Boy. I had some bad kharma shine down on me with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns this past week. Hate valet parking and the bars on Washington for no valid reason, missy? Oh we’ll give you a reason to complain, don’t you worry your little head.
So last Thursday I went to a work happy hour downtown. The HSH met me there, and then we headed over to Kobain’s to meet other assorted people. I looked in vain for parking on the street, but after calling the HSH (we were in separate cars) and confirming he had valeted, I figured what the hay, I’ll do it too. Bad idea. I was already annoyed when exiting the bar because the valet was taking his sweet time in crossing the parking lot to get my ticket, then his sweet time to get back to the key stand. Then I got super annoyed when he started heading back toward me on foot, as opposed to in my car. “What kind of car was it?” Uhhhhhh, do I get to pick? I mean, if I’m getting a free pass here, I’m sure I can find something in the lot I like. But honest as I am (plus I’m not trying to go to jail for grand theft auto or anything), I told him my car, and off he went again. Still at the pace of a sponge. Good thing this guy is not working for tips. Oh wait.
Anyway, he came back about 5 minutes later, this time with a cohort. Turns out, they had my car, but they didn’t have my keys. Small problem. I described my keys, even went over to look for them myself in the key box, and nothing. No keys. No where. Seriously. I can’t make this stuff up. The absolute worst part about it was that these guys seemed to care less. I mean you’re a VALET! Keys are your bread and butter! HOW DO YOU LOSE KEYS!?! Even worse (it gets worse) I walked over to my car to see if they had locked them inside somehow. Hard to lock keys in an UNLOCKED CAR! I don’t know what pissed me off more: the fact that my car was left unlocked all night, or that my keys weren’t just in there so I could go home and put this all behind me. The valet offered to pay for me to find a cab home. This was their version of making the situation right. Are you kidding me? Thankfully for me, the HSH had gone home before me. Not so thankfully for him, he had to get out of bed to bring me my spare key and a house key. That pissed me off as well. What if I had been a single gal? A cab ride home would have been about as useful as hind legs on a whale since my house key was on my key ring that the valet had just lost. (The first person to lecture me on separating my keys when valeting might lose an eye). Anyway, the owner of the company swore up and down that he would pay to have my car & house re-keyed as I left the premises. Of course he promptly forgot that he promised that, when I contacted him in the morning to tell him how much it was going to cost him. He didn’t see why he should have to have my house rekeyed. Despite me explaining that my car had been unlocked all night long, and anyone with a brain could look inside my glove compartment and get an address off of my insurance cards. He assured me his guys had kept an eye on the car and no one had broken into it. SERIOUSLY? Your guys couldn’t even be trusted to keep an eye on my KEYS and you want me to believe they kept an eye on my car? Please. Sell crazy to someone else because we’re all stocked up here.
After a threatening letter was sent over documenting my expenses to have everything re-keyed, I was pretty sure they were going to pay. And then you know what happened? Those of you in the audience guessing that my keys turned up would win a gold star for the day. Turns out the valet left my keys in another customer’s car and they returned them that night. Or so they say. All I know is that now, more than ever, I hate valets—despite what kharma that brings down on me.
Special shout out to NJ & Bossman who hung with me during the ordeal, and NJ for her letter writing skillz.
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Sofia!
My newest niece is here! I can't wait to meet her. In the mean time, hop on over to the Newport branch of our family to check out some pictures!
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
My Husband Isn't Speaking To Me
And it has something to do with this...
You see, for months I’ve been talking about how I want better flower beds in front of my charming little house. Makes sense right? Charming houses have charming gardens. I’ve lived here for 2 years now, and I’ve always sensed my front yard was begging me for an upgrade. I avoid walking through the front door, because the low whimper I hear from it tugs at my heart strings. Last Sunday I couldn’t take it anymore. So while the HSH was off being a football coach (of the fantasy nature) I enlisted the help of Bossman and together we destroyed my front yard. And by together I mean I somehow roped him into doing all the digging while I fetched water and halfheartedly poked at the dirt under the guise of ‘breaking it up’. Why is he my friend? I’m not sure, but I fully expect our friendship to end shortly unless I buy him his weight in beer to make up for this escapade. Anyway, by the time the HSH came home, I was sitting on the couch and the only progress I had made toward a charming garden was replacing a large chunk of my husbands wonderfully maintained grass, with a mixture of sand & clay (see picture). A word about our lawn: we could have it cut for about 20 bucks. But the HSH is one of those freaks that actually enjoys doing the yard. Plus he received an “Extreme Home Make-Over”’s worth of lawn equipment for the wedding, so it only makes sense that he get some use out of it. Even if our yard is so small Ripken could water it solely with the drool he creates while barking at the stray cats from behind the fence. I digress.
Point is, this whole task has been a little harder than I anticipated, and the HSH is none too pleased. Tonight, we will till in some good dirt, to make up for all the bad dirt that lays beneath the current grass. Then on Saturday we will purchase some fancy rocks that I want to use as a border. The goal is to have the beds ready for plants that I will purchase and put in the ground sometime in the first few weeks of September. I will keep you updated, on both the garden, and when the HSH starts speaking to me again.
You see, for months I’ve been talking about how I want better flower beds in front of my charming little house. Makes sense right? Charming houses have charming gardens. I’ve lived here for 2 years now, and I’ve always sensed my front yard was begging me for an upgrade. I avoid walking through the front door, because the low whimper I hear from it tugs at my heart strings. Last Sunday I couldn’t take it anymore. So while the HSH was off being a football coach (of the fantasy nature) I enlisted the help of Bossman and together we destroyed my front yard. And by together I mean I somehow roped him into doing all the digging while I fetched water and halfheartedly poked at the dirt under the guise of ‘breaking it up’. Why is he my friend? I’m not sure, but I fully expect our friendship to end shortly unless I buy him his weight in beer to make up for this escapade. Anyway, by the time the HSH came home, I was sitting on the couch and the only progress I had made toward a charming garden was replacing a large chunk of my husbands wonderfully maintained grass, with a mixture of sand & clay (see picture). A word about our lawn: we could have it cut for about 20 bucks. But the HSH is one of those freaks that actually enjoys doing the yard. Plus he received an “Extreme Home Make-Over”’s worth of lawn equipment for the wedding, so it only makes sense that he get some use out of it. Even if our yard is so small Ripken could water it solely with the drool he creates while barking at the stray cats from behind the fence. I digress.
Point is, this whole task has been a little harder than I anticipated, and the HSH is none too pleased. Tonight, we will till in some good dirt, to make up for all the bad dirt that lays beneath the current grass. Then on Saturday we will purchase some fancy rocks that I want to use as a border. The goal is to have the beds ready for plants that I will purchase and put in the ground sometime in the first few weeks of September. I will keep you updated, on both the garden, and when the HSH starts speaking to me again.
Monday, August 25, 2008
Over It
On Friday, the Halfstreet had an unexpected tour of the new “Washington Corridor” here in Htown. You know a place has arrived when people start naming it, though they are going to have to come up with something catchier than that if “they” want it to stick. (For our faithful readers, not in Htwon, Washington Ave is a street over on the Halfstreets side of town, that has recently seen an influx of trendy dining and drinking spots. It has also gotten a recent increase in attention.) Trendsetters that we are, the Halfstreet has long frequented several places with Washington Ave. addresses. In fact our wedding reception and impromptu after party were both on Washington, so I guess that makes us uber-hipsters. Sadly our recent experiences haven’t been so positive.
A couple Friday's ago, the HSH was out of town, and I was out with the Bossman (so called because I work for him, and ‘guy I’ve known for 8 years and who saved me from consulting hell’ doesn’t have as nice a ring to it), Rog (of burger fame) & NJ (of Miami fame). After the typical starter course at Candelari’s we ventured over to Pearl Bar. I had been there before and thought it was decent. Nice atmosphere, good jukebox, not overly priced. But since then I had gotten a RAVE review from an acquaintance. He called it “hands down the absolute best bar in Houston” so the group decided it deserved revisiting. After all, if I had known I was in the BEST BAR IN HOUSTON the first time, I would have taken note and spread the gospel to the Halfstreet. I should have been tipped off by the valet parking (rampant on Washington and previously discussed here). But sadly I’ve become so used to it, that I hardly notice these days. Soon after entering the bar though, it was very clear to me that not only was it NOT the best bar in Houston, it might vie for worst. There was a 6 people deep moat that ran the entire length of the bar, and the bartenders didn’t seem like they were in a hurry to actually serve anyone. Combined with the fact that it was so packed, that it was impossible to find a place for 4 people to stand even remotely together (and that’s with Rog as lead blocker, not an insignificant force) and we were ready to get out of there in about 7 minutes, or as fast as we could drink our one beer. Apparently my acquaintance had been spreading the gospel just fine all on his own, and he managed to turn his favorite bar into a poorly serviced cattle car. Moo. Maybe there was a time in my life when the more packed a bar was the more I enjoyed it, but those days are loooong gone. These days I want a crowd somewhere between crickets-chirping-empty, and drink-knocked-out-of-hand packed (which actually happened at Pearl). On the plus side, not wanting to waste our valet parked car, we ventured across the street to a shady looking watering hole called the Chaise Lounge. This was way more our style. Nice crowd, but not impossible to get a drink. Smallish, and not filled with pretentious jerks. Check, Check Check and Check. We thought we had a winner.
Fast forward to this past Friday. We again started at Candelari’s to rally the troops and partake in $5 happy hour pizza (gosh I love that place), and then figured we should take the HSH over to see what we had found the weekend before. MJ (NJ's brother—are you keeping up with this?) and Bossman arrived ahead of the HSH, Rog, and myself. They were waiting on the street when we arrived. Either Rog has a bigger mouth than I knew, or we weren’t the only ones who had gotten fed up with the crowd across the street at Pearl Bar. Either way, our new little find on Washington lasted exactly one week before turning into the same poorly serviced cattle car that Pearl is. Grrrr.
We loaded up (left one car in valet because they told Bossman it would take over 45 minutes to get his car…seriously, are you starting to see why I HATE valet in Houston?) and headed over to another new place on Washington (I told you, they are everywhere). We found a prime parking space without the aid of valet (take that!) and were excited about maybe finding a place that would last longer than a week. WRONG. We were met at the door by a man wearing a black suit, black shirt, and red tie and told we would not gain entry to his establishment, as the Bossman was wearing flip flops and MJ was wearing tenny’s. Oh. My. God. Seriously people. Two months ago this place was inhabited by hobo's and now we can’t get in based on footwear? You’re kidding right? No? Buh-bye. I was annoyed beyond belief. Not that there aren’t places in Houston that I expect that from, but not on Washington. Please not on Washington.
In the end, we ended up at the same place we always go, feeling thoroughly punished for trying to expand our comfort zone. I think it’s all a sign of my impending 30th birthday. There was a time in the not so distant past where none of this stuff would have bothered me. Valet? How convenient! Way crowded? Look at all these great people! Now it’s just a recipe for a blog posting about how I’m so over all this Washington Corridor crap. Next stop: Retirement home.
A couple Friday's ago, the HSH was out of town, and I was out with the Bossman (so called because I work for him, and ‘guy I’ve known for 8 years and who saved me from consulting hell’ doesn’t have as nice a ring to it), Rog (of burger fame) & NJ (of Miami fame). After the typical starter course at Candelari’s we ventured over to Pearl Bar. I had been there before and thought it was decent. Nice atmosphere, good jukebox, not overly priced. But since then I had gotten a RAVE review from an acquaintance. He called it “hands down the absolute best bar in Houston” so the group decided it deserved revisiting. After all, if I had known I was in the BEST BAR IN HOUSTON the first time, I would have taken note and spread the gospel to the Halfstreet. I should have been tipped off by the valet parking (rampant on Washington and previously discussed here). But sadly I’ve become so used to it, that I hardly notice these days. Soon after entering the bar though, it was very clear to me that not only was it NOT the best bar in Houston, it might vie for worst. There was a 6 people deep moat that ran the entire length of the bar, and the bartenders didn’t seem like they were in a hurry to actually serve anyone. Combined with the fact that it was so packed, that it was impossible to find a place for 4 people to stand even remotely together (and that’s with Rog as lead blocker, not an insignificant force) and we were ready to get out of there in about 7 minutes, or as fast as we could drink our one beer. Apparently my acquaintance had been spreading the gospel just fine all on his own, and he managed to turn his favorite bar into a poorly serviced cattle car. Moo. Maybe there was a time in my life when the more packed a bar was the more I enjoyed it, but those days are loooong gone. These days I want a crowd somewhere between crickets-chirping-empty, and drink-knocked-out-of-hand packed (which actually happened at Pearl). On the plus side, not wanting to waste our valet parked car, we ventured across the street to a shady looking watering hole called the Chaise Lounge. This was way more our style. Nice crowd, but not impossible to get a drink. Smallish, and not filled with pretentious jerks. Check, Check Check and Check. We thought we had a winner.
Fast forward to this past Friday. We again started at Candelari’s to rally the troops and partake in $5 happy hour pizza (gosh I love that place), and then figured we should take the HSH over to see what we had found the weekend before. MJ (NJ's brother—are you keeping up with this?) and Bossman arrived ahead of the HSH, Rog, and myself. They were waiting on the street when we arrived. Either Rog has a bigger mouth than I knew, or we weren’t the only ones who had gotten fed up with the crowd across the street at Pearl Bar. Either way, our new little find on Washington lasted exactly one week before turning into the same poorly serviced cattle car that Pearl is. Grrrr.
We loaded up (left one car in valet because they told Bossman it would take over 45 minutes to get his car…seriously, are you starting to see why I HATE valet in Houston?) and headed over to another new place on Washington (I told you, they are everywhere). We found a prime parking space without the aid of valet (take that!) and were excited about maybe finding a place that would last longer than a week. WRONG. We were met at the door by a man wearing a black suit, black shirt, and red tie and told we would not gain entry to his establishment, as the Bossman was wearing flip flops and MJ was wearing tenny’s. Oh. My. God. Seriously people. Two months ago this place was inhabited by hobo's and now we can’t get in based on footwear? You’re kidding right? No? Buh-bye. I was annoyed beyond belief. Not that there aren’t places in Houston that I expect that from, but not on Washington. Please not on Washington.
In the end, we ended up at the same place we always go, feeling thoroughly punished for trying to expand our comfort zone. I think it’s all a sign of my impending 30th birthday. There was a time in the not so distant past where none of this stuff would have bothered me. Valet? How convenient! Way crowded? Look at all these great people! Now it’s just a recipe for a blog posting about how I’m so over all this Washington Corridor crap. Next stop: Retirement home.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Baby Watch 2008 and Other Stuff
The completion of my quinella is imminent. We thought niece 4 would make an appearance today, however apparently she’s not done baking or something. I was told something about her facing the wrong way (face up vs. face down) and stress tests and measurements. None of it really made sense. Seriously, my lack of knowledge about pregnancy and the actual birthing process is appalling. I feel like I know about as much as a 12 year old boy. I’m barely one step above ‘they come by stork’. Its embarrassing. But really, how would one know this stuff without going through it? Now that more and more friends are having babies or are in a family way currently, I’m finding out tidbits here and there. And may I just say, none of them are appealing. Someone recently started telling me about one of her appointments, but I dropped the phone and passed out when the words ‘internal sonogram’ came out of her mouth. And don’t even get me STARTED about some of the things the SIL-E has shed light on. It gives me the willies. I think I'm better off not knowing.
In other news, I’ve been in need of a solid nap ever since the Olympics started. The Half Street has been really into it, even the HSH, although he claims otherwise. One of the best comments I’ve heard lately though came when we were watching the men (men? Boys.) compete on the Rings in gymnastics. I was shocked at how hard it all looked and the HSH busted out the ‘if it was my job to work out, like it is for the guys, I could totally do that.’ I mopped up the wine that came spurting out of my nose and told him in my best wife tone ‘of course you could honey’. Me on the other hand, I probably couldn’t even hang with the trampoline people. And I CERTAINLY couldn’t ever master the table tennis. I’d be lucky if I could just avoid having my eyeball replaced by a ping-pong ball against those people. Also fascinating to me has been the synchronized swimming. I feel like those girls are the butt of a lot of jokes (not least among them that you have to be on the Oxygen channel to watch them), but that stuff looks seriously tricky. And I noticed some of them seemed so tired after performances that they could barely get out of the pool. I feel your pain ladies. The other day I was Wii Fit-ing and… Oh wait. Never mind. Probably not similar.
Your interesting synchro fact of the day is that they use the same gelatin used to make pastries shiny as they do to keep synchro swimmer's hair in place. Yes, I have a lot of time on my hands, and access to the internet. These are the types of things I wonder.
In other news, I’ve been in need of a solid nap ever since the Olympics started. The Half Street has been really into it, even the HSH, although he claims otherwise. One of the best comments I’ve heard lately though came when we were watching the men (men? Boys.) compete on the Rings in gymnastics. I was shocked at how hard it all looked and the HSH busted out the ‘if it was my job to work out, like it is for the guys, I could totally do that.’ I mopped up the wine that came spurting out of my nose and told him in my best wife tone ‘of course you could honey’. Me on the other hand, I probably couldn’t even hang with the trampoline people. And I CERTAINLY couldn’t ever master the table tennis. I’d be lucky if I could just avoid having my eyeball replaced by a ping-pong ball against those people. Also fascinating to me has been the synchronized swimming. I feel like those girls are the butt of a lot of jokes (not least among them that you have to be on the Oxygen channel to watch them), but that stuff looks seriously tricky. And I noticed some of them seemed so tired after performances that they could barely get out of the pool. I feel your pain ladies. The other day I was Wii Fit-ing and… Oh wait. Never mind. Probably not similar.
Your interesting synchro fact of the day is that they use the same gelatin used to make pastries shiny as they do to keep synchro swimmer's hair in place. Yes, I have a lot of time on my hands, and access to the internet. These are the types of things I wonder.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Miami: Gold Medal
I was at a bachelorette party for NJ in Miami over the weekend. Being that I’m old, it will probably be Wednesday before I’m feeling 100%. A fantastic time was had by all, but I’ve been banned from sharing any of the details with the Half Street readership. Apparently not everyone likes the salacious details of their life posted for the world to see on the Internet. Go figure. I’m working on receiving special dispensation to post one picture of me teaching the MOH to Ninja/Bear/Soldier. Think full-body Paper/Rock/Scissor. Oh yeah, we were in a swank-tastic restaurant at the time. Good Stuff. Look for it in the next few days.
My thoughts on Miami (Kwon, you were just there, please confirm): If I were a dude, I would move to Miami yesterday. The smoking hot chick to even MEDIOCRE guy ratio is completely out of whack. I was expecting to see a beach full of Eric’s from CSI: Miami. To say that I didn’t would win the gold medal in understatement, if that were an event in Beijing. However the number of tall, tan, teenie-weenie, model-type, women was a bit nauseating. What is that? Who knows, maybe they were having a casting call for all the good looking men in Miami at the bar we weren't at, and we didn’t get the memo. Darn the luck.
My thoughts on Miami (Kwon, you were just there, please confirm): If I were a dude, I would move to Miami yesterday. The smoking hot chick to even MEDIOCRE guy ratio is completely out of whack. I was expecting to see a beach full of Eric’s from CSI: Miami. To say that I didn’t would win the gold medal in understatement, if that were an event in Beijing. However the number of tall, tan, teenie-weenie, model-type, women was a bit nauseating. What is that? Who knows, maybe they were having a casting call for all the good looking men in Miami at the bar we weren't at, and we didn’t get the memo. Darn the luck.
This guy was nowhere to be found.
As a side note, and because I’ve been feeling this way since Sunday morning, I recently read an article that implied I’ve been using the word nauseating, and its derivatives, incorrectly my entire life. Well at least as long as I’ve been using it, which coincidentally ties to how long I’ve been drinking. However, a quick sweep of the Internet (and we all know, that’s never wrong) tells me that only grammar Nazi’s still abide by the whole nauseous for nauseating rule, and that my usage is perfectly acceptable. At least I think that’s what they are saying. All the “sense 1” and “sense 2” nonsense in the usage note left me feeling a bit…nauseated.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
I'll Get To It Eventually
There was an interesting article in the Washington Post the other day. Turns out I’m a world class procrastinator. Not that this is a surprise really, but I hate being predictable. And according to the Post, I might not only be predictable, but chronic. Consider the evidence:
1. I know exactly how far I can go once the gas light turns on in my car. I tested this with certainty in the ol’ Blazer, once running out of gas while conducting research. The new Audi has a handy mileage indicator that tells me how much further I can go. Of course I fully intend to check its accuracy eventually.
2. I know the true due date of all my bills. Let’s be honest: there is the date they tell you they are due, and there is the date they are really due. These are not the same date. The first can come and go with no consequences, the second you’re gonna have to start dealing with some inconvenient things… like explaining to your husband why we can’t watch television this weekend. (No Mom, not really) I see it as a free option to continue to earn interest on that money in my accounts, before I finally hand it over to the evil-powers-that-be at the cable and power conglomerates at the last. possible. second. And yet, I still have terrific credit and never pay reconnect fees. See? Two dates, people. But according to the article this is all merely a rationalization of my chronic procrastination.
3. I have really managed to convince myself I work best under pressure. I honestly believe that my work product is better when I leave it to the last minute. Unbeknownst to me, this has been disproved with various “studies”. Truth be told, I wouldn’t know what my non-pressurized work product looks like, because I’ve never seen it before.
4. This article appeared on June 15th, and I’m just now getting around to writing about it, although I bookmarked it a month and a half ago.
1. I know exactly how far I can go once the gas light turns on in my car. I tested this with certainty in the ol’ Blazer, once running out of gas while conducting research. The new Audi has a handy mileage indicator that tells me how much further I can go. Of course I fully intend to check its accuracy eventually.
2. I know the true due date of all my bills. Let’s be honest: there is the date they tell you they are due, and there is the date they are really due. These are not the same date. The first can come and go with no consequences, the second you’re gonna have to start dealing with some inconvenient things… like explaining to your husband why we can’t watch television this weekend. (No Mom, not really) I see it as a free option to continue to earn interest on that money in my accounts, before I finally hand it over to the evil-powers-that-be at the cable and power conglomerates at the last. possible. second. And yet, I still have terrific credit and never pay reconnect fees. See? Two dates, people. But according to the article this is all merely a rationalization of my chronic procrastination.
3. I have really managed to convince myself I work best under pressure. I honestly believe that my work product is better when I leave it to the last minute. Unbeknownst to me, this has been disproved with various “studies”. Truth be told, I wouldn’t know what my non-pressurized work product looks like, because I’ve never seen it before.
4. This article appeared on June 15th, and I’m just now getting around to writing about it, although I bookmarked it a month and a half ago.
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