A cocaine-dealing brother-in-law

Saturday night Nana, Aunt Freya, and I were supposed to eat at the Hofbrahaus in celebration of Nana's 97th birthday (that's right...97...a "holy moly" is warranted here).  But after taking a look at the menu and seeing only meat, meat, and more meat (all in German, I might add), Nana declared she'd rather eat at Pizzeria Uno.  I secretly seconded her opinion.  Unfortunately, at 5:45 pm on a Saturday night, Pizzeria Uno had a 25 minute wait, so we went to the next best place - Bertucci's.

I can't tell you the last time I ate at Bertucci's.  I CAN tell you the last time I ordered Bertucci's rolls to go, took them across the street to a bar, and then proceeded to throw up my 3 Cape Codders into the bag of rolls, ruining the food for everyone and cementing the "Lisa and the Bertucci rolls" story for the rest of my life.  I digress.  We walk into Bertucci's and I am immediately hit with a wall of sound.  Every table has a mother and father and at least two children sitting at it.  All of whom are less than 5 years old, playing with some kind of toy, and screaming.  Normally when I'm out in Longmeadow, Nana takes me to a place called The Grapevine for dinner.  And at 6:00 pm, the place is filled to the rafters with senior citizens, not children.  So this was a new experience for me.  A new and very loud experience.  

Freya orders the steak.  Nana and I order the salmon with the intention of splitting it.  The rolls come.  I eat two.  WITHOUT throwing up.  Nana mentions that she thinks my brother-in-law is dealing cocaine in Mexico.  Freya mentions that she thinks I'm losing my mind.  I mention that I could eat the olive oil with garlic and parmesan cheese perpetually until I die.  

Here's what fathoms me about Bertucci's, though.  My salmon had absolutely no bones in it.  Freya's steak had absolutely no fat on it.  The green beans and asparagus were not only cooked to perfection, but were the most desireable shade of green, and the mashed potatoes were like heaven.  How do they do this?  How are they mass producing salmon, cows, and green beans so that the meals are picture perfect every time?  I was too busy being freaked out by this to enjoy the taste of it all.  Though I quickly got over being freaked out and enjoyed 3/4 of the salmon and a quarter of Freya's steak.  

Restaurants like Bertucci's and Olive Garden and Applebees are mindboggling.  I rarely eat at those places, feel disgustingly full and gross when I do, and typically make fun of the people who frequent there.  But last night, as I created the perfect bite of meat, green beans, and potatoes, I ignored that nagging voice in my head that kept repeating, "You are eating the food of the people who shop at IKEA, watch Desperate Housewives, throw Pampered Chef parties, and laugh at Adam Sandler movies."

Important amendment

This just in....

Theresa has alerted me to the fact that there is no way she looked up at me while eating her pizza. "I inhaled that," is how she put it.

That is all. Thank you.

Reply to all

Tonight Jon and I talked a lot about work stuff.  And it got me thinking.  What do you think it would be like to be a CEO of a company or someone who is pretty high up in the org chart?  Other than having people quiver when they get in the elevator with you, your life has got to be pretty cool.  Specifically related to emails.  I mean, I freak out and start sweating when I send emails to people two levels above me, let alone a CEO or managing director.  How cool would it be if you knew that every email and spreadsheet you receive has been reviewed a million times for typos, alignment issues, and proper page numbers?  

How many cute kitten picture forwards do you think JD (CEO) gets every day?  Do you think he's tallied 577 years of bad luck for not passing on an email about a friend dying of cancer?  And does he get the same spam emails trying to sell him electronic products that I do every day?  

How many people have meant to email Helen an email about that hot guy in the tax department but instead have sent it to H (the second in command) instead?  Did they send an apology email?  Did they get fired?

All I'm saying is that my life would be a lot more efficient if every email and spreadsheet I was sent received the CEO treatment.  No longer would I be preoccupied with finding the "they're their there" typos or worrying that when I print I'll get 18 pages instead of 1 because the page setup isn't set to "fit to 1" and in landscape mode.  

Don't say Haman.

Is it a full moon?  It's got to be.  Because people are friggin' crazy today.  Last week at work I obsessively flipped between People.com and Lifehacker.com to pass away the time.  I was just bored to tears.  And all of a sudden it's like I have no time to breathe.  People in Edinburgh are yelling at me in emails, people in Luxembourg are laughing so hard on conference calls that they are snorting, and people in Boston are so stressed they're reclining in their chairs and splaying their limbs everywhere.  It's all very distracting.

Chris Wyman is convinced that when Patrick Swayze dies, they will play a marathon of his movies.  ALL his movies....not just the one good one.  Which means that I will have to suffer through Point Break.  Again.  I, on the other hand, am pretty sure that TNT will only play Dirty Dancing.  There's no denying it; it was a strange conversation to have.

Yesterday I went over to Theresa's house around 2:30 and left around 10:30.  It's weird, but I think we paid the most attention to each other in the car to and from her house.  When we went grocery shopping, we were concerned with why Stop & Shop doesn't carry Peter Pan peanut butter and whether or not to buy fat free mozzarella cheese or 2%.  Then, when we got to her apartment, I was concerned with uploading my video to youtube (not successful) and she was preoccupied with taking a shower.  And then we watched some tv while both playing on our own computers.  So, not really paying attention to the tv or each other then either.  We kinda glanced up as we ate our pizza, but not really.  It's amazing how 8 hours can feel like only 2 when you're not paying attention to anything.  This is why I feel like my weekend hasn't started yet.  I want a do-over.

Now it's 8:08.  I should be out listening to the Megillah and twirling my noisemaker while eating hamantashen.  But I'm pretty sure sitting here drinking decaf coffee while checking blogs counts the same.  Right?  Right, God?  

My mortal enemy

"Can we talk about you stealing Splenda, Kleenex, and shampoo from the hotel room?"

That's the first thing Susan said to me after all her other friends had gone home after her bachelorette party in Washington D.C. this past weekend.  I responded with a simple "No."  No need to discuss.

The weekend was fun.

Becca said "My mom's a pharmacist" twice.

Naomi tripped once.

I saw Dorothy's ruby slippers, Martha Washington's dress, Vermeer paintings, moon rocks, dehydrated ice cream, and a lot of pictures of Cincinnati Jews.

I ate a Nando's chicken sandwich, something I didn't think I'd do again until I went back to London.

A waiter sang "It's Now Or Never" to Susan at dinner and got the lyrics wrong.

Naomi and Melissa got an earful from me about eating shellfish.

We all played CatchPhrase in which we learned that, to Campbell, "sofa" is a weirder word than "couch."

We all played Apples to Apples in which we learned that, to everyone in the world, calling Helen Keller "frivolous" is hysterical...slightly better than calling Schindler's List "melodramatic."

Susan tried, on numerous occassions, to unbutton my shirt in public.  She was successful only half of the time.

We all learned that if you want to taste the devil, take a lemon drop shot.

Becca told me she has killed 32 rats.  And then she cut off their back legs.  And then she skinned those legs.  And then she snipped off the ends of the bone.  And then she rinsed the bone of their bone marrow.  And then she infected those bone marrow cells with the Hanta virus.  All while in a space suit reminiscent of Outbreak.

The name Dan Green was mentioned way too many times.  (I suppose this is the risk you take if you wear a helmet and don a "crustache" as Naomi put it.)

Susan and I watched Pineapple Express and didn't laugh.

I ate cookies.

My flight was cancelled.  And then it was cancelled again.

Susan turned off her car by pushing a button.

We all took turns reminiscing about our first and/or favorite memory of Susan Casper.  Mine started off, "The first time I met Susan, I thought she was a real bitch."  It's one of my favorite stories.

Hey Susan.  Happy Bachelorette weekend.  Next time don't dump your drink down my back.

The Special People Club. Being...well, special.

Josh came into town last weekend.  Hilarity ensued.