The One With the Melting Pot

The title of this one sort of sounds like I went on some kind of psychadelic drug trip.  But I did not.  Just went to dinner.

The Melting Pot, if you don't know, is a fondue restaurant.  I've heard about people going, and there's another blogger that I read that loves it and goes as often as she possibly can (mostly for the chocolate), but it's. . .ridiculously expensive, so I've never been.  However, last week or the week before, Groupon had this deal where you could pay $20 for $40 worth of food.  Obviously, I bought one.

 My friend, Faith, is getting married in a couple of weeks, and my friend/her roommate, Andrea, suggested we go out next week for a bachelorette-party-dinner.  (Meaning, you know, just going to dinner.)  We're going to the Melting Pot (with Groupons!), so I decided to take D out on a rarely-utilized Date Night as to go with him for the first time before I go with Faith and Andrea.  (What an awkward sentence.)

We got all gussied up and headed over to The Melting Pot. . .except there was an accident on the highway involving a car being stuck under a tractor trailer, so we had to re-route, thus making us late for our 6:30 reservations.  (I called to make sure we'd still have a table.)  So that was the first thing.

When we arrived, we were seated by the manager.  We were seated in this area with tiny booths for two, which had a curtain that you could close to. . .assure you had privacy, I guess.  (The couple in the booth adjacent to ours was making good use of the closed curtain, if you know what I'm sayin'.  And I think you do.)

I felt sort of awkward, going into a nice place and whipping out a Groupon page, but then I figured, if they were going to judge me for cheap(er) food, they shouldn't have put up a Groupon.  It said on the print-out to give the Groupon to the waiter upon arrival, so we did.

The waiter explained how the whole process worked, but he spoke fast and had an accent and didn't enunciate, so I had a hard time understanding exactly what was happening.

We ordered the spinach and artichoke cheese fondue which took. . .a long time to get there.  I'd drained my Diet Coke (as I do), and kept burning my mouth with nothing to drink except pilfered water from D.  (I realize that there is that expression about even dogs waiting for their food to cool, but we'd been waiting a long time, and I was hungry.)  We finished that up and sat, patiently waiting, for our Caesar salads to get there.

And we waited.

And we waited.

And then our waiter came by and told us they'd forgotten about our salads.  Which is awesome.  Especially the part where he told us they'd forgotten about us.  (This happens. . .constantly with both D and myself.  We both have a tendency to slip through the cracks, so when you put us together, we're basically invisible to the naked eye.)

Then the salads came.  Caesar salads, which were actually very good, if not a little small for $7.

Then we waited.

And waited.

You might think that, at this point, we were mad and yelling and all that, but. . .we were actually having a lot of fun.  We go out. . .never, and while everything was happening against us, we were having a really good time being a couple, if that makes sense.  The waiter came by, and D mentioned that we'd been there for an hour and a half and were still waiting for a meal, and we'd like to speak to the manager later.

So our 'entree' got there.  We decided to split one, because, you know, $23 dollars.  There was a little bowl of vegetables, 4 pieces of chicken, 4 shrimps, 4 pieces of steak, 4 pieces of sausage, and several sauces.  I have to admit, I was a little bummed out that the food was so. . .sparse.  But then, we were splitting one, so maybe it's different if you eat the whole thing yourself.

There was also a pot of hot broth, where you. . .cook your own meat.  We were puzzling over this when the manager came over, but we sent him away so we could eat.

We sat there, trying to figure out if the two-and-a-half minutes the waiter indicated would actually cook this meat.  We were going to put it in a little at a time, but ended up just dumping everything in the broth, like a soup.

Two-and-a-half minutes passed quickly, and the meat didn't. . .look done.  So we discussed paying this much money to cook your own meal, and then pulled some of the meat out again.  It still didn't look done, but it was dark, and it was hard to tell.  D ended up pulling out the flashlight on his phone, and we were dying laughing about how ghetto the whole thing was.  But the meat was done, so we ate.  It was really good, but there wasn't much there.

Ultimately, the manager came back and comped our entree and one of the salads, so we had money for dessert, which was a pot of melted milk chocolate that came with marshmallows, bananas, strawberries, Rice Krispie Treats, a piece of cheesecake that. . .wasn't very good, and pound cake.

The chocolate was amazing.

(I realize as I'm telling this story that I'm not conveying how hilarious that whole situation really was.  I don't really know how.)

Then the waiter came by and asked if we wanted coffee.  I didn't.  D did.

A few minutes after that, the waiter came back by to let us know the coffee machine was broken.

All you could really do at that point was laugh.

The waiter brought us our bill, and it came out to $36 something. . .except he hadn't factored in the Groupon I'd handed him at the beginning of our 2-and-a-half hour ordeal.  Instead of laughing, all we could do then was shake our heads.  He came back a while later and was like, "Oh, yeah, you had a Groupon."

So he brought the bill back, and it was the lovely number of $0.00.  So we left a tip (really, we did) and left.

All things being said, I'd go back, but not if I was paying pull price for anything.  The food was good, but there wasn't nearly enough of it and it was WAY overpriced.  But we had a great evening, and I'm looking forward to going with Andrea and Faith next week.

The One with the First Day of Running

I don't really get along with exercise.  I know you're supposed to do it, I know I could probably lose the random 12 pounds I gained working at the library if I did it. . .but it's just not fun.

But then I saw this: The Color Run.  It looks insane and awesome, and it's a 5k, as opposed to an actual marathon.  I can run a 5k, right?

Well, I can if I work up to it.  I signed D and myself up for the only one in North Carolina this year, and it'll go down in November.  The Color Run's facebook page had a printout of a good way to train yourself for a 5k (I think it's very similar to the "Couch to 5k" workout), so I printed it off and decided to start it this week.

For week one, 3 to 5 times that week, you're supposed to run 60 seconds and walk 90 seconds 8 times.  Sounded doable, I thought.  Yesterday, I came home, ready to get going.

5:09 p.m.:  Twisted ankle walking up to the third floor in heels.  Maybe I won't be starting today.

5:15 p.m.:  Decide ankle will be fine, put on tennis shoes, T-shirt, and shorts.  Can't find a hair tie.

5:18 p.m.:  Track down a hair tie, inexplicably, in the extra bedroom and put hair in ponytail.  Admire the way my last haircut makes the hair in the ponytail look all wavy and cute.  Contemplate what a shame it would be to get sweaty and mess up the hair.

5:19 p.m.:  I can't find any paper on which to write down my musings.  Finally track down a notecard in a box of desk stuff that hasn't been unpacked yet after the move.  Consider staying home and unpacking the desk boxes.

5:20 p.m.:  Test blood sugar.  It's at 126, so I figure that should be fine for an approximately 20-minute run/walk.

5:22 p.m.:  Try to figure out how to use the stopwatch on my phone.  I don't really want to bring the phone with me, but I also don't have a stopwatch.  As it turns out, a phone is going to come in handy.  But at 5:22 p.m., I don't know this yet.  I also check the weather, which is at 90 degrees.  The humidity isn't awful, so I decide I won't die.

5:23 p.m.:  Begin the 7 minute process of trying to get a decent picture of myself before I start.  Ended up pulling some strands of hair out of my ponytail as to not subject viewers to the abject horror that is my enormous forefivehead.

(If you can read what's written on my hand and want to know why I'm running around, literally, with "chicken" written on my hand, it's because I had fully intended to go to BJ's Club after work to pick up chicken because my family was coming over for dinner the next day.  Unfortunately, as I got to the parking lot of BJ's, I remember that D has my debit card, so unless I was going to steal the chicken, I was out of luck.)

5:31 p.m.:  Begin running!  I took a picture of my shoe with my housekey sticking off of it because I thought it looked funny.  Later, this would become Grand Irony.

As I'm running, I'm thinking this isn't so bad.  I completed the first set of 60-running-90-walking without issue.  Then completed the second with just a few thoughts of, "Holy crap, I'm out of shape."

Then, right as the third 60-second running ended, it happened.

5:36 p.m. and 50 seconds:  Shoe comes untied, key flies off shoe into grassy, brushy area.

I heard a "PING!" and look down, and my shoe is untied and my key is gone into the oblivion.  I still have 10 seconds to go on my minute, so I run in place until the 60 seconds is up.  Then I start looking for my brass key, which blends in very well with its surroundings.

5:41 p.m.:  Still haven't found key, so I call D who is, luckily, nearby.  He says he'll be there soon.

5:45 p.m.:  Glad I don't own a stopwatch so I had to bring my phone with me.

5:46 p.m.:  D arrives, helps me in my fruitless search.

5:47 p.m.:  A State Trooper, seeing D's car in the turn lane with the flashers on, stops to ask if we're OK.  I tell him I've lost my key.  He laughs, and tells us to have a good night.

5:49 p.m.:  D tells me that since no one knows where I live, if someone finds the key, they wouldn't know which lock it would open, and it would be OK.  We'll just get a new key.  But then. . .

5:50 p.m.: 

5:52 p.m.:  D leaves and I start running again, figuring I can skip the last 90 second walking since I took a. . .15- or so minute lapse.



5:54 p.m.:  Pickup truck drives by and honks and whistles. 

5:59 p.m.:  I'm feeling pretty crappy, so I decide to walk home (walking's still exercise!) and since the 5k isn't until November, I'll have time to work up to the running.  Maybe I'll take this week and do 4 reps of 60-90 and then go up to 8 next week.

(I took another picture at this point, but I look so gross and sad and pathetic, I refrained from posting.)

6:08 p.m.:  Hobbled up the stairs, knees killing me, and did my blood sugar.  Now I know why I was feeling so crappy.

So much for 126!  I had a juice box and another cup of juice and waited for the blood sugar to go up so I could take a shower without passing out and drowning.

6:32 p.m.:  And then, this happened:

So there's that.

I'm going to attempt this all again tomorrow (Wednesday), and what I have learned is the following:

1.  I probably need some kind of fanny pack to carry my blood sugar kit in.

2.  I either need to take off my insulin pump or suspend it whilst run-walking.

3.  I should probably put my key in the fanny pack.

4.  Always carry a phone.

We'll see what happens on Wednesday.



The One With the Yearbooks

K brought her Nintendo Wii along with her for her two-week visit, and I am quite pleased and satisfied to say that it's still tucked away in the bag she brought it in. She's been playing, basically non-stop, my old circa 1993 Super Nintendo. It makes me proud.

One of the games she especially loves is Mario Paint. You can't play it with the controllers -- you have to use the mouse that came with the game. It also has a mousepad that goes with it, but I've misplaced that somewhere back at my dad's house. I still have it, but I haven't made the effort to track it down. As such, when you play the game, you have to have some kind of flat surface to put the mouse on. A couple of nights ago, I noticed that K had pulled one of my old yearbooks off the shelf to use as the mousepad.

When she'd finished playing, I picked up the yearbook and told her that it was my 2nd grade yearbook. She's going into 2nd grade this year, so that piqued her interest. She looked up my picture and told me how cute I was.

Then she proceeded to through all my yearbooks, looking for my picture, and making commentary on and asking things about stuff I'd written in the books.

"Why does this girl have her face colored in?"
"Because she was mean to me."
"I have a friend that's mean to me."
"If she's mean to you, why is she your friend?"
"Well, she used to do this every time I looked at her." (Rolls her eyes and puts on bitchface.)
"Does she still do it?"
"No. We're friends now."

The politics of 1st graders.

"Why did you put checkmarks beside these people?"
"Those were my friends."
"I have lots of friends."

Then I showed her my elementary school boyfriend (my longest-term relationship to date, lasting from kindergarten until 4th grade, when I left to go to a different school). He just got married, incidentally.

"Cute," K said.

She shuffled through the yearbooks for a while longer until she got to high school.

"Why do three of these say 'high school' on them?"
"Because I was at that high school for three years. I was at a different school for 9th grade."
"Four years?"
"Yeah. High school lasts four years."
"No it doesn't."
"Yeah it does."
"I won't be in high school for four years."
"I bet you will."

She told me I was pretty in all of my high school pictures. (Why can't EVERYONE look at people like kids do?)

Then I said, "Hey, I'll show you my boyfriend from 11th grade." I paged through the Junior class until I came to his picture. I pointed it out to her.

She didn't say anything. She just laughed. I'm not sure why, but she just laughed.

And that's why we get along.

The One With My First Flamer

I woke up this morning to a guy (I'm assuming) painting the outside of the front window to our apartment building. That window happens to lead into the bedroom, so whenever they're doing work out there, I can hear it first thing.

They actually replaced all the (rotting) wood around the window a couple months ago, and left it looking all cracked and awful, so it was nice to see hear that they were finally fixing it. I looked toward the window and saw the silhouette of a man holding a paintbrush, so I'm hoping that's what was going on.

That wasn't the weird thing, though. He had a little radio out there, and I'm not 100% on what he was listening to, but it sounded like fairies. You know, the windchimes and tiny bells sound of a fairy flying. Search as I might, I couldn't find anything on YouTube that sounded like this music. It was very relaxing, very zen, and a little weird.

The only thing weirder is what happened a few minutes later, when it sounded like the workers outside started having a Mexican fiesta/rumble. You know the stereotypical "eye-yi-yi-yi!" shouts that you hear sometimes? THEY WERE DOING THAT! And it sounded like they were dancing around.

I just don't know.

So the actual point of today's entry is that I got my first flamer, and I'm oddly excited about it. (Note: I mean 'flamer' in the 'causing trouble on the Internet' sort of way. Not the homosexual way. I'm well versed in the gays, thanks.)

If you will recall my entry on the day I discovered that I had proof that Justin Bieber is Satan, I had a very convincing argument. And the people who responded seemed to understand exactly what I was saying.

One person who posted a comment, very cleverly named "Anonymous," disagreed. I'd like to explain that I don't mind detracting opinions, and if you write a comment disagreeing with something I've said, I'll still post it. I do, however, have a problem with anonymous comments. If you have an opinion, you need to stand behind your opinion. The Internet makes it ENTIRELY too easy to be a coward. So that's why, instead of putting the comment through, I put it here instead.

Yesterday, at 4:03 PM, Anonymous said: Shut the hell up guys!!!!!!!!!! Theres nothing wrong with that Kid Hes nice and very sweet hes trying to live him dream is there anything wrong with that i think not!!! STUPIDD!!!! dont Judge him you dont even know him Hoee!! You guys are all just jealous of him be nice!!!!!!

I could do what I did to an ex-boyfriend of mine's really nasty note and correct all the punctuation and grammatical errors with red ink and return it, but I won't do that. Instead, I'll focus on the fact that we (the non-Biebites) are being told that we don't know him, so we can't have an opinion.

For one, I'm going to go out on a limb and assume that whomever wrote this haunting missive also doesn't know The Bieb. That she (I'm assuming it's a she) doesn't KNOW that he's nice and very sweet. And while I'll GIVE her the fact that he's living his dream and that no, there's nothing in the world wrong with that, I WOULD argue that I'm (we're) not judging him, per se. Judging someone and thinking someone is a talentless monkey are two different things.

While I do admit to liking that one song, the rest of his stuff, in my ALWAYS humble opinion, is crap. My opinion. Not judging. Just my personal taste.

My next to last comment is that I have NEVER understood why, when people don't like someone, or think they look like a lesbian and sound like a 12-year-old girl, people say they're jealous. Am I jealous that he's a world-famous singer? No. I don't want to be a world-famous singer. Am I jealous that he has the love and adoration of a million 12-year-old girls AND their 40-year-old mothers? No. That's super creepy. I'm not jealous of him, even a little. I do not like him. Period. Anything I've ever heard about him annoys me.

It's like Matthew McCaughnahay or HOWEVER YOU SPELL IT. I don't like him because he comes across as smug and douchey and completely untalented. Does this mean I'm jealous? No. He's just not someone I would want to be around.

And finally, I don't think ever in my life has someone, in all seriousness, called me a hoe.

Actually, in all fairness, she called me a HOEE. I'm ASSUMING she meant a ho. So rather than a farm implement, I think this is what she was trying to convey:

That's not right either?

Oh, I get it. I'm someone who has sex with lots and lots of men because I don't (with the exception of one song) like the "musical" "stylings" of BeelzeBieb. Gotcha. I'll let D know. It'll make him sad.

So there it is. My first Anonymous hate mail. (Or, hate comment). It was kind of awesome. Thanks, Anonymous.

And everyone else, take heed of Ms. Anonymous' words: be nice!!!!!!

Also, watch this, because it will make your collective ovaries explode (even for you men):

Baby's First Audition from alex on Vimeo.

The One With the Pronunciation

Sometimes I wonder about regional dialect and pronunciation.

This exchange just took place between D and myself:

Setting: D is working on a business card for a client.

D: I don't understand why people put "phone" next to a number.

Me: What do you mean?

D: Right here. Before the phone number on the card, they want the word "phone." I don't get that.

Me: I think it's to differentiate from 'fax.'

D: Well, the fact is, it's a phone number.

I had to think about this for a second or two, because that comment made no sense to me. And then I figured it out.

Me: No. Fax. Like fax number. Not facts. Not like 'facts of life.'

But even as I said it, I realized that the two words sounded EXACTLY the same coming out of my mouth.

There's another word that I do that to, but I can't remember it right offhand. I also pronounce "photographer" like "phatographer."

I wonder where we learn to pronounce things. I was born up North, but have lived in North Carolina since I was 4. However, I call the oblong things you put on top of ice cream "jimmies" instead of calling them "sprinkles." As a result, D has taken to calling them that, too. But that's a Northernism. Also, if I have an item (let's say a cake) that I want to transport to another locale, I say I'm going to "bring the cake to Mom's." This makes D a little crazy, because the correct phrasing would be "I'm going to take the cake to Mom's." But he also told me that saying you're going to "bring" something somewhere is found primarily in Northern dialect, which I find interesting.

So, if you're trying to get a feel for what I sound like when I actually talk, just imagine "facts" and "fax" sounding like exactly the same word.

What about you? What words or phrases do YOU mispronounce? Do you, too, refuse to change them?

The One Where Katie's Ready For College

Just a really short entry for now, and later, I'll have my Super, Awesome Exciting News Update.

I had the following e-mail exchange with Mom this morning:

Mom: So.....Katie comes out of her room last night carrying her bag of Crazy Bones and a toiletries bag, wearing a bunch of Mardi Gras beads and a plastic fireman's hat and says, "I'm ready for college."

Me: Tell her she also needs a fire extinguisher and a pair of stillettos and she should be good to go.

Mom: And a blender.

Me: And matches. (Hence, aforementioned fire extinguisher.)

Ah, college.

The One With Profanity and Cupcakes

I'm going to share with you a commercial that, inexplicably, makes me laugh like a maniac. There's one particular part. . .the rest isn't terribly funny, but the kid with the sousaphone makes me laugh. Maniacally. He shows up around the :10 mark.




That kid makes me laugh. So. Hard. What irritates me, though, is the chick that holds up the appendages and says something about not spending, "one of these and one of these. . .an arm and a leg." C'mon, T-mobile. . .you give your potential customers no credit. I think that bit would have been hilarious if she hadn't clarified. The guy buying from "Schnitzel and Things" is pretty funny, too.

Not a lot to report, really. Still working at the same place. People still think it's funny when I tell them I work in the Accounting Department. (I get it. I'm bad at math. It's irony. Get over it.) I kept track of the number of times The Blonde One used profanity on Friday. . .my tally sheet isn't right in front of me, but I'm pretty sure it was 15 uses of the F-word, 3 uses of the MF-word, and 20-something various other obscenities. D and I (and by "D and I," I mean "D") figured out that, broken down, it came out to one obscenity every 5 minutes and 35 seconds. . .or something ridiculous like that. 5 minutes and something. That seems. . .vaguely unprofessional.

So, needless to say, I'm still looking for a full-time job. I need to call this woman who e-mailed me about a position at a local magazine, but, unfortunately, it's not a full-time job that pays. . .anything. I feel like, though, if I want to do something in that industry at all, I need to start over from scratch. Which sucks, but it's kind of necessary. I've been out of full-time, permanent work for almost a year now (it'll be a year in. . .10 days. Wow.) and I'm just wanting to do something I like. Preferably something not profanity-laden.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not against profanity as a rule. I'm a fan, actually. I don't care about the people who are like, "Profanity is for unintelligent people who have no other words to use and nothing better to say." Well, no. I'm relatively intelligent. I have a lot of words in my arsenal. Sometimes, it's just necessary. And it feels good. But like all good things, it should be used in moderation. You wouldn't sit down and drink a bottle of whisky, would you? (Maybe you would. You shouldn't.) My point is, there's a line, and The Blonde One crosses it on a daily basis, and I'm kind of surprised she still has a job.

So the anniversary of my firing is coming up, and Valentine's Day is also coming up. At least Valentine's Day comes with cheap candy the day after. I feel like cupcakes should be a thing that happens, to commemorate. Also, D's and my relationshipiversary is in February. I don't actually know how to do that. . .anniversaries for things when you're not married. My mom and SDad do anniversaries like. . .the anniversary of the first time he called her at work and the anniversary of the time she drove 45 minutes to bring him chocolate chip muffins she'd baked. (Seriously.) They also do the anniversary of their first date. It was 10 years ago this year (February, incidentally, I think.) and I don't know if they still do this, but they used to wear the same outfits and go to the same restaurant. (Red Lobster, if I'm not mistaken.)

And all that came from. . .cupcakes. February is a hopping month, apparently, and I think cupcakes are probably a thing that needs to happen. Funfetti, with the good icing, not the crap they're trying to pass off as Funfetti icing these days. (If you're wondering, the correct Funfetti icing, more commonly called "Rainbow Chip" is the vanilla-looking one that has. . .rainbow chips in it. Don't even believe anyone when they try to tell you that the vanilla icing with the sealed packet of oblong jimmies, or circular jimmies on top is a Funfetti icing. They are lying to you and should be slapped.

Unacceptable.