some three times in the last three days alone--Artis would probably murder me for waking him up, as his love for rest actually does outweigh his love for cupcakes. But only slightly.)
So now I face a quandary. Despite my schedule these next few days not easing up, do I still attempt to be the wonderful boyfriend & make a unique cupcake for him as an expression of love...or do I stick by the easier and safer route, keeping my order for the drug-laced cupcakes I know he'll love? Part of me feels guilt for leaning towards the latter option...but then I'm reminded of the fact that the ingenious custom birthday gift I got him cost what some would pay for a car payment in a given month. And my guilt is slightly lessened by this reminder. Does that make me a shallow and horrible person? I hope not. Perhaps I need to go on a cupcake run/eating binge to assuage my guilt...
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Need empathy & compassion? Don’t come to our house.
Well, don’t come to our house for that if I’m not home. I can be an empathetic & compassionate person. Artis, however, struggles a bit in this area, as evidenced by this morning’s melee. So, if one car is in the driveway and it’s not Klaus, just keep on goin’.
Bright and early, I was getting ready for work & brushing my teeth. I don’t recall exactly what I was thinking about at the time, but I’m positive that it was something angelic and harmonious. Charitable acts were surely involved. Meanwhile, a brute demon (aka Artis) lurked downstairs, watching television & thinking non-angelic and non-harmonious thoughts…probably wishing me harm. I was scrubbing away at my pearly whites when a contact lens wearer’s worst fear was realized...OK, maybe not WORST fear, but certainly not something one looks forward to…an eyelash went underneath my contact and was scratching away at my eye. I liken it to be much like a cat at a scratching post…it was ferocious. While I avoided screaming, I did have to immediately squeeze not one, but BOTH eyes shut because it hurt that badly!
Gentle reader, you’ll recall that I was in the process of brushing my teeth when this happened. In my haste to try to get this horrendous pain out of my eye, I pulled my toothbrush out of my mouth while the motor was still running & the toothbrush head was still spinning, because I needed both of my hands for this one. Not being able to see a thing, I was just sure I’d managed to fling white toothpaste specks all over the bathroom and the black polo shirt I was wearing.
I was able to squint my left (non-attacked) eye open enough to find my contact lens case, but then I realized my solution bottle was empty, so I ended up having to open a new bottle mostly by touch since I couldn’t keep my good eye open long enough to see if I was making progress with the beastly wrapper. I eventually got it open, got my contact into the case, and doused it with solution so it could sit while I assessed the situation. And it was not a pretty situation. Despite the eyelash floating in the solution-filled lens case, it still felt like it was in my eye. I eventually got the scratching to stop, but by then my eye was red & puffy. The base of my eyelid looked like it was filling with blood because it was so red.
Surely, I thought, an eye doctor will have nothing but supportive & kind words to say to make me feel better about what I’d just encountered. Even more than that, surely, I thought, the one I love will be ever-so sympathetic to my plight, and the feeling of cat nails being scratched across my naked eyeball will somehow be lessened by his kind words. The fact that both facets of an eye doctor & the one I love are embodied in the same personage just made it that much better. Or so I thought.
After cleaning off my dusty eyeglasses & getting them onto my face so I could see again, I made my way downstairs to tell Artis of the trauma he’d just missed upstairs. I told him that it was so painful that I momentarily thought that I may have to have my eye removed. And that there may have been blood. Rather than being met with any type of kind, sweet support, what did the beloved eye doctor say to me? He said, “Stop. I’ll hear none of this. Look—you must watch my favorite part of ‘Talladega Nights’! I recorded it for you to see.” What he didn’t realize is that it was a close call—I’d almost gotten to where I wouldn’t have been able to see this movie clip…or anything else ever again using my right eye.
And so, unsupported & rejected in sympathy, there I sat listening to the movie lines that held more importance than my vision…”Dear eight pound, six ounce little baby Jesus…”
Bright and early, I was getting ready for work & brushing my teeth. I don’t recall exactly what I was thinking about at the time, but I’m positive that it was something angelic and harmonious. Charitable acts were surely involved. Meanwhile, a brute demon (aka Artis) lurked downstairs, watching television & thinking non-angelic and non-harmonious thoughts…probably wishing me harm. I was scrubbing away at my pearly whites when a contact lens wearer’s worst fear was realized...OK, maybe not WORST fear, but certainly not something one looks forward to…an eyelash went underneath my contact and was scratching away at my eye. I liken it to be much like a cat at a scratching post…it was ferocious. While I avoided screaming, I did have to immediately squeeze not one, but BOTH eyes shut because it hurt that badly!
Gentle reader, you’ll recall that I was in the process of brushing my teeth when this happened. In my haste to try to get this horrendous pain out of my eye, I pulled my toothbrush out of my mouth while the motor was still running & the toothbrush head was still spinning, because I needed both of my hands for this one. Not being able to see a thing, I was just sure I’d managed to fling white toothpaste specks all over the bathroom and the black polo shirt I was wearing.
I was able to squint my left (non-attacked) eye open enough to find my contact lens case, but then I realized my solution bottle was empty, so I ended up having to open a new bottle mostly by touch since I couldn’t keep my good eye open long enough to see if I was making progress with the beastly wrapper. I eventually got it open, got my contact into the case, and doused it with solution so it could sit while I assessed the situation. And it was not a pretty situation. Despite the eyelash floating in the solution-filled lens case, it still felt like it was in my eye. I eventually got the scratching to stop, but by then my eye was red & puffy. The base of my eyelid looked like it was filling with blood because it was so red.
Surely, I thought, an eye doctor will have nothing but supportive & kind words to say to make me feel better about what I’d just encountered. Even more than that, surely, I thought, the one I love will be ever-so sympathetic to my plight, and the feeling of cat nails being scratched across my naked eyeball will somehow be lessened by his kind words. The fact that both facets of an eye doctor & the one I love are embodied in the same personage just made it that much better. Or so I thought.
After cleaning off my dusty eyeglasses & getting them onto my face so I could see again, I made my way downstairs to tell Artis of the trauma he’d just missed upstairs. I told him that it was so painful that I momentarily thought that I may have to have my eye removed. And that there may have been blood. Rather than being met with any type of kind, sweet support, what did the beloved eye doctor say to me? He said, “Stop. I’ll hear none of this. Look—you must watch my favorite part of ‘Talladega Nights’! I recorded it for you to see.” What he didn’t realize is that it was a close call—I’d almost gotten to where I wouldn’t have been able to see this movie clip…or anything else ever again using my right eye.
And so, unsupported & rejected in sympathy, there I sat listening to the movie lines that held more importance than my vision…”Dear eight pound, six ounce little baby Jesus…”
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Checking in.
Hello, neglected blog!
It has been a crazy several weeks filled with travel, madness, illness, the backwoods of Georgia (I'll have to tell you about that in a later post), furniture shopping, painting, re-painting, excessive work and plenty of cheesecake. Today isn't any calmer (I'm about to go to Lowes to buy moving boxes so I can get packing the last of my apartment in order to be prepared for the movers...whom I still need to schedule for next month) but I did want to check in and say "holla!". Yes, holla. Just go with it. I'm also adding on a little side button, but I'm not sure if the design of it will work with the background of the blog. I like it so much that I may have to change the blog background itself...even though I like that too. Ack! I'm so tired of liking different designs and trying to make them work as one. It has been the story of my life as we continue to combine households & belongings. Let's just say compromise has been the name of the game lately...
Anyway, hope you're doing well!
~me
It has been a crazy several weeks filled with travel, madness, illness, the backwoods of Georgia (I'll have to tell you about that in a later post), furniture shopping, painting, re-painting, excessive work and plenty of cheesecake. Today isn't any calmer (I'm about to go to Lowes to buy moving boxes so I can get packing the last of my apartment in order to be prepared for the movers...whom I still need to schedule for next month) but I did want to check in and say "holla!". Yes, holla. Just go with it. I'm also adding on a little side button, but I'm not sure if the design of it will work with the background of the blog. I like it so much that I may have to change the blog background itself...even though I like that too. Ack! I'm so tired of liking different designs and trying to make them work as one. It has been the story of my life as we continue to combine households & belongings. Let's just say compromise has been the name of the game lately...
Anyway, hope you're doing well!
~me
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
Kade the Horror Movie Survivor
I was just reminded of something that happened Sunday night & while I wasn’t laughing at the time, I can now.
Artis’ brother, Mont, headed out for the night and said he wasn't going to be home until the next morning. Artis went to sleep & I was sitting in bed reading emails, but decided to leave Tobi out on her floor pillow for a while, with plans to put her in her crate when I was ready to go to sleep. Since Mont was gone & no one else was going to be in the house to rile up the girls, I left the bedroom doors open. And that was a mistake.
A little after midnight, both girls completely flipped out and started barking. I hadn’t heard a single thing to set them off. (When the garage door opens, for instance, you can hear it upstairs since it’s right underneath the master bathroom.) So, I told them to knock it off. That didn’t work and before I could even stand up, they were both out the bedroom doors and down the stairs! Tobi still isn't supposed to run or do stairs, so I went running after them. As I was heading down the stairs, I screamed, "Bitches, get your furry little asses back up here!" That didn’t deter them and they rounded the corner towards the family room and hallway that leads to the garage. I went running across the living room & dining room and right as I was about to round the corner, I saw the silhouette of a man coming in my direction. I let out a scream...and then realized the silhouette was of a man holding Tobi…and then realized that man was Mont, who had come home after all. He came in through the garage & I didn’t have the TV on or anything, so I don’t know how I missed hearing him, but the girls were sure on top of it.
Artis came downstairs a minute or so later & said that he had wanted me to go down first to face whatever scary thing was lurking there so he didn’t have to. He’s continually telling me that he doesn’t think I’d be good at defending myself if I needed to, so I thought that was rather interesting. So, I reminded him that I once took a Facebook quiz that determined that if I were in a horror movie, I’d be the one who survives. (He doubts its validity, but whatev. It came through Facebook; it must be true.) He said, “Right. Because running downstairs all by yourself in the dark & then standing there screaming when you see someone walking towards you is certainly behavior a horror movie survivor displays.” Whatever. I know I’d totally survive.
Anyway, Tobi got put in her crate for the night, I shut the bedroom doors so Matza couldn’t go running off again, and I went to sleep…with a baseball bat close by. Afterall, what horror movie survivor doesn’t have a baseball bat close to them?!
Artis’ brother, Mont, headed out for the night and said he wasn't going to be home until the next morning. Artis went to sleep & I was sitting in bed reading emails, but decided to leave Tobi out on her floor pillow for a while, with plans to put her in her crate when I was ready to go to sleep. Since Mont was gone & no one else was going to be in the house to rile up the girls, I left the bedroom doors open. And that was a mistake.
A little after midnight, both girls completely flipped out and started barking. I hadn’t heard a single thing to set them off. (When the garage door opens, for instance, you can hear it upstairs since it’s right underneath the master bathroom.) So, I told them to knock it off. That didn’t work and before I could even stand up, they were both out the bedroom doors and down the stairs! Tobi still isn't supposed to run or do stairs, so I went running after them. As I was heading down the stairs, I screamed, "Bitches, get your furry little asses back up here!" That didn’t deter them and they rounded the corner towards the family room and hallway that leads to the garage. I went running across the living room & dining room and right as I was about to round the corner, I saw the silhouette of a man coming in my direction. I let out a scream...and then realized the silhouette was of a man holding Tobi…and then realized that man was Mont, who had come home after all. He came in through the garage & I didn’t have the TV on or anything, so I don’t know how I missed hearing him, but the girls were sure on top of it.
Artis came downstairs a minute or so later & said that he had wanted me to go down first to face whatever scary thing was lurking there so he didn’t have to. He’s continually telling me that he doesn’t think I’d be good at defending myself if I needed to, so I thought that was rather interesting. So, I reminded him that I once took a Facebook quiz that determined that if I were in a horror movie, I’d be the one who survives. (He doubts its validity, but whatev. It came through Facebook; it must be true.) He said, “Right. Because running downstairs all by yourself in the dark & then standing there screaming when you see someone walking towards you is certainly behavior a horror movie survivor displays.” Whatever. I know I’d totally survive.
Anyway, Tobi got put in her crate for the night, I shut the bedroom doors so Matza couldn’t go running off again, and I went to sleep…with a baseball bat close by. Afterall, what horror movie survivor doesn’t have a baseball bat close to them?!
Monday, August 16, 2010
Really? I mean really??
Greetings & salutations!
So, this weekend held a pretty full social calendar & lots of errands/to-do tasks. (It was to the point it all blurred together & I had to ask Artis last night what day it was. He, of course, thought I'd lost my mind--and I had. I literally could not remember what day it was & if I needed to get up early this morning. Sadly, I did. I hate getting up early.) In the mix of birthday parties, weddings and trips to the mall & every store known to man (aside from Wal-Mart, of course, as I'm now on my way to hitting my two-year anniversary of boycotting the place), we had a wedding dinner to attend for my former roommate, Erik, and his lovely now-wife, Kate. It was an absolutely beautiful ceremony at Duke Chapel, with the sun coming through all of the huge stained-glass windows so perfectly. The ceremony itself was truly personalized to them & their mixed beliefs & it was done really well. Artis' favorite part was the reading from "The Velveteen Rabbit". My favorite part not related to the ceremony was the organist playing "Canon in D" & "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring". It was amazing to hear it coming from all of the huge pipes all over the place. Anyway, it was followed by a dinner back in Raleigh, at which we were assigned to lucky table #13.
The food was fantastic & plentiful (just how it should be), the decorations were beautiful (they did black & white as their colors; white hydrangeas on black tablecloths looked particularly cool), and overall the company was great...except for the guy immediately to my left. I was not a fan of him. I don't even recall his name, but that's not relevant because I can certainly recall his actions.
It all started with him thinking that every word out of his mouth needed to be heard--and there were plenty--by the whole room and that every one of those same words was beyond hilarious. His one cue should have been when his girlfriend (bless her heart for dating him & being seen in public with him) turned to him and said, "Honey, no one cares." But, gentle reader, that was not enough for him. He missed the cue and kept on going. While I could regale you with stories of his horribleness, there are two funnies upon which I choose to focus:
1) The water glass. Artis & I were there before Slob (that's what we shall call him) and his girlfriend, Pitied, so I'd had a chance to drink from my water glass. Keep in mind that I'm addicted to Burt's Bees lip balm, so most glasses I drink from end up with a lip print. The glass on Saturday night was no different. Not only did it have my lip print on the edge, but it was half-empty too. Did this stop friend Slob from mistakenly confiscating my glass? No. Did it stop friend Slob from drinking from it? No. Did I attempt to stop friend Slob from doing so? No. OK, so I didn't stop him because I didn't see him with my glass until after the fact. I went to reach for my glass & realized it wasn't where I left it. That's when I put it all together. So, I told Artis to use the now-spare glass of water to the right of what should be his glass & I'd use his so that we were back on track. He said he didn't know if the glass next to him had been used (it hadn't--it was filled to the brim & lip print free), so to stake claim over his glass, he drank a little from it. For some silly reason he thought that would stop me. It didn't. I said, "Oh, thanks for testing it for me." And with that, I took his glass for myself, drank from it, & he had to get the new one. (Don't feel too bad for him--there was an open bar & he'd taken advantage of it, so the water glass wasn't the only beverage in front of him.)
B) The butter incident. I find butter to be one of those tricky things when eating in public. When too solid, one tears the bread while trying to spread it (trick: if it's an individual pat in a foil wrap, put it between your hands for a little bit; your body heat will warm it up enough to where it's spreadable & the foil will keep it from getting on your hands. I find I have to do this most frequently at The Cheesecake Factory, where they pretty much serve frozen butter every time.) or the butter breaks apart and little bits go all over the table (or on your clothes). When melted completely, it's all-too-easy to flick it while dipping & thus get oil spots on your shirt and the tablecloth. So, I thoroughly enjoy a nice whipped butter that is easily spreadable and not too soft. That was what was served at the dinner. It was perfect.
I passed the bread basket to Slob & he grabbed his roll and got a knife full of butter. He spread the butter on the roll, but then still had some left on the knife. At this point, a normal person would put the knife on the edge of their plate, use the butter on something else on the plate (like the roasted vegetables, for instance), or even scrape the remaining butter onto the edge of the plate if need be. Not Slob. No, no. Slob did one better--he took that knife & showed the tablecloth who's boss. Yep--he smeared his knife back and forth on the black tablecloth, leaving streaks of butter roughly 8-10" long to the right of his plate. I kid you not. It was one of those moments when you question your own sanity & if you really did just see what you thought you saw. I elbowed Artis; he looked over & his jaw dropped. That's when I knew I wasn't seeing things.
Combined with the girl across the table from me who says she isn't used to going to "those types of fancy functions" and didn't know which fork to use (there were two forks...the salad fork and the dinner fork. Not too difficult.), but said that it was because she was too busy in her line of work, saving lives as a CNA. I'm sure she does a great job & all, but really? Can't learn what a salad fork is compared to a dinner fork because you're a CNA?? Wow.
Anyway, it was a rather interesting dining experience, but we did have a great time overall & really enjoyed visiting with the two girls next to us and the guy seated between Pitied and CNA. They were all quite nice people...and they weren't using the tablecloth as their personal plate.
So, this weekend held a pretty full social calendar & lots of errands/to-do tasks. (It was to the point it all blurred together & I had to ask Artis last night what day it was. He, of course, thought I'd lost my mind--and I had. I literally could not remember what day it was & if I needed to get up early this morning. Sadly, I did. I hate getting up early.) In the mix of birthday parties, weddings and trips to the mall & every store known to man (aside from Wal-Mart, of course, as I'm now on my way to hitting my two-year anniversary of boycotting the place), we had a wedding dinner to attend for my former roommate, Erik, and his lovely now-wife, Kate. It was an absolutely beautiful ceremony at Duke Chapel, with the sun coming through all of the huge stained-glass windows so perfectly. The ceremony itself was truly personalized to them & their mixed beliefs & it was done really well. Artis' favorite part was the reading from "The Velveteen Rabbit". My favorite part not related to the ceremony was the organist playing "Canon in D" & "Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring". It was amazing to hear it coming from all of the huge pipes all over the place. Anyway, it was followed by a dinner back in Raleigh, at which we were assigned to lucky table #13.
The food was fantastic & plentiful (just how it should be), the decorations were beautiful (they did black & white as their colors; white hydrangeas on black tablecloths looked particularly cool), and overall the company was great...except for the guy immediately to my left. I was not a fan of him. I don't even recall his name, but that's not relevant because I can certainly recall his actions.
It all started with him thinking that every word out of his mouth needed to be heard--and there were plenty--by the whole room and that every one of those same words was beyond hilarious. His one cue should have been when his girlfriend (bless her heart for dating him & being seen in public with him) turned to him and said, "Honey, no one cares." But, gentle reader, that was not enough for him. He missed the cue and kept on going. While I could regale you with stories of his horribleness, there are two funnies upon which I choose to focus:
1) The water glass. Artis & I were there before Slob (that's what we shall call him) and his girlfriend, Pitied, so I'd had a chance to drink from my water glass. Keep in mind that I'm addicted to Burt's Bees lip balm, so most glasses I drink from end up with a lip print. The glass on Saturday night was no different. Not only did it have my lip print on the edge, but it was half-empty too. Did this stop friend Slob from mistakenly confiscating my glass? No. Did it stop friend Slob from drinking from it? No. Did I attempt to stop friend Slob from doing so? No. OK, so I didn't stop him because I didn't see him with my glass until after the fact. I went to reach for my glass & realized it wasn't where I left it. That's when I put it all together. So, I told Artis to use the now-spare glass of water to the right of what should be his glass & I'd use his so that we were back on track. He said he didn't know if the glass next to him had been used (it hadn't--it was filled to the brim & lip print free), so to stake claim over his glass, he drank a little from it. For some silly reason he thought that would stop me. It didn't. I said, "Oh, thanks for testing it for me." And with that, I took his glass for myself, drank from it, & he had to get the new one. (Don't feel too bad for him--there was an open bar & he'd taken advantage of it, so the water glass wasn't the only beverage in front of him.)
B) The butter incident. I find butter to be one of those tricky things when eating in public. When too solid, one tears the bread while trying to spread it (trick: if it's an individual pat in a foil wrap, put it between your hands for a little bit; your body heat will warm it up enough to where it's spreadable & the foil will keep it from getting on your hands. I find I have to do this most frequently at The Cheesecake Factory, where they pretty much serve frozen butter every time.) or the butter breaks apart and little bits go all over the table (or on your clothes). When melted completely, it's all-too-easy to flick it while dipping & thus get oil spots on your shirt and the tablecloth. So, I thoroughly enjoy a nice whipped butter that is easily spreadable and not too soft. That was what was served at the dinner. It was perfect.
I passed the bread basket to Slob & he grabbed his roll and got a knife full of butter. He spread the butter on the roll, but then still had some left on the knife. At this point, a normal person would put the knife on the edge of their plate, use the butter on something else on the plate (like the roasted vegetables, for instance), or even scrape the remaining butter onto the edge of the plate if need be. Not Slob. No, no. Slob did one better--he took that knife & showed the tablecloth who's boss. Yep--he smeared his knife back and forth on the black tablecloth, leaving streaks of butter roughly 8-10" long to the right of his plate. I kid you not. It was one of those moments when you question your own sanity & if you really did just see what you thought you saw. I elbowed Artis; he looked over & his jaw dropped. That's when I knew I wasn't seeing things.
Combined with the girl across the table from me who says she isn't used to going to "those types of fancy functions" and didn't know which fork to use (there were two forks...the salad fork and the dinner fork. Not too difficult.), but said that it was because she was too busy in her line of work, saving lives as a CNA. I'm sure she does a great job & all, but really? Can't learn what a salad fork is compared to a dinner fork because you're a CNA?? Wow.
Anyway, it was a rather interesting dining experience, but we did have a great time overall & really enjoyed visiting with the two girls next to us and the guy seated between Pitied and CNA. They were all quite nice people...and they weren't using the tablecloth as their personal plate.
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