Friday Night Fumble

Is it over yet?

I mean…

Go team!!!

Yeah!!!

High school football.

It’s quite the production in The Lone Star State.

Even people without kids religiously attend every Friday night.

It’s that big a thing out here.

Hell, there’s even a 10 billion member marching band at every single game.

And the marching band is typically more fun to watch than the actual football game itself.

Sort of like the halftime show during The Super Bowl.

At eight dollars a ticket for the privilege of sitting on rock-hard metal bleachers for three to four hours, watching the clock move in slower motion than logically possible…

How could it be anything but exciting?

Right?

I personally pass the time alternately playing on my phone, staring in disbelief at my watch, and glancing at the score board.

But I’m sure some people are actually watching the game.

Probably.

What better way to spend a Friday night?

I mean, besides sleeping.

Never mind the fact that I have to get up at 3 am the next morning for work.

If I’m having such a blast, why do I keep going to these games, you might wonder?

Well, to support my amazing mascot, of course!

But at eight dollars a ticket…

I could go see a movie for that price.

Or at buy a great cocktail.

Especially after sitting on those sadistic ass-numbing, back-breaking bleachers.

Sure, it’d be more cost-effective to stay home in my pajamas, watching reruns on Netflix.

But I suppose it beats sitting at home.

Sometimes, at least.

Especially when things get really exciting.

Between evacuations, stampedes, and near-electrocutions, it has been a fairly exciting season so far.

Almost every home game has kicked off with a lightning evacuation.

During the very first quarter.

Which is especially thrilling when lightning menacingly illuminates the sky and rain comes pouring down in an attempt to recreate Noah’s Ark, right there in the middle of the football field.

The bleachers are at full capacity.

Of course.

Because everyone in town is at the game.

Did I mention the bleachers are metal?

And metal conducts electricity.

Which is ever-so-slightly concerning.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t enjoy high school football games enough to risk electrocution.

And so the stampedes begin.

Which is a rather refreshing break from some of those obnoxious, screeching, know-it-all fans.

Yeesh.

Perhaps this is why I never bothered to attend any games when I was in high school.

Nothing against school sports and all the good qualities they help foster.

But sometimes I wonder why I pay to get hit in the head with rogue balls at games where excessively vocal away team fans conduct themselves as though the home team had the audacity to cross into Oakland Raiders territory.

Yikes.

The things we do for our children.

We support our kids.

Even when it risks our last remaining thread of sanity.

Because our kids will always remember that we were there for them.

Especially if we embarrass the hell out of them with our mere presence.

Because embarrassment and support apparently go hand in hand.

Go team, go!

Woooo!!!

~Happy Friday, friends! Have a great weekend!~

It's Friday night! Um, yay?

It’s Friday night! Um, yay?

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Frantic Feeding Frenzy

It’s become an unofficial contest.

A challenge of sorts.

How quickly can these two boys of mine eat all the food in the house?

Or better yet…

All the newly purchased groceries?

Before they’re even out of the shopping bags?

Last week, I bought an overflowing cart full of groceries on Saturday.

We were nearly out of food by Tuesday.

Almost nothing left for dinner.

Almost nothing left to pack for school lunches.

One over-dramatic child resorted to drinking from an expired gallon of water from our makeshift storm shelter closet.

(Wait… Water actually expires?!?)

What’s next on the to-eat list, Jett’s dog food?

At least The Bigly Bestest doesn’t eat all his food in one sitting.

Gotta love teenagers.

Especially boys.

The time it takes teenage boys to eat seems to be directly proportionate to the quantity.

For instance:

A box of eight waffles will get devoured in approximately eight seconds.

Which averages out to one second per waffle.

And a six-pack of yogurt cups will last all of six seconds.

This pattern continues in a sickening whirlwind for several minutes.

Until all that’s left are raisins.

And so they move on to rummaging in my purse.

Until they gleefully discover a tin of mints.

Snacking on mints.

Wow.

At least these two haven’t yet resorted to drinking maple syrup out of the jar for a quick pick-me-up.

Sheesh.

They’ll claim that there’s nothing to eat, when clearly there is something still left.

Sure, it may not always be their first choice.

But when you’re snacking on mints, is that really the time to be picky?

How can you tell me you refuse to eat blackberries?

So don’t tell me there’s no food in the house when there are perfectly good berries here.

Eat the damn berries!

Oh, you’re starving?

But not enough to eat that delicious asparagus sauté , huh?

Or some plain yogurt?

Well, that’s fine.

More for me!

And whatever we don’t eat, we apparently save for the ants.

That’s right.

Ants.

Entire freaking colonies of ants.

Because we have yet to master the art of properly closing bags when we’re done snacking.

And so they march across the bottom shelf of the pantry, systematically working their way up the shelves like some kind of microscopic parade.

Until they’ve effectively invaded every last item in the kitchen pantry.

Cereal boxes.

Crackers.

Cheese puffs.

Jett’s special dog treats.

Well.

At least there was hardly any food left to begin with.

~Happy Friday, friends! Have a great weekend!~

Actual footage from our mealtime frenzies.

Actual footage from our mealtime frenzies.

Driving Mr. Mascot, Part 2

Slow down.

Slow down!!

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SLOW THE @&*% DOWN!!!

With 30 minutes to spare after dropping my younger child off at his guitar lesson…

It was the perfect opportunity to continue working with my older son (a.k.a. Mascot Boy) on his driving skills.

And so he took the wheel.

Figuring it was only three miles from the music school to our house, it wouldn’t necessarily be an unreasonable walk for my younger one if scary driver Mascot Boy and I didn’t make it back alive from driving practice.

Unfortunately, the fact that it’s been unseasonably hot out made it a less than optimal scenario.

But it’s always good to have a plan, right?

Mr. Mascot decided he’d like to practice in a shopping parking lot that day.

Did you know different rules apply in parking lots?

Namely, there are no rules .

Especially in a Walmart parking lot.

Between vehicles blindly pulling out in front of other traffic with no regard to right of way, and overall mayhem in general…

The very notion of safe driving seems to go right down the toilet.

All I knew is that I sure as hell didn’t want to die in the Walmart parking lot.

I’d rather get eaten by my dog.

Not that my precious Jett would ever eat me.

But still.

Dying at Walmart/in the Walmart parking lot is definitely not the way I’d like to go.

Especially with a 16-year-old driver behind the wheel.

And not only does this 16-year-old believe he already knows everything there is possibly to know about driving…

I’ve somehow recently ended up with two backseat drivers whenever I’m driving.

Because even though my 13-year-old hasn’t had any formal driving instruction, he too  believes he now magically knows everything there is to know about driving.

Specifically, that he and his brother know everything.

And I, the driver with two decades of experience, know nothing.

As if I suddenly need coaching on how to safely maneuver a vehicle.

That didn’t feel like a complete stop.

You forgot your turn signal! Right in front of that cop over there!

I’m pretty sure even I have better judgement than you!

Meanwhile, Mr. Mascot has taken a liking to barreling full-speed toward red lights.

I’m starting to think I ought to be wearing a blindfold when I’m in the passenger seat.

He attempted to park next to the only car in the back row of the parking lot.

Which happened to be a BMW vaguely resembling The Batmobile.

Which happened to be one that we really can’t afford to gently nudge from behind or do a drive-by mirror sideswipe on.

After one unsuccessful attempt of parking straight in between the lines, I strongly encouraged him to find a different spot.

Away from other cars.

All other cars.

After surviving the Walmart parking lot, we headed back to the music school to pick up child number two.

We arrived safely.

The parking lot was under heavy construction.

So we soared over a massive mud bump, Dukes of Hazzard style.

But ultimately, we didn’t get pulled over by any cops.

And even more importantly, we survived.

So it’s a win.

I’ve come to realize that my son’s learning to drive comes at a price.

The expense of fuel.

And the expense of my sanity.

Which has long been precariously dangling by a thin thread.

Oh, but at least I’m getting a break from driving, right?

If your idea of a break is anxiety, panic, or a heart attack, then yes.

Thanks to me, my dear child, you are gaining experience.

Thanks to you, my dear child, I seem to be losing experience.

Or my sanity.

One of the two.

Or both.

~Happy Saturday, friends! Click here if you’d like to read Part 1 of our exciting driving experiences. Have a great weekend, and watch out for nervous Student  Drivers and their equally terrified parents! Haha!~

The Danger Zone... it's a real thing.

The Danger Zone… it’s a real thing.

Failing at Fashion: Denim in Distress

So, I almost strangled myself to death the other day.

In a fitting room at Kohls.

With a sundress.

It’s true.

The sadistic contraption had way the hell too many straps.

Clothing and injury.

These two things evidently go hand in hand.

I’ve said  it before.

And I’ll gladly say it again.

I don’t understand the world of fashion.

Not one teeny, tiny bit.

Upside down jeans are poised to be the next big trend in denim.

Whoa.

And not the good kind of whoa.

More like, woe.

Upside down pants with upside down pockets and useless belt loops that graze your ankles?

Hmm.

Too kooky.

The best part, though?

They’re only $495!

But at least they cover one’s butt.

Unlike crotchless jeans.

Which are essentially a couple of scraps of denim, held together by…

Chains.

And complete with a fully exposed rear, to boot.

Definitely worth $142, don’t ya think?

Or how about the practically nonexistent jeans that couldn’t?

Couldn’t cover a thing, that is.

With 90 percent less fabric than the average pair of jeans, the $223 extreme cutout jeans with exposed pockets and exposed butt cheeks are really something.

Or not much of anything, depending on how you look at it.

And let’s talk about floss jeans.

Described as extreme lace-up jeans…

The floss-like threads comprising the leg portion are essentially thin bungee cords that wrap around the legs.

They look insanely time-consuming to put on or get off.

And downright dangerous.

It would be more efficient to wedge a wild and wiggly lunatic into a straight jacket than to squirm and squeeze your way into a pair of floss jeans.

At least they’re only $168.

Nice, right?

Ha!

For that kind of money, I expect clothing to…

a) Not to be safety endangering.

b) Not make me die of hypothermia from lack of coverage.

c) To cover my literal butt.

Is this so unreasonable?

Oh wait.

Maybe that’s just, like, not cool.

Or something.

I don’t know.

I’m not a fan of holey stuff.

Especially paying for intentionally damaged goods in the name of fashion.

Not with my hard-earned money, thank you very much.

I refuse to pay for “distressed” monstrosities.

And for heaven’s sake, no more buttless jeans!

Oh, now here’s a real winner!

Clear knee jeans.

For only $95.

Complete with…

Stylish knee windows!

And fully covered butt and crotch areas!

Jackpot!

But why stop at clear knees…

When you can rock a full pair of clear “jeans” for only $100.

They’re pants… without actually being pants.

Or how about half jeans, a.k.a. one leg jeans?

They’re perfect for those who can’t decide whether they’re hot or cold.

Nothing like half a pair of pants.

With even more butt cheeky exposure!

Oh, and  let’s not forget about zipper jeans that zip all the way around.

Presumably to air out your cheeks at your discretion.

Wow.

What a mess.

Fashion fads.

They come and they go.

But the fashion industry is clearly flying by the seat of their buttless, crotchless pants.

~Happy Friday, friends! Anyone in the market for pantless pants? If so, you’re in luck! I’m sure some designer, somewhere out there, is busy turning your dream into reality! Haha! Have a great weekend!~

Pants? Torture device? You be the judge...

Pants? Torture device? You be the judge…

Spatulas and Spiderman

Crash!

There’s only one explanation for this.

My house clearly was designed for a ginormous NBA player.

While Shaquille O’Neal would likely be in his element here…

I can’t reach past the second shelf in any of my kitchen cabinets.

Not easily, anyway.

And so I climb.

Or I whack things off those higher shelves.

With a spatula.

Which is why sometimes things go flying off the shelves and hit the ground instead of landing in my hand as intended.

Like that glass I just tried to knock off the third shelf.

Thank goodness it wasn’t the fourth shelf, or everything might’ve come crashing down at my feet.

Usually I can thread a spatula through the handle of a mug and hoist it down like a firefighter valiantly rescuing someone from a burning building.

But not everything in the cabinet has handles.

And so it doesn’t always work out quite the way I plan.

Evident by the occasional crashes and thuds.

Cake pans.

Touch up paint cans.

These things are all out of my reach range.

The cereal boxes are also well out of my reach, in the pantry.

But I don’t feel bad whacking those off the shelf with my spatula.

Because at least if they hit the ground, they don’t shatter and spew shards everywhere.

Sure, there might be a few rogue Cheerios on the loose.

But it’s preferable to glass shards all over the floor.

In case you’re wondering, I do have a ladder.

Several, actually.

But I don’t always feel like hauling one around.

By the time I locate one, haul it over, yank it open…

I could’ve already scaled the kitchen counter faster than Spiderman and grabbed whatever I needed.

So yeah.

I save ladders for more pressing matters.

Like for when the fire alarm goes off in the middle of the night and I’m a solid two feet away from even reaching the damn thing to deactivate it.

Fortunately, I’m a pro at climbing random fixtures.

I seem to be part Spiderman, part monkey.

Wait.

Would this make me a spider monkey?!

Hmm.

At barely over five feet tall, so many things are just out of my reach.

And so I am forced to resort to climbing onto the kitchen and bathroom counters to gain a few inches.

Or feet.

But not just at home, either.

I also scale the shelves at various stores without a second thought.

Oh, come  on.

Whose bright idea was it to stock products  so far above my head?

I rest my case.

I gotta do what I gotta do.

Especially since I don’t bring my handy spatula to the store with me.

Because that’d be weird, right?

The mighty spatula.

Small but powerful.

Just like me.

The Spiderman monkey girl.

I can’t reach much of anything.

And I’m okay with that.

On the bright side…

At least I’m rarely in danger of hitting my head on a doorway.

And yet I still manage to whack my head on car doors.

Go figure.

~Happy Friday, friends! Have a great weekend!~

An actual image of me in action...

An actual image of me in action…

Back to School Blues

It’s that time again.

Back to school time.

Yippee.

More like back to gaaah!

Can you feel the enthusiasm?

Yeah.

Me, neither.

Nobody wants to get out of bed bright and early for school.

Including me.

Especially me.

The novelty has already worn off.

And it hasn’t even been a full week.

Sure, my boys have been complaining of acute boredom for the last ten weeks.

But rarely is a child so bored that they eagerly anticipate returning to school.

My younger son seems especially over it already.

By day two, his alarm clock lay on the floor in pieces, its batteries scattered haphazardly.

It’s no fun for me, either.

There’s the stressful challenge of packing lunches they’ll actually eat.

And having to make sure they’re sanitary enough to be seen in public.

And worst of all…

Homework.

That’s no fun.

For anyone.

Not only that…

Yesterday, we had to do a second round of school supply shopping.

Because once obviously was neither fun enough nor expensive enough.

Or sanity-endangering enough.

Hooray for Walmart and their disorderly heaps of leftover back to school crap!

I mean, supplies.

And so it’s back to battling the clock.

And traffic.

And Walmart.

Yikes.

But now that the kids are back in school, it’s a great time for me to work on catching up on all the things I’d fallen behind on this summer.

Like cleaning.

And writing.

And reading.

And more cleaning.

Oh, who am I kidding?

I’ve somehow managed to fall behind in life as a whole.

I’d probably settle for catching up on sleep, at this point.

But there’s no rest for the weary.

Or the worried.

It’s hard to sleep while my mind gallops off like a crack-addicted race horse.

By the same token…

It’s also hard to accomplish anything that way.

So much to do.

So little motivation to do any of it.

But, hey.

At least my kids are being more productive at the moment.

They’re probably learning something  at school.

Maybe.

Hopefully.

So long, lazy days of summer.

Hello, back to school madness.

If nothing else, it’s back to devising ways of embarrassing my kids at school functions.

I suppose that counts as being productive.

Right?

~Happy weekend, friends! And Happy Birthday to my favorite mascot boy! Woo hoo!~

Augh! Not this again! Didn't summer just start?!

Augh! Not this again! Didn’t summer just start?!

Dog Days of Summer Break, Part 2

Get off the horse!!!

I mean, the dog!

The dog is not a horse!

I don’t care if you’re not actually sitting on him.

Does he look like he’s enjoying himself?!?

Well.

Looks like we’re ending the summer the same way we started it.

By tormenting the poor dog.

Since The Bigly Bestest Doggie hasn’t yet mastered eating at a table while seated in a chair, my boys have evidently moved on to bigger, better things.

Like transforming him into a horse.

Ah, well.

School starts next week.

So while the boys’ summer break is coming to a close…

The doggie’s break is finally about to start.

And just in time.

Who knows?

In another week, they might’ve turned him into a trash-eating goat.

Yikes!

~Happy Friday, friends! Can you believe it’s almost time for school again?! Where does the time go?~

Do I look like a horse? It's back to school for you, boy!

Do I look like a horse? It’s back to school for you, boy!

Artless, Clay-Brained Barnacles

Folly, fool-born fustilarian!

Yeasty, ill-bred horn-beast!

Puny, milk-livered lout!

Who on earth might make such puzzling and disparaging remarks?

Why, William Shakespeare, of course!

The man was a master of snarky insults.

It’s probably safe to say he wasn’t much of a people person.

You know, what with all the harsh sentiments and all.

One thing’s for certain:

Nobody could’ve ever accused him of mincing words.

Not with that aptitude for verbally destroying anyone with the audacity to be anywhere in his vicinity.

Now that is talent!

And what better way to mark my 200th post than with insults, threats, and snarky remarks galore!

(Whew! Is it hot in here, or is it just me?)

(Everyone knows that elbows are best used for bending. And elbowing others. Which can be lethal, if done properly. Which I suspect the sharp-tongued Shakespeare must’ve been well aware of.)

(Not sure what a knotty-pated fool is, but it doesn’t sound very flattering. And yet, it sounds almost like a sweet compliment compared to the subsequent line. Yikes!)

(Now this is a dubious claim. If he wanted to beat somebody badly enough, age wouldn’t likely have been the biggest factor, given the intensity behind his words. Just sayin’…)

(I don’t know what it is, but some people just seem to have that effect on others.)

(Ass-whoopings and contempt for lack of intelligence seem to be a common theme here. Shakespeare probably could’ve benefited from a punching bag to release his multitude of frustrations.)

(Aw, come on. Surely everyone has at least one redeemable quality. Unless they’d landed themselves on Shakespeare’s shit list, that is.)

(Ha! It’s lights out for you, Scallywag!)

(Commendable use of heaven and hell, all in one hellishly fine simile!)

(I’ve never seen a stewed prune, so it’s hard to say how much faith I’d be comfortable placing in it. But I suppose the prune could theoretically warrant more faith than the average sheep-biting harpy. Whatever the heck that is.)

(If eyes are the windows to one’s soul, then it’d be wise to protect both eyes and soul from infectious stupidity.)

(It’s been said familiarity breeds contempt…)

(Oh, crap! It’s too late!!!)

While these were all so…delightful, I’d never personally say anything like this to another human being.

Not only because of the somewhat obsolete terminology…

But because, well, it’s kind of rude.

But still humorous, nonetheless.

~Happy Saturday, friends! Feeling inspired by Shakespeare? Great! Just don’t use that inspiration to turn all your friends into enemies. Yeesh!~

Dinner and No Motorcycle

Actually, no.

Let’s amend that to no motorcycle yet.

Building off of last week’s anniversary blog

Consider this a sequel of sorts.

Sadist that I am, I simply can’t have a good time without conducting myself like a glutton for punishment.

On the morning of my anniversary, I started off the day by going to work.

I got off early enough for us to still get out and do things, I reasoned, so I didn’t really need to take the day off.

So I went to work.

And I sliced a gash in my leg on the corner of a cardboard box.

I probably should’ve stayed home.

But at least I arrived home to a nice surprise.

My husband had gotten me a portable Shiatsu massager.

I put that sucker to work as soon as I yanked it out of the box.

And used it nonstop throughout that afternoon and evening.

Which led to bruising myself from prolonged use as I attempted to work out the billion tension knots in my neck.

Which hasn’t stopped me from using it every single day for the last week.

With my younger son’s help and insistence, my son…uh, I mean, husband, received a lovely video game for our anniversary.

Need for Speed Payback.

Because nothing says Happy Anniversary like a racing game.

In my defense, my child and I wandered each and every aisle at Target ten times over while hauling an overflowing hand basket.

Which was equal to the weight of a baby elephant.

Because it was loaded down with a dozen bottles of açaí  Vitamin Water that my child had tossed in.

And so we kept switching off basket-carrying duties as we continued to look for the perfect anniversary gift for the good part of an hour.

Somehow, we eventually settled on a PlayStation game as the perfect present.

At least my son…I mean, husband, has been thoroughly enjoying his new game.

Anyway, we didn’t actually make it out to dinner on our anniversary.

Because we decided to stay home and watch The Martian on Netflix.

So the following evening, we ventured into a nice little Italian restaurant we’d been talking about trying for the past couple of years.

And get this:

There were actual people in this restaurant!

And our waiter was not intoxicated!

Perhaps we should have asked the guy to quickly guzzle a few beers in an attempt to replicate our horrid seven-years-prior Greek restaurant anniversary experience?

Right.

We enjoyed some fried ravioli.

And lasagna.

And homemade bread.

No greasy, slimy, rock-hard monstrosities whatsoever.

The bartender even made a little chocolate syrup heart in my chocolate martini.

It was undoubtedly one of our better anniversary dining experiences.

So that was nice, for a change.

Now, as for our first-ever motorcycle we’d been contemplating buying back?

Turns out the dealership’s asking price was much too high.

Almost as much as we had sold it for two years ago.

And so we put in a more reasonable offer.

They declined.

Typical used vehicle over-inflation nonsense.

I guess there’s only one thing left to do:

Operation Steal Back Our Bike!

We do still have one spare key.

We could easily go in and get it back.

Just pop the key in and take off like bats out of hell.

Or not.

Because then I’d have to change this post title to Dinner and Jail.

~Happy Saturday, friends! Have a great weekend!~

Well, hello again, green Ninja!

Well, hello again, green Ninja!

Dinner and a Motorcycle

Whew!

It’s been hotter than Hades lately.

But then, it seems the intense summer heat is inspiring for new beginnings.

At least, for me.

My blog anniversary was just a few days ago.

And now, it’s my anniversary anniversary.

And much like my magnetism for memorable birthdays…

There was one highly memorable anniversary that tells quite the tale.

The year was 2011.

My husband DJ and I decided to celebrate by going out for dinner.

But first…

We stopped at a motorcycle shop.

Which inevitably led to the purchase of a motorcycle.

After long day of work.

When judgment is always at its peak.

Because everybody knows that’s the best time to make big decisions.

It’s also common knowledge that just looking at something translates roughly to:

Let’s buy this thing!

Like, right now!

Because, really, when was the last time we’d gotten anything nice for ourselves?

And did I mention it was our ten year anniversary?

A big anniversary like that warranted something big.

Like a motorcycle.

Tradition dictates that year ten should be gifted with tin or aluminum.

While I’m usually not one to care overly much about traditions in the sense of gifts…

Aren’t bikes made of steel and aluminum?

Ha!

Anyway…

It was an electric green Kawasaki Ninja 650R in great shape.

I liked it.

DJ liked it.

So we signed a contract and we were on our merry way.

The funny part?

Spontaneously buying a motorcycle turned out to be the most normal part of our evening.

Celebrating in memorable ways seems to a talent for us.

(Horses, anyone?)

After buying the bike, we figured we’d enjoy a nice meal out.

And so we drove to a Greek restaurant I’d been to only once before, several years earlier.

It was way on the other side of town, so we didn’t get out that way too often.

But I remembered loving that restaurant.

It was a Saturday night.

And the parking lot was desolate.

That right there should’ve been an omen.

But that didn’t stop us from going in.

We were greeted by a host who looked like he’d had a few drinks himself.

Which was entirely probable, given the impressive bar in full view behind him.

And…

As luck would have it, our drunken host turned out to also be our drunken waiter.

There was no other sign of life whatsoever within those four walls.

No other diners.

No other waitstaff.

Nada.

Had this tipsy waiter just killed the rest of the restaurant staff? 

Which would have been rather unfortunate, given the fact they prided themselves on being a family owned and operated business.

But I remembered truly enjoying a scrumptious assortment of authentic Mediterranean food in my previous trip.

So we stuck around like the sadists we apparently were.

Our waiter ambled around momentarily before producing two sad-looking menus, held together by uneven patches of tape.

Despite an authentic-looking Greece interior, nothing about this looked overly promising.

But we were hungry.

And remained cautiously optimistic.

Spoiler alert:

When the food came, it did not get any better.

With spanakopita slimier than worms, pita bread that could crack a pig’s head open, and hummus that tasted more like mud than mashed chickpeas, it bared no resemblance to my previous dining experience.

Did we save room for dessert, the stumbling drunk inquired?

Right.

It didn’t matter if it was our anniversary.

We’d already had all the fun we could handle, without gambling on dessert.

It was beyond comprehension how this restaurant had been a six-time Best Greek Restaurant winner, awarded by a local newspaper.

Incidentally, 2011 was the last year they’d won the prestigious award.

Which was the second and final time I set foot in that place.

I must’ve been really, really hungry that first time.

Or maybe things just really, really went down the toilet in the few years since I’d first gone.

I scoped out some Yelp reviews to see if we were crazy, or if it had just been an off night.

But no.

“I thought that I was part of an elaborate prop set for what would be a great tragedy. The place is certainly capable visually of transporting you to Ellada (Greek word for Greece). The place was also as barren as an off-season tourist trap near Plakka. The only two other people there seemed to be regulars.”

And this one:

“I am certain from the many posted accolades all over the walls of the place that this restaurant was indeed great. But its day has come and gone and its legendary service and cuisine is all but a page of mythology.”

But then there were a few reviews like this one:

Amazing food. Authentic and unique. The wait staff is incredibly friendly and helpful.

Unique, yes.

Incredible?

In a way, yes.

But not in any positive sense of the word.

Love the entire experience!

Seriously?!?

I mean, our experience was plenty memorable.

But definitely not in the way of loving it.

Don’t get me wrong.

I’m all for irony.

But, wow.

So on one hand, its stellar past was not a figment of my imagination.

On the other hand…

Had those few satisfied diners had their hummus spiked?

It’s uncanny.

That whole dining experience had been way, way off the mark.

Suffice it to say, the heat wasn’t the only hellish factor on that day seven years ago.

But, hey.

A cool motorcycle and a freakish dining experience.

Which, evidently, meet all my criteria for a memorable evening.

We ended up selling that motorcycle two years ago, when my husband decided to upgrade.

Yet, in an interesting twist of fate…

It’s now for sale again.

And it’s our anniversary again.

Is this a sign we ought to buy it back, for the sake of nostalgia?

Is it fate?

I guess we shall see…

~Happy Saturday! Have a fantastic weekend, everyone!~

Nothing like an anniversary motorcycle! Now let's see if it's meant to be... a second time.

Nothing like an anniversary motorcycle! Now let’s see if it’s meant to be… a second time.