Those of you looking ahead, don't spoil it for the rest of the class!

Wild and Crazy Couple Alert!

We did something spontaneous; we went out to a restaurant just for dessert.

Next thing you know, we'll be ducking into the local pub for a quick pint and hitting the movies on a weeknight. Jump back!

On my way to the grocery store, I pass a Mimi's Cafe. Ever been to one? We'd gone a couple of times in California, but hadn't made an effort here. However, I thought about it the other day while researching restaurants, and looked it up. I like their website, and the way they display the nutritional info. The big discovery was the petite treats list. (Hey, it's the little things - harhar!)

I was expecting the equivalent of those dessert shots all the other chain restaurants are touting. I felt a little guilty when we told the waitress we were just there for dessert, because she had to be thinking about the tip. However, after perusing the menu, we decided to order four different mini desserts, so we could have our own tasting party. The prices seemed pretty comparable, at $2.49 each.

While waiting for our order, Mike and I chitted-the-chat about various things, including blogging. Neither of us is really excited about our layout, design, gadgets, etc. We debated the merits of registering our own domains, and how I needed to start adding pictures, cause damn.

We talked about blogs we were reading, how we've known about dooce forever, but totally missed a bunch of the other stars of the blogosphere. Currently, I'm reading the archives for Sundry, and since she's been at this since January 2002, there's a lot to read. The thing about archives is, you want to comment on something, but it's been literally years, and the blogger has moved on. Plus, the links rarely work any more, and you feel totally left out of the loop. I do love me some backstory tho!

When the waitress returned, we were a little shocked. I believe I may have bleated, "I didn't think they'd be so BIG!" (Insert male genitalia joke here.) Seriously, these individual servings? Were huge. Especially for the price!

My lemon mousse was topped with fresh blueberries and sauce, and the raspberry mousse had a generous dollop of whip cream. 114 calories/31 mg sodium and 123 calories/34 mg sodium, respectively. YUM.

Mike enjoyed the apple cinnamon crisp (318 calories and 137 mg sodium) which was served with a scoop of ice cream. I had a nibble, and it was tasty. The bread pudding, on the other hand, was such a huge serving, he took that home after a few bites. I tried it, but it wasn't for me. He says it was good. I'm kinda glad I didn't like it, actually. 415 calories and 316 mg sodium, for the petite.

So, our outing was a success. AND I took pictures, with the sole purpose of putting them on my blog. A bit blurry; something to work on.

Here's Mike, enjoying the ambiance and decor. I can't say the scheme is original, since this eclectic-on-purpose look is everywhere, but still, in my All-American heart, I dig it.

The view from our booth. For once, we weren't hidden in the beast corner! We were front and center where people had to pass us on the way to their own tables. Those green seats are part of the waiting area, and the bar is directly behind it. Hmm, both those chandeliers have the same bulb burnt out.

The aftermath. Sure, a picture of the actual desserts pre-consumption would have been prettier, but we were more concerned with eating than with picture taking. Silly us.

Sorry, I know this picture is gross. But this is how much of the bread pudding was left over after it was nibbled on. See, big portions, little price!

Just Burp It!

Have you ever played this game?

You're out with a friend or spouse and decide to get something to eat. However, neither of you wants to pick where. And so it begins.

You: "Where do you want to go?"
Her: "I don't care, where do you want to go?"
You: "I don't know, you choose."
Her: "Oh, it doesn't matter to me. What are you in the mood for?"
You: "Nothing specific, what about you? Anything sound good to you?"
Her: "Oh, you know me, whatever is fine."

And then you drive off the road and hit a telephone pole.

Of course, once you battle your way out of the airbags, now you have to deal with the insurance company. No one should do that on an empty stomach. So, you continue:

You: "Fast-food or sit-down?"
Her: "Or buffet?"
You: "No buffet." Holy shit, the first decision! How BOLD!
Her: "Ok, sit-down." Second decision. Not as bold of course, but at least she stepped up.
You: "Italian? Chinese? American? Thai?"
Her: "Do you even know where a Thai restaurant is around here? You haven't even been to a Thai place, have you?!"
You: "Smart-ass. No Thai then?"
Her: "No Thai."
You: "How about three choices?"
Her: "Ok, go."

Now, I'm on to you. You act all magnanimous because everyone likes options, but what you're really doing is getting your way. You're choosing the three restaurants. Those are three places you wouldn't mind "gettin' your grub on," as it were. Not only that, once you list the three, your friend nixes one, then you veto the second, which is the same as choosing. You crafty bizzle!

Mike and I play a condensed version of this game. It's been 11(!) years, we know our roles. With our current money-situation, not to mention the whole low-sodium goal, eating out hasn't been as frequent. We still do it, but it's paper napkins only.

I've accumulated some restaurant coupons in the past few weeks, thanks to the newspaper, online offers, direct mail crap, etc. (Oh yes, I'm all about the coupons right now. I'm one PennySaver away from hosting Tupperware parties. You can get free shit at those! Score!)

So I spent about an hour online researching sodium levels for various dishes at the restaurants I have coupons for. Things I have learned:
My cardiologist would suggest I never eat at Olive Garden again. 400 mg of sodium in one breadstick. ONE!
The Wild West Shrimp starter at Longhorn, while delicious, will kill us all at freaking 4180 mg of sodium.
And surprisingly, a personal pan cheese pizza from Pizza Hut has only 590 calories. Not so surprising, it has 1290 mg of sodium.

We ended up at PizzaVito, where I had a single slice of cheese pizza. Yes, a slice of pizza there is huge, but it is NY style and doesn't have that much sauce on it. (Rationalizing...) Unfortunately, PizzaVito does not have nutritional info on their site. A slice of cheese pizza from a large Pizza Hut pie has 740 mg of sodium. Peer Trainer says 551 mg of sodium for a slice of NY cheese. I don't know if that's similar enough, but there's some info anyway.

Also, I used 4 napkins blotting that piece of pizza. They should hand out complimentary Biore strips with each slice.

You had me at 'Choice Plus Network'

I love Insurance. Insurance is the greatest thing since movable type. I would marry Insurance, but that's only legal in Connecticut. Instead, I hook up with it every chance I get.

Car Insurance? Of course! Rental Insurance? I do! Health Insurance? Bet your ass!

And it doesn't stop there. I'm pretty enthusiastic about warranties and accidental-anything policies, too.

Purchasing a Wii - extend the warranty. Buying a car - get Gap. New iPhone - oh, nevermind. Bastards.

Back in California, I was able to sign Mike up as a domestic partner and get excellent, fairly-affordable healthcare for him through my work.

(You had to get a domestic partnership affidavit notarized for such a thing. I really confused the guy at Mailboxes, Etc. The look on his face said, "Hey, Crazy-Heterosexual-White-Woman, you could just make an honest man out of him." What came out of his mouth was, "Sign here. $29.95. No checks.")

And, until this year, we never met our deductible. Not once. Since 2001.

A couple of weeks ago, I received a letter from my healthcare provider. I opened the envelope and confetti burst forth, balloons rose in the air, trumpets sounded and an enthusiastic voice boomed,

"Congratulations!

You've not only met your deductible, but you've also hit the Out-of-Pocket, In-Network maximum! And you're thisclose to the Out-of-Network double whammy! Well done! $2,000 more, and you can go to ANY doctor, ANYwhere, for FREE!

Even if you choose to stay In-Network, your medical care for the next 6 months is ON US! Got a tickle in your throat; come on in! A wart on your foot; gross, but no problem! A leak in your breast implant; sorry, that's not covered, but you should get it looked at anyway!

Hurry to our directory and schedule some appointments today.
'Cause you're not getting any younger!

Restrictions apply, see coverage levels and regulations for further details."

Sometimes you have to spend money to, um, spend more money

I ordered checks today.

That doesn't sound very news-worthy, but this day in age, how many checks do you really go through in a month? Six months? A year, even? There's the rent/mortgage, a long-distance birthday, things like that. But we swipe the plastic even for "real money" purchases with our debit cards and pay most of our bills through online banking. I don't think Mike even knows where his checkbook is.

So, it surprised me when I realized I was down to my last check. How can this be? I flipped through my register and realized that in 3 1/2 months, I've written 17 checks to medical institutions. And 0 to celebrate a birthday.

Don't worry; there's been a birthday or two to celebrate. We just send gift cards. It's our way of forcing people to do something we want them to do.

"You will go here and you will buy something you do not need! 'Cause we said so! Now, march!"

Reading these posts without pictures is really hard

Some people take their cars to the dealer for everything. Oil change? Dealer. Tire rotation? Dealer. Hear a weird knocking noise? Dealer. Niece spilled a milkshake in the back? Dealer.

After the purchase of our first new car, I became one of those people. Except for the detailing. Not that I wouldn't get my car detailed, I just haven't. Yet. I've also never had someone spill a milkshake in the car. (Unless you count the time Mike was driving and a bottled Frappuccino exploded when he opened it. He's still a bit fuzzy on the details, but it sounded very traumatic. Especially the part when he realized he'd have to explain the rancid Dark Chocolate Raspberry aroma to me.)

And while no one enjoys going to any repair shop for maintenance, it's really not so bad. You pull up, someone comes over and asks a few questions. You get out of the car, hang out in the air-conditioned waiting room for a while, then the same customer service rep brings you your keys and directs you where to pay. Easy-peasy.

Until it isn't.

Take for instance... yesterday.
Yesterday was not easy-peasy.
Yesterday was "Thanks for reducing me to tears in a crowded waiting room. Sorry about the puddle; my checking account is hemorrhaging."

It was time for an oil change on Mike's car. Now, he will alternate between the dealer and the local lube shop for oil changes. But he drives 70+ miles a day, so the car sees a lot of service action. We'd done the big 60,000 mile service 6 months ago and were still paying the interest on it. An oil change, inspection and tire rotation and I should have been out of there in an hour.

First, there was the copying of the VIN, the jotting down of the mileage and the kicking of the tires.

"Well, those are looking a bit worn."
"Yeah, we're planning on replacing them next month."
"Mm-hmm."

The dude (we'll call him Danny-boy, freckled as he is) nods his head and makes some notes on his clipboard. He leads me over to the service cubicle and types some info into his computer. He scratches his head with his pen, the blue ballpoint undoubtedly leaving an inky trail under his ginger locks.

Danny-boy frowns and says, "You've put 14,500 miles on that car in 6 months."
"I know, it's the commute. Adds up fast."
"That's... that's a lot of miles."
"We're hoping to move soon."
He blinks at me.
"To cut down on the wear and tear on the car. And my husband. Ha-ha!"

And I'm justifying myself to this guy, why, exactly? It's not like we're taking joy rides; Mike has to drive to work! He can't fly there! We want to be part of the solution, not the problem. Damn you, chlorofluorocarbons!

"Well, you're up-to-date on your service. Just initial here, and we'll start the oil change."

I initial, then take my book into the waiting room. I settle in and divide my time between reading and watching the movie about the football player who finds out he has a daughter. It's got The Rock in it. Oops, I mean, Dwayne Johnson.

About 45 minutes later, Danny-boy comes into the waiting room.

"We're all done with the oil change, but I wanted to show you something."

Great, here we go. I may be an easy mark, but I'm also broke. You can show me whatever you'd like, but I'm not paying for any sort of super-snazzy-glossy-coating-just-$49.95-today-only crap.

"We got the tires off, you know, to rotate, and first, we found this." And he points to a huge nail stuck in a tire. Of course, it's not in a normal spot. No, somehow this nail was trapped not in the tread, but the "edge, below the crown."

"And you can see on this tire, and on all of them, where you've hit the wear bar. There is no life left in these tires."
Duh. They're the original tires and it's been nearly 75,000 miles.

"But the worst one is this tire here. Not sure what's going on, yet. But you can see where the inside of the tire is starting to wear funny. And then, there's this crack, almost a hole, that's starting."

Indeed. It looks like someone stabbed my tire and then tried to skin it. The odd wear pattern gives the impression of someone whittling away at the rubber. I wonder if this was before or after they hammered that nail in the first tire?

Now, I'm assuming these are my tires, and not some damaged props they use to freak you out and get you to help them meet their tire-sales quota. And if they are my tires, then there is no way in hell I'm letting Mike drive another mile on them.

"How much?"

He flips a page and starts talking about lifetime free rotation and recall notification service and...

"Dude. I can't even afford the oil change."
"Well, we only charge 10% over cost, and..."

And, I don't care. I can't afford this. But how can I not? Obviously, we need tires. The price he's quoting is not unreasonable. However, I am broke and finding pride to be a little expensive these days.

"I got a coupon in the mail last week, for 15% off. I left it at home. Any chance you could still honor that for me?"

Poor guy; we both know that coupon has nothing to do with tires. Three more minutes of hand-wringing and gee-golly later, he says he'll figure something out and I say go ahead.

Back in the waiting room, I text Mike to tell him I'll be turning tricks on the corner and to wave as he drives by tonight. The football-daughter movie is still on. 'The Game Plan.' (Thanks, imdb!)

Another hour passes, and I realize two things. #1 - the movie ended, but we've been watching the bonus features and apparently The Rock in tights is what audiences want more of, and #2 - if the tires were already off the car, should it take this long to put on new ones?

Finally, Danny-boy comes back in, and sits down in the chair across from me.

"We've got everything done; the oil changed, fluids checked, tires on. Now, we think we've realized what happened to that one tire to make it fail. The other ones were simply worn, except for that nail of course, but the right front tire was definitely an issue. It seems it was at an angle, tilting in. Did you hit a pothole, really hard? Or run over something, really hard? It would take a lot of force to do that kind of damage, where the wheel turns in like that. You'd have to hit something really hard."

"I don't know. It's my husband's car." What else can I say? Mike would tell me if he hit, like, a body, really hard, but a pothole? No.

"Well, I suggest a wheel alignment. I know, it's more money, and you might not be able to do it, but you just put four brand new tires on the car, and if the alignment is that bad, you could be replacing the front tire way sooner than you should. It's an investment. Honest. But you have to decide. I understand if you can't, but if you can, you really should. It's $60 now, but it could hit your wallet really hard later."

(Ok, he didn't say that last part, but I was waiting for it.)

I don't even try to gee-golly. I just rub my forehead and listen to The Rock complain about ballet. Shit. I was about to put hundreds of dollars on the credit card that I could barely pay the minimum on as it was. This was ridiculous.

"Ok. How long?"

Danny-boy is sympathetic. I expect him to pat my leg and offer me some coffee, but all he says is, "About another hour. I'll be back."

The receptionist walks over to the tv and ejects The Game Plan. There are two little boys in the waiting room now, and I suspect they are tired of all the dancing outtakes. The Disney logo comes up on the screen and I go back to my book.

A few minutes later I look up, and actually whimper. They're showing 'Up'. What, are they trying to make me suicidal? I can't take this movie. The first 15 minutes are so fucking sad it makes me want to throw-up at all the love. They were so happy, and they got married, but then they couldn't have kids, but that was ok! They had each other! And there was sunshine and happiness and the years go by and then she gets sick and dies. Dies!

I sniffle and clear my throat, avoiding eye contact with the other customers. And Mike picks that moment to call and check in, and I'm like, "Baby, there is no way in hell I can hold a conversation at this moment. I'm hungry and tired. I'm about to spend $500 on car repairs and she. just. died! I'm hanging up now."

Finally, Danny-boy comes back in and motions for me to join him at the register. He points out the different things they did, and what everything cost.

"I got them to take 10% off the tires and $10 off the alignment."
Wow, I may have just haggled for the first time today. And it worked, a little. Cool.
"And there was no charge for the tire rotation."

Dude, there was nothing to rotate, you took them off. Don't act like you've cut me a huge deal on that. No charge for tire rotation... Give me a break.

I hand him my credit card, sign the bill and head for the lot. I get in the car and put my purse on the passenger seat. There's a big, dirty handprint right in the middle. I'd like to hit something really hard. But I don't have another $60.

The (1-day and counting!) Routine

9:00 am: Wake up

9:02 am: Hit bathroom

9:06 am: Turn on Wii, weigh self on balance board, grumble

9:10 am: Go to kitchen, take pill 1 of 7, stare longingly at cupboard, but do not eat anything because 1/2 hour wait post-pill required

9:13 am: Go to bookshelf, find Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone on cd, bring to living room, pop disc one into dvd player and press play

9:14 am: Turn on treadmill, tilt head in confusion when treadmill just sits there in stony silence, realize treadmill not plugged in, plug in treadmill, hit head on treadmill when it beeps and startles, curse at treadmill

9:16 am: Walk back over to dvd player to figure out why disc is not playing, press button two on switch box

9:17 am: Grab remotes, turn up volume on tv

9:17:30 am: Frantically jab at volume down button because volume up button is stuck and do not want to scare neighbor lady into thinking the building is under cinematic British attack

9:18 am: Get on treadmill, press start and begin walk

9:19 am: Realize 'walk' may be more of a 'shuffle' and increase speed to 'stroll'

9:37 am: Enjoy chapter one of book one and pat self on back for finding such an excellent distraction

9:42 am: Get off treadmill

9:43 am: Text husband about day's accomplishments without acknowledging the irony of having been up only 43 minutes

9:44 am: Head back into kitchen, lightly toast up 1/2 a bagel with 1/2 a serving of cream cheese for a total of 270 mg of sodium and 180 calories

9:49 am: Contemplate other half of bagel, ultimately resist

9:50 am: Take remaining 6 pills, call self 'old-woman' and crouch-walk with pretend cane to the fridge to amuse self

9:50:30 am: Feel a little guilty/silly, attempt to stand upright, grimace as back cracks

9:55 am: Call LTD claims adjuster and leave a voicemail inquiring as to the status of paperwork and whether or not she got the fax

9:58 am: Turn on computer with intentions of finishing LTD post started many days ago

10:01 am: Decide some background noise is needed

10:02 am: Go to theWB.com, click on Gilmore girls pilot

10:48 am: Realize never signed into Blogger

10:48:30 am: Or brushed teeth

(all times PST - my sleep cycle is a California gurl)

Chris Tucker is in my trash can

(Gratuitous profanity ahead, FYI.)

The time is 12:45 AM. I've been in bed, surfing the web on my phone, for about 2 hours now. The screen is dimmed to not disturb the cat curled next to me. Or the husband.

I've looked at all my usual sites, and since it's difficult to truly surf on the phone, I think I'm done. I am not yet tired. I am also not surprised. The choices are to count sheep or get up.

Thirsty, I head into the dining room toward the kitchen, and flip on the light. And suddenly, I'm standing in the hall. How did I get here? Why am I here?

A voice from the direction of the kitchen says, "You move fast for a fat bitch."

Oh, holy shit. It's a trash-talking dinner plate with eight legs. On the ceiling, in the doorway, between the dining room and kitchen.

I whimper, and try to cover it with a cough. He laughs. I glare. And take another step back.

"Where you going? Back to bed? Like you gonna fall asleep now!"

He has a point.

Luckily, I possess the tools necessary to dispose of home invaders. We invested in an Ultra SpyderMate 3000 some years back and it was money well spent. It's the perfect size too; it fits in that little space between the wall and the fridge... oh.

"Smoke comin' out your ears! The wheels are turnin'. Squeaky squeaky squeaky."

"Ok, you know what?"

"Yeah, I know what. I know what you ain't gonna do, and that's a damn thing."

I take a few steps, stop and look up. Lord, he was big. The cat is even hanging back, ears flat on her head. Ok, I can do this. I bounce on my feet a little, lean forward and stumble half a step.

Gotta get a little distance, that's all. I back up, crouch and shuffle-run towards the kitchen. Towards, but not through.

"You get close enough, I'm gonna pull a Mission Impossible drop into that rat's nest."

Must. Get. In. Kitchen.

Plan B. I will make him move. Not too far; enough so that I could avoid passing directly under him, but I didn't want the little bastard taking cover. Should I spray him? With what - everything is under the kitchen sink! We have got to find another place to keep shit.

And then I see it. A can of air.

"Move, or I will make you move."

I swear, he hocked a loogie at me. I squeeze the trigger.

"Arachnid adhesion, bitch! This feels good - like I'm on a ride at Disney World! Whee!"

"UGH! Fuck you! Move! Move!"

Time to assess the situation.
There is a huge spider in my house. I cannot kill it, because I cannot reach it, and will not touch it anyway. I cannot get to my 'tools' because the spider is threatening to burrow in my hair if I pass under him. I am afraid for the cat. A can of compressed air is fun, but it is no SpyderMate 3000. I will not sleep (or drink, or eat) until the spider is dead. Perhaps most disconcerting, the spider and I are holding a conversation.

I will have to wake up the husband.

"Baby?" Nothing.
"Mike? Mike?" Nothing.
I bump the side of the bed, and when he stirs, I say, "Hello. Hi there. Sorry. Um, yeah. Spider."

He is alarmed. He is disoriented. He is ignoring me and heading into the bathroom.

I wait. The cat waits. The spider waits. The clock ticks. We all take a moment to stretch and prep for the next Act.

"Where is it?" he asks, walking out of the bathroom.

"Is he British? That is one pasty motherfucker. How do you sleep with that glare? I need some Ray-Bans, stat!"

Mike walks straight into the kitchen, looking around.

"You just walked under it. Don't worry, I totally had your back."
I quickly put the can of air back on the table.

"HAHAHA! He didn't even see me! You've got a blind albino up in this bitch."

Grasping the SpyderMate like a pole vaulter, my husband eyes the ceiling.

"No broom is gonna scare me! Wait, what is that? There ain't no lint up here! No! It's sticky! STICKY! Oh, shi-"

Mike drops the lint roller on the floor.
"Goodnight."

"Ok then. Well done. I'll just take care of this."

My love and appreciation are implied.

I peel off the used sheet and drop it in the trash can. Filling a glass with water, I check out the ceiling. That's gonna be hard to reach with the Magic Eraser.

Back in the bedroom, I slide into bed.

Mike turns his head towards me.

"Do we own Rush Hour 2?"

Point A to B, eventually

Originally, I had specific plans for this blog. A system of posts to help tell the tale. But that didn't happen and my first post was about Red Lobster. Huh? And then I didn't post again. So instead, I guess this blog will be more round-about, and not linear. Starting with the post I'm working on now.

A preview: If a word comes out of a claims adjuster's mouth, assume you don't know the definition and look it up. Record your conversations if possible. It's only illegal if you don't give a head's up, right?

You could always answer the phone, "Hello, this conversation is being tape-recorded. According to Michael McKean, it may not be admissible evidence, but it will help me dissect the meaning of your words at a later date of my choosing. Proceed."