If this is Christmas Eve, I can't WAIT for Christmas!

Y’all know how much I love Christmas. And if you’re one of Les filles Hingston you’ll not only know, you’ll understand. (Hola Lyn!) I’ve had Christmas music playing since…well, before there was snow on the ground. And given the fall we had, that’s saying something!

I love buying Christmas gifts. Getting them is nice too, but the planning and plotting behind getting them is what I truly love. And if – as I did this year– I’ve done something particularly clever (The Girl thinks I failed with finding her a ticket for a concert in March; I have TWO in my hot little hands, waiting to be wrapped…and then unwrapped) then it’s even better.

I have a hard time keeping secrets, so it's even ok that most of my Christmas shopping is done after all the baking is paid for. If I bought things any earlier, I'd be telling people.

Even being at work is a good thing. I was going to be off today, in fact, I worked all of last Friday (my day off) to ensure that I would be able to to stay home without using vacation leave. Still, stuff happened so here I am at work.

Why is that good? Because we close at one today, so I can leave at lunch and not come back. And yet get paid for a full day! So if I were home, I would have worked eight hours last week to have four hours off today. Very bad math indeed.

This way I have lots of time to do fun things like laundry and shopping and yet have a whole day squirreled away for use in the depths of January. Because I think a night at the spa in Moose Jaw would suit me just fine. I may even buy myself a gift card with the Christmas money my dad sent. (Thanks dad! ) A night at the spa without kids and without dogs. Woot! (Does this mean I’m giving up on going somewhere hot at some point? No, no sir, it does not. But let’s be realistic a night in The Jaw is more likely than a week at the beach).

So why is my Christmas eve already out of control? Because despite the hour (not even 8:30 at the time of writing), this is my day so far:

I was making bread for the deli this morning and I knocked over the bag of flour. This meant several things: first, no more bread for the oven means less bread for my pocket. Less bread baked is less bread to deliver, which will make the buyers sad. Given how many I did make, it was NOT worth getting up in the night to bake bread before going to work. Being overly tired is ok when there is a decent pay-out. Not so nice when there isn't.

Since I didn’t have a third batch of bread to bake, I was finished much earlier than planned. Which means I had time this morning between baking work and work-work. I did get three loads of laundry done but if, when I get to the Laundromat I find that it’s closed I will have three bags of clean frozen clothes and no dryer, and three bags of dirty clothes still needing to be done.

The final problem is that flour is really hard to clean. Yes, it sweeps up and all but every time I thought I had every last bit I’d slip in a few grains I’d missed. So, the tragedy of the flour is Act I of my Christmas eve morning.

Act II was the slippery walk way. Not the stairs that I’ve cart wheeled down before. Those The Boy took care of last night (something I didn’t notice until this morning, when I saw that someone had hacked all the built up ice and snow off of the front steps). No, this time it was the driveway. I slipped, saved and fell. The slip was the ice, the save was NOT dropping the tortiere or the fudge*, the fall was because my brain decided saving myself was not as important as saving the baking. Which is actually kinda true. ‘Cept I slipped and my shins hit the car as I slid under it. Not completely under the car, just I was facing the car when my feet went shooting out in front of me, dinging my shins and sliding under the car. So yeah for the baking, boo for the falling.

*As I lay on the driveway flat out on my back I looked in awe at the STILL BALANCED pie in my left hand and the STILL STACKED trays of fudge in my right. I have no idea how I managed that.

I put the pie and the fudge down, brushed myself off and opened the trunk. At which point, in my own driveway, by an inanimate object no less - I was stabbed. Slashed would be the better word, actually. A combination of cold and the usual strangeness that is my life meant that when the trunk popped open the metal bar thing that makes it pop open (and keeps it open) snapped like a twig and slashed me on its way out. That thing must have been under some serious tension.

I have no idea how to fix this, if it is even fixable. I suspect this is NOT a duct-tapeable situation! Welding? Soldering? Magic? I don’t need fixing, thank heavens (well, not as far as this morning’s disasters go), but I suspect I’ll have a bruise or ten to deal with tomorrow. And really…I’m more or less used to various and sundry bumps, cuts and bruises. I think a bruise from being stabbed by my own car would fall into the “sundry” category. So there, Act III and the end of the morning.

Drat – should never have said that. It is now 8:45, and I just got an email from a customer who got their baking yesterday. They ordered tarts, in their words “one half dozen of each”. I checked, that is what they said. What they meant, apparently, was one AND a half dozen of each kind. And they want to know if I’ll be baking next week, and willing to make a dozen mince tarts and a dozen butter tarts. Sigh. It’s hard to get enthusiastic about baking tarts when I’ve made so many this past week. However…the babies will be going to their dad’s for Christmas later in the week, so I suppose I could my customers happy and make more tarts. And The Boy will be pleased if there is a butter tart or ten to spare when I'm done. (He made fairly short work of the dozen that I had left over earlier in the week. I ate one, The Girl doesn't like them and didn't have any, and yet somehow there is only one left).

The Stats Of It All.

I’m a firm believer in "anything can happen". I’m a firm believer in if it can, and it’s weird and unexpected it very likely will happen. Although…if it’s likely, then it’s no longer unexpected. Would that mess up the math of it all?

There is a next-to-nothing chance that I will win the lottery. I can’t legitimately say no chance as I am in on the office pool of lottery ticket buying. I WILL NOT be the only person left behind if the office lottery pool wins millions! I rarely buy my own tickets, though, and I am aware that it is statistically unlikely that I’ll retire early on a lottery win.

I also know that it is not likely (although more likely than a lottery win or just finding a sack of money) that I’ll win any of the 27+ contests I entered. All but a handful of which, by the way, are for travel. Travel somewhere that I won’t be needing mitts, hat, coat, long johns, under armour and a hardy pioneer toughness.

You know what IS likely to happen though? Winning a trip…and not being able to go because I don’t have a passport. That would be so absolutely typical. And something I would grieve the remainder of my life, I think. And the teasing…I’d never live it down. Can you imagine? Actually winning a trip to Italy and not being able to go due to lack of paperwork? I would deserve every single snide comment if that happened.

I have now rebalanced the universe and returned to things to "very unlikely" that I’ll win a trip. I am passported. So to speak. At least in 8 to 10 business days I will be. I should have had it by now but despite the basic process I managed to have to go to the Passport office three times.

The first time I thought I had everything I needed. I had the forms filled out, had my guarantor, had my witnesses and the official pictures. Pictures that I had taken at Wal-Mart. Mainly because I was there, no one else was waiting and it would save me a trip.

I had several pictures taken, the photographer and The Girl picked one, and it got printed. And then photographer laughed a little and showed my picture to The Girl. They both agreed it was something unusable. Not sure what the problem was (she tore it up), but I guess it was so awful that they didn't even want me to see it. So we started again. And I got my little pictures; put the little folder in the inside zipped pocket and the next day went to the Passport Office. Only to find that I had no pictures. Which made absolutely no sense. I remember putting the pictures in that pocket. The only other thing in there is a two dollar bill. Not like I could miss seeing the photos if they were there. So. I left.

Got more pictures, went back. But (and this is totally my fault, I didn’t read things carefully, and it’s been 16 years since I had a passport so I forgot all the rules) the pictures hadn’t been signed by my guarantor. So. I left.

Went back today, assuming that everything was perfect. Everything was NOT perfect, but at least I didn’t have to leave. First of all, I said I was born in Toronto. But the birth certificate says East York. Lucky for me between the time I was born and today the two had amalgamated. Off the hook for that one.

The next issue was my name. I write out what my first name really is as one word. It is two on my birth certificate, two on my driver’s license. And on the other ID I was using (and everything else, because she wanted to check) it was the name I actually use and sign everything with. This did NOT make the powers that be happy. So giant red pen slash through the name to make it into two names. Also giant red pen slash on so many other things I was starting to get worried. I forgot little things – the city of one of my references, my own postal code, and – by far the worst – I signed the first page incorrectly. If your signature ends up in the grey area of the signature box the whole thing fails. She said that if the sticker they have covers it all, then I can sign again. If not…then a new front page and I’d have to start again. Which would mean leaving. Again.

The point is, though, not that I’m likely to be winning one of those contests but that if I do I won’t have to turn it down. So there. Also means when I visit family on Vancouver Island I can go to Seattle if I want to. And if…as it seems to be heading that way…I have a weather break down and run away from home some time this winter, I can run somewhere warm.

but...they bothered me

So, 'member how upset The Girl was when I trimmed my own bangs with pinking shears? Turns out that was nothing compared to what the dentist had to say when I told him I cut out stitches with a pair of office scissors.

In my defense, they were driving me crazy (the stitches, not the scissors!) And it was a good thing I went to him to see what the deal was with the ones I couldn't reach. Turns out that dissolving stiches should disappear in five days, seven at the most. I was three days shy of four weeks when I grabbed the scissors and went to town. Needless to say - after a lecture or three - they took the rest of them out. In what they liked to refer to as "the proper way".

Ha! I win!

So last weekend the committee and I had two battles royal. The committee won the first, I won the second. The plus side of this is that...I think I've found the autowin for a LOT of the arguments the committee and I have.

Autowins are things you can use to win certain arguments all the time. Small phrases like "97 percent", "she chose YOU", "seven hours", "-45 C" and "Twas Brillig". They're terribly useful phrases, saving you hours of heated debate. No doubt your autowins are different than mine but that's ok. I beg your pardon for the digression. So:

I noticed, during the second argument, that The Committee was speaking on behalf of others. Not on the committee's behalf, about issues I struggle with, but trying to convince me they knew what others would say, given the chance.

And that's when I found the weakness of it all: given the chance. My friends and family don't need - nor likely want! - the committee to speak for them. They all have voices, and they are all able to use them, and to use them in the assurance that of course they can voices those opinions.

So...trying to convince me to NOT ask a favour of someone (by convincing me that said favour is just too weird/unexpected/un-doable/enormous) is silly. I can't think of anyone I know - that I could ask a favour of - who wouldn't be ok with a simple yes if they can and no if they can't. A no that wouldn't hurt my feelings, and a yes that wouldn't make their lives too difficult.

So what all the rambling boils down to is this: all I have to think about is "they have the chance", and I remember that I don't need an imaginary group of naysayers telling me what others would or would not say/think/do. So there, committee, autowin!

An Apple a day. A modern day fairy tale.

Disclaimer:
Here are a couple of stories for you. A story about a man, and a story about a woman. Not all men, not all women, ok? I don’t need any lectures on how the problem with creating sweeping generalizations, or the evils inherent in reinforcing gender stereotypes. I have lived my life, and sometimes things are what they are. So there. They're just stories.



Once upon a time a woman gave a man an apple. “Thank you” he said. And he ate it. The End.

Once upon a time – a different time – a man gave a woman an apple. And she thought:

"An apple? Is this an apple? I mean, it looks like an apple, so it probably is. But maybe it’s a fake apple, an apple candle or something. Why is he giving me an apple? What does it mean? Is there some Adam and Eve message in this that I’m supposed to get? Something to do with sin? Have I done something that he sees as sinful, and this is his way of telling me? Why can’t he just TELL ME? What’s wrong with him? Or…is it something wrong with me? What’s wrong with me that he has to tell me this way?

Or maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with Adam and Eve. Maybe it’s a Snow White thing. Is he trying to poison me? No, that makes no sense. Maybe it’s a student teacher thing? Does he want to try some naughty student-teacher game? Or does he think I’m turning into a teacher? Is THAT it? Is he trying to say I’m BOSSY? How dare he? I’m totally not bossy. Well, I don’t think I am. Maybe I am, and everyone knows it but me. And they’re all laughing about it. Laughing at me. Because I'm bossy and unaware of my own bossiness.

No, wait, this is getting silly. Maybe it’s an apple because he likes apples. So what does he want me to do with it? Am I supposed to cook something for him? Is this a hint to buy apples and make him an apple pie or something? Who does he think I am? I’m not his mother or his cook, if he wants apple pie he can make his own damn pie. Or maybe…maybe someone else is making him pie, and he’s trying to save the marriage, by having me make pie too. That’s it, he’s seeing someone else, and she’s thinner and prettier than I am AND she makes pies and and and”

The woman bursts into tears, and leaves the room, heartbroken but confidant that the man will fix everything because of course he knows exactly why she left in the first place. The End.

I guess it would have been better than hunting. Maybe.

As previously discussed, I dream well. Well in a few meanings of the word:
- in a good or satisfactory manner
- thoroughly
- commendably, meritoriously, or excellently
- to a considerable extent or degree

And for reasons I don't care to discuss, I had some high hopes for some good dreaming last night. However.... I did not dream in a satisfactory manner. Oh, I dreamt, don’t get me wrong. I dreamt about high school (not so bad) my much-missed brother (sad, but nice to see him, so to speak) and…Sarah Palin.

Yup, you read that correctly. I dreamt about Sarah Palin. And man, was she irritating. We were on vacation together. Yeah, like that would happen. In the midst of the one winter I’m not coping very well with I’m most likely to vacation further north. With Sarah Palin. Although… in my current effort to learn to suffer fools kindly, if not gladly, she could be homework or something. Anyway!

I was trying to work out some whale watching. I’m in Alaska, seemed like a good plan. What did she want? To go sky diving, over open water. Because she was “pretty sure” someone would fish us out of the water before we got too cold. One of those Televisions boats. From Deadliest Catch. Her words, not mine. Although as it was my dream I suppose all of the words were mine. Still. Palin. Why? Am I being punished for something?

This also meant that I was up and out of bed WAY too early this morning. 4:55. am if you must know. Why? Because there was no way on God’s green earth I was going to risk going back into that dream. That never happens with good dreams but nightmares are another story. My theory on why that is is that fear holds onto our minds with a far tighter grip than pleasure. Just a theory.

On the plus side…I did get a load of laundry done this morning. And the dishwasher unloaded and loaded up again. And the kitchen counters cleaned. And had a Latin dance work out* with enough time left over to read a book in the bath and still not be late for work. Most of which is good. All except the work out part. I’m a morning person, but my hips are not used to that much action that early in the day. (There will be NO COMMENTS on that line. NONE WHATSOEVER. Just let it go, ok?)

I didn’t even get to do any dream-world whale watching, because we got lost. In Alaska, on a ski-do. See what I mean about not worth risking a return?

*I’ve started doing the Zumba thing. My review of what I think about it later today or sometime next week.

Woman on the Verge of a Cold Weather Break Down.

Here are some of the things I've thought about doing today. Seriously thought about.

Is there anything legal....or legal-ish that I can do to get enough money to go somewhere hot for a few days? Starting Saturday?

How much would it actually cost (not just in money, which is in short supply -thanks, car repair -but in time and effort as well) to go to Moose Jaw and stay at the spa? To float about in the hot water and pretend I'm somewhere else? And stay there until tomorrow?

What about a spa here? Something in a hotel, so I can have a massage and then just toddle off to bed, instead of going back outside.

Would BC be enough of a warm break to help? (no, no it wouldn't).

Would it make any difference to the day if I ran outside to the parking lot and started screaming at mother nature?

Why? Why, after all the years in this place, why is this winter the one that is killing me?

Don't worry. I won't actually be robbing a bank today. Or any day. The only thing that is going to happen today is me taking a book out for supper. Maybe somewhere that feels like it could be some place that isn't actually here. Which is an awkward sentence, but I'm not re-writing it. I'm too cold to.

No rival to the Colonel.

There are things in the kitchen – and the back yard – that I fear that I hope some day to be able to face with bold equanimity. There are things I fear that I intend to continue to fear because it is meet and right so to do.

I won't use a pressure cooker, ever. Or an electric knife. I'm pretty sure I'm not the only one that wouldn't want to see me using an electric knife, but I digress.

I am afraid of gas ranges and gas barbeques and deep fryers. I don’t like that I am, and it would be nice to cook at my sister’s house without almost biting through my lip every time I turn a burner on.

I was quite happy over the past summer using a briquette burning bbq, but I know from reading as well as things friends have said that having something with better control over temperature would increase the range of grilling possibilities.

I still think that all I really need is some gas bbq savvy guy. Person. I don’t know if The Girl has the the same issue I do. Namely the issue of living with the certainty that it is only a matter of time until the propane tank explodes, taking friends and family with it in a screaming fiery inferno. Maybe she doesn’t; that sort of sounds like something only I think about.

The Boy is savvy, and grills at his dad's a lot, so perhaps this year we’ll fill the propane tank up and get the show on the road. By which I mean he will fill the tank up and I will go stand in our neighbours yard, when he puts it all together and lights the thing. Pace in the neighbour’s yard, actually, twisting my hands and waiting for the explosion that means that my view of death by propane (as opposed to The Boy’s view of “really, mom?”) was the correct view.

Cooking with a pressure cooker ain’t never gonna happen. Ever. So it saves time or adds tenderness or some such nonsense. I don’t care. Things under pressure explode. Everyone knows that.

Deep frying, though…I thought perhaps I could give that a try. I have no idea why I felt I needed to get over my fear of litres of boiling fat in the kitchen. I don’t even like fried food. And fear of frying is not like fear of flying. It wasn’t changing my life at all, for better or worse. Although…a case could be made that it was making my life better.

If I mastered deep frying, I might take a liking to fried foods. Cutting sugar out of my diet was hard, but cutting fat and salt was easy, given that I don’t like fries, or potato chips, or any salty fried thing. If I got to like fried things as much as I used to like sweet things….I don’t know if I would have had the strength to give them both up.

As it turns out (and here is where we have Tuesday-cooking-post-on-a-Wednesday) that I needn’t have worried. I tried making fried chicken last night. Tried and quite decidedly failed. The first batch was raw on the inside. The Girl ended up having a bite of chicken skin and biscuit sandwiches for supper. She did grab an orange on her way out, so I suppose it wasn’t the worst meal she’s ever had. But still.

The batch I made when she was gone was not raw. Not even the littlest bit. It was, I can safely say, thoroughly done. Very thoroughly done. Filling the kitchen with smoke and making the smoke detector shriek kind of done. It tasted about like you would expect it to taste. Horrible.

Yes, I tried it. What kind of mother would I be if I let The Girl be the only one who had to face an unappealing mess of my own creation? A mean one. Smart, maybe, but mean.

So the deep fryer will be returned to the neighbours, I am confident that I will not suddenly start craving fried food and – big bonus – although there was a minor accident (hello? Remember whose blog this is?) it didn’t involve burning. It was more of a slipping in oil and bashing my head kind of deal. I had more trouble getting the puppies out of the way so I could mop than I did with said slipping. Actually, the worst bit of it all was the mopping; it’s incredibly difficult to mop up oil. Even a smallish amount of spilled cooking oil has this weird supernatural ability to remain un-mopped. Creepy. I'm going back to being afraid of deep frying.

Trying not to complain, but...

I don't want to turn into a writer that does nothing but complain about how awful people are. Really I don't. But...is society in general no longer able to recognize visual clues, like body language? And how about verbal directions? When you tell someone something, and they appear to hear and understand, and then continue on as though they neither heard nor understood is that not a problem?

Perhaps we really have become a nation of sheep. Perhaps we have reached a point where people need exact, specific instructions regarding polite behaviour. Regarding anything, in fact. Anything and everything?

What's got me on this particular hobby horse today is the number of people who talk to you when you're trying to read. This isn't new, of course. Today I chose to take my lunch break in my own office.

I have the best office in the building. Big windows, a small corner that couldn't be used that I made into a lounge (one comfy chair, one bookcase and one table with a lamp), and given that I cranked the heat WAY up today it is about the only place in the building that isn't cold, bordering on freezing. Those aren't the reasons that I ate here instead of the lunch room, though. I did so in order to read in peace and quiet. I've been busy, I needed the break. People talk to/at you in the lunch room.

So there I was, folded up in my chair having lunch and reading. Someone walking by stopped to ask why I was there, not the lunch room. And - deciding to be blunt about it - I said "because I really need to be on my own and reading today. It's been a tough day". He agreed. And then proceeded to tell me - for almost ten minutes of my thirty minute lunch break - about his day.

So my complaint is two-fold: how, or why did he think my desire to be alone didn't include him? Also...where on earth did I leave my spine? I mean, yes, I hate hurting peoples feelings, but I didn't have to say "that includes you, idjit", I could have simply said something like "I'm sorry, but I have a short break and I really do just want to read for a bit". But I didn't. I just did some spectacular silent seething and ended up finishing lunch about as ready for a break when I started it.

Work should NOT be a part of one's dream life!

Great. Just great. Now the irritating client of yesterday is invading my dream life. And not for the better! All I can say is thank heavens the first dream of the night was incredible: time/space travel, warm climes, good food. As a matter of fact, the first dream had almost all of my most favourite things in it. Throw in an elephant, a giraffe a few tigers and the ability to breathe under water (and dive safely to great depths without gear) and we might have had a perfect all-inclusive bit of fantasticalness.(I was about to apologize for making up a word…but according to spell check, fantasticalness is a real word*. Who knew?)

The second dream, though…completely different story. In that bit of terribleness, the client I told you about yesterday came out to see me. And she had the court order we’d been asking for. A court order that said, amongst other things, that I had to speak in French (ok, I can do that), do her research (not going to do that) and sing “Under the Boardwalk” (What?) Other than the non-surprising revelation that I feel I’m being asked to do things that are her job, not mine, I have no idea what to do with that trio of things. I can’t sing…and there is no Boardwalk here, let alone one that is down by the sea.

I've had dreams about work before, but it's always been along the lines of being late, or having to give a presentation that I haven't prepared for. Singing...that's never appeared in a work dream. I was kinda glad that the alarm went off before I had to perform like a trained monkey.

*Hmmm. Microsoft Word says it is a real word, blogspot spell check says it isn't. I KNEW microsoft was messing with my head. How many other words am I using that don't really exist????

And I'm a nice person.

I am dealing with someone as kindly as I can. A someone - a work client - who is making me crazy. No, wait, not crazy. Angry. And I'm a nice person, with a very long fuse and a great deal of patience. I've managed - so far - to not respond to her inane questions with "look, lady..." or even "how are you not getting this?" But it's been a close call.

Today's issue is the meaning of lists. Or perhaps the point of lists. She gave me a list, several hundred items long. I was quite impressed with the column that stated which things were priority one and which were priority two. No one else has done that without me asking them to. She seemed to understand that with hundreds of things to find, knowing which ones matter the most is an excellent thing to know.

What she doesn't seem to understand is....don't make single items priority one....AND priority two. This just means that I have to go through the list of p.2. things and cross out everything I've already dealt with. Which is turning out to be many many things.

As a further irritation, she is worried about how long this is taking. A job that involves a mountain of work has been made far more complicated by the various things she's done that I've had to re-do or undo. And she's complaining about the time it is taking!

I'm about one nerve away from answering my phone with a very unprofessional mad-house toned high volume "WHAT???"

And this is Monday. Just Monday.

Learn something new every day. Or seven somethings.

Things I learned in the course of a single morning:

1) It’s always worth getting off the couch and going to bed when you’re super tired. Thinking that you’re too tired to move at any particular moment and yet awake enough to get to bed at some point is not logical.

Getting off the couch and into bed is even more important if any (ar all) of the following are certainties:

You move around in your sleep and you’ll roll off the couch. More than once even. And yet manage, bizarrely, to get back on the couch instead of making the apparently impossible effort of stumbling down the hall to your actual bed.

Big puppy will eventually worm her way onto the couch whilst you’re sleeping. Heaven forbid that you remain unguarded in the apparently dangerous living room.

Small puppy, determined to NOT miss out on anything that big puppy is into will also sleep on the couch. ‘Cept he’ll walk on you on his way to the top of the back of the couch. The back of the couch being a spot that at some point, naturally, he will fall from. That point being the point at which you are so soundly asleep that it is likely that you’ll wake up flailing arms and screaming.

Screaming blue bloody murder in the middle of the night is no guarantee that anyone will come to your rescue. At the most you’ll get irritated glares from two dogs. Don’t tell me dogs don’t glare, they totally do.

2) If three different things (your clothes, your friends and the scales) all say you’ve lost weight, but looking in the mirror makes you feel ginormous, don’t look in the mirror. Duh.


3) Preserves made in January for delivery in December should be labeled in, oh, I don’t know, January? NOT the morning of delivery in December.

4) Doing something drastic to your hair (shaving your head, streaking it blue, trimming it with pinking shears) when you’re upset may be your way of coping with stress. But…doing it the day before you may be going out for lunch is just asking for trouble.

5) Being up early means you can take your time getting ready. Which should be taken to mean…have a bath. Do your hair. Put some make-up on? It does NOT mean change your hair entirely, bake something for the office, and decide to make a supper that involves peeling, chopping, browning, sauce making and a slow cooker. Because at some point you’ll realize that you’re behind time, not ahead of it.

6) Don’t wear underpinnings so complex they’ll make you late for work.


7) Stupid people aren’t any smarter first thing in the morning. Au contraire – it’s entirely possible that they’re even stupider than usual in the cold light of dawn. I’m not saying they'll get smarter as the day goes on, of course. I’m just saying that if you’re hoping they’ll be more on top of things at eight in the morning than they were at four in the afternoon the day before...that’s just wishful thinking.

Regina Restaurant Review. Hickory Smokehouse and Grill

The Girl and I went out for lunch today. Always nice spending time with her, and I thought I'd check out a new restaurant, see if it would be worth writing about. I never used to think about restaurant reviews. Mainly because I rarely went anywhere. But due to unforseen - and totally delightful - circumstances that is no longer the case. So, off to lunch.

I'm going to start with the ending, and then support said conclusion. Love having no one to answer to as far as the "proper" way to write a review! The conclusion was....I won't be going there again. Was it the food? The waitress? The ambience? Nope, none of those.

The problem was purple sweater lady, who was - I'm guessing, but given the lack of uniform and her general air it seems likely - the manager. Or a manager. We ordered our meals, with water for drinks. Water which didn't come for twenty minutes or so, at which point I was thirsty enough to flag our waitress down and ask where it was. She apologized, and it was clear that she thought someone else was bringing it. Maybe they have a water boy or something. Anyway - no biggie, so we had to wait for water. I dont' mind that...too much. Clearly I do a little bit, or I wouldn't have mentioned it.

The Girl ordered ribs, with Whiskey bbq sauce. I ordered the prime rib sandwich. It came with stuff I didn't want, and when she suggested I have soup, I said sure. Just pack it up and I'll take it with me for lunch another day. I mean, I'm paying the full meal price, right? She thought that seemed reasonable. But, as it turns out, they had no way for me to take it with me. Other containers, yes, soup no. Maybe if you order soup it is unlikely that you won't be able to finish it and will be looking for a doggy bowl? Whatever, I knew the sandwich would be enough. (Some places would make a deduction on the bill for not having any of the extras, some wouldn't. Hickory falls into the latter category).

The Girl liked her ribs....sort of. Her mini-review was that they were tender, but not very meaty and the sauce was barely there. Almost like a last minute brush on. So, ok but not the best ribs she's had, and given that it's a smokehouse she thought they would be better than ok.

My sandwich was also just ok. I couldn't eat the top bun, but that wasn't the kitchen's fault. Again, purple sweater lady makes an appearance in the review.

So, what was the deal with P.S.L.? When our meals came up (and we had mentioned being short on time) our waitress was....somewhere. Probably somewhere totally legitimate, as she was a decent waitress. But when she did appear, instead of quickly grabbing our meals and then going to a different table that was looking to pay she went to the paying table first. Which would have been fine, but for no reason we could figure out it was the longest payment in Christendom. Our meals sat under the heat lamp for eight and half minutes. Hence the inedibly dry sandwich bun. Not to mention luke warm meals.

P.S.L. walked by the waiting meals many times. Many many times. She walked past them and chatted to people in the kitchen. She walked past them and went to the back (an office, perhaps?) She walked past them, looked at them and stood around. So no excuse that she didn't know they'd been sitting there for quite a while. I mean, they were the only two dishes up there for most of those eight minutes.

As manager I get that your job isn't to wait tables. But perhaps it is your job to make sure things happen in - as every irritating office procedure memo I've read puts it - a timely manner. Would it have killed her to pick them up and bring them over? I suppose the same could be said for me, I could have gone over and grabbed my meal. I almost did, in fact, but The Girl said she would find that embarassing. And she's at that age where that is probably true. And it was meant to be a nice lunch out together, so I stayed where I was.

Perhaps that isn't enough reason to not go. And it wouldn't be, if the food was awesome, but the food was just average. Oh, and if you have issues with smoke, be careful. I was ok, but I think had I been there for supper and a more extended time it might have been a different story.