Yesterday I got an email from a manager who works at our headquarters. I don't know him well, although we have met several times and I've worked with him occasionally over the phone. He is prim, proper, professional, and polite. Always.

So yesterday I sent some data to him and I got the following email in response:

-----
You're the greatest Kelly.
I'm sure you hear that everynight.
Thanks.
-----

Um, I'm sorry, what?! I'm sure he didn't mean it like that, but still. What could he possibly have been thinking about to make such a slip? No wait...don't tell me.

Subtitle: wtf? tuesday: restaurants that lie

Yesterday RzDrms was on a business trip only a few hours away from me, and we had plans to meet in the middle for dinner. I'd found a restaurant online that seemed perfect and late last week I called and made a reservation for us.

Last evening Rob and I were running late, so I called the restaurant to let them know. Cause I'm polite like that. But no one answered - I only got a recorded message. I thought this was odd, but I figured they were just too busy to answer the phone. The recorded message confirmed that they were open for dinner nightly, and I figured on a Monday night we'd certainly be able to get a table even without a reservation, so no worries.

Yeah, so we met at this restaurant only to discover that it was closed. Like, lights off and door locked. Rz asked a passerby about it and he said, "Oh, they're closed on Mondays."

Okaaaay. But their website claims they serve dinner "Sun-Thurs. 5 - 9:30; Friday & Saturday 5 - 10:30." And just like the recorded phone message, the sign on their DOOR says they serve dinner "nightly starting at 5." And a feature on their menu is "Monday Night Create-Your-Own-Pasta"! And did I mention that I MADE RESERVATIONS?! Like, over the phone, speaking to a real person who works at this restaurant? Like, for MONDAY night? WTF?!

[related aside in the style of mrtl's tangents]
I called them today. Basically to ask WTF kind of restaurant makes freaking reservations for a night they're closed? Well, apparently they are open on Monday nights seasonally, and that season begins next week. Apparently the person who took my reservation was a week ahead of himself. (I confirmed that the reservation I'd made was for yesterday. Yep, it was right there in the reservation book. For yesterday. Monday night. The night they are, you know, closed.) And I guess they just don't bother to seasonally change their website or their recorded phone message or the sign on their door because that would be such a hassle. Which makes sense. You know, in Fucked Up Land.
[end related aside in the style of mrtl's tangents]

We were, of course, able to find another restaurant. Actually, I shouldn't say of course because the next few restaurants we checked out were also closed Monday (but upfront about it, at least) and there was a point at which I think we all believed it was inevitable that we'd end up eating dinner wedged tightly between truck drivers at the counter of Mel's Diner, the only place with an OPEN sign on the door.

But eventually we found a restaurant that looked good. And by looked good, I mean had lights on. And we had a great time! I feel like I know Rz well through our online contact and emails, and yet she still managed to exceed my expectations. I already knew her to be cool, but she is WAY cool, y'all. (And beautiful, by the way.) Whenever I meet someone from the blogworld, I'm reminded that there is no substitute for knowing people in 3-D. We can convey so much about ourselves with words, can capture the essence of ourselves on the page, and yet the details are lost. And really, it's all in the details.

I could try to paint a picture of Rz for you. I could tell you that she has nice hands, that her eyes are kind, that certain words she says reveal her accent. I could tell you that, as she freely admits, her purse is where receipts go to die. I could tell you that she gives great hugs. But I just can't do her justice in two-dimension.

(Rz, it was a pleasure! But next time let's avoid Monday night, mmkay?)

This sign puts a whole new meaning to "parking spot".

What the fuck is the deal with the mirrors you must look into when shopping for sunglasses? You know, the mirror strips that go down each side of the turny displays of sunglasses? The mirrors that are THE WIDTH OF ONE'S NOSE?

How the hell am I supposed to see myself in that? I happen to be particularly vain about my sunglasses. They need to be just right. In fact, I find sunglasses WAY harder to shop for than swimsuits. No, really. Especially considering I can't fucking SEE what I fucking LOOK LIKE in the fucking mirrors. Granted, if you step back about 10 feet, you are able to see your entire face in the mirror. But at that distance, it is impossible to examine the sunglasses at the detail that sunglasses need to be examined pre-purchase.

But if you stand in front of the mirror close enough to actually see the sunglasses, you can't see anything! Maybe one eye, at the most. Which is clearly not enough. I mean, hello! The whole point is to see how certain pairs of sunglasses look on my face but I CANNOT SEE MY FACE! Who the hell thought it would be a good idea to have people look at five-inch-wide sunglasses in an inch-wide mirror? And why the hell does the mirror run all the way to the floor? I don't need to see my fucking kneecap. What I need to see are the SUNGLASSES.

So I either end up leaning sideways and tilting my head in alignment with the mirror or I stand up straight and move my head really fast, side to side, with the hopes of getting a vague idea of what my face might perhaps look like with the glasses on. Both techniques are utterly uncool. And the whole reason I wear sunglasses is to look cool, and so I usually end up buying none because, given what I have to do to sorta see myself, I always look ridiculous in the inch-wide glimpse I get.

And then...then, some price tags are attached right smack dab in the middle of the sunglasses! And the tag won't budge, won't even move the slightest bit out of the way. And of course the tag is huge and takes up the ENTIRE viewing space, such that all I can see when I look in the mirror is what the bridge of my nose looks like when adorned by a price tag. How fucking stupid is that?

But what's really fucking stupid are those skinny-ass mirrors.

Okay, so the music at Curves leaves much to be desired. Seriously, the songs they play are the WORST POSSIBLE dance mixes, ever. No, they're not even dance mixes. They're workout mixes. With a dance mix, the song is still remotely recognizable. With workout mixes, there's just a steady, heavy bass to pump weights to, the all-too-often "Whooaaa, whooooa!" wailing of a background singer, and then the occasional snippet of a lyric that sounds vaguely familiar and is enough to make one perk one's ear and question, "Did they just say 'Like a virgin'? This is a Madonna cover?!"

So, really really bad music. But I've come to accept it, and by accept it I mean tune it out.

BUT. On Friday when I arrived at Curves the song playing over the speakers permeated my brain because while it was indeed a workout mix, it was slightly different. Different enough to get my attention. It was...are you ready for this?...."How Great Thou Art." HOW GREAT THOU ART, people! You know, THE HYMN!!! "Then sings my soul, my savior god to thee / How great thou art, how great thou art!" AT CURVES! AS A WORKOUT MIX!!! I am not EVEN shitting you. Seriously, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.

I was completely incredulous. Like, more incredulous than I've ever been in my entire life. I guess, living in Redneck Valley, I should no longer be surprised when people try to push religion onto other people, but every time I encounter something like this I am, indeed, surprised. And aghast. I mean, HOW GREAT THOU ART?! Really? But oh, it didn't stop there. They played workout mix hymns The Entire Time I was there. The Entire Time. It was nothing short of subliminal messaging; I can't help but think they were hoping that after doing bicep curls and squats to hyped up hymns we would all walk out as newly indoctrinated (and by indoctrinated I mean brainwashed) Born-agains chanting "Jesus loves you and your flabby abs, too!"

I was completely offended by the audacity of playing religious songs in a PUBLIC place, but I was also completely peeved because the goddamn songs were absolutely impossible to workout to. How the fuck am I supposed to get my workout groove going to "This is My Story, This is My Song"?! Even with the pounding bass and the "Whooaaaa, whoooaaa!" and whatever the fuck the electric keyboard was trying to pull off, it was still "This is My Story, This is My Song"!! As in, a HYMN! As in, SLOOOOW!!! Granted, "Holy, Holy, Holy" stepped it up a notch, but it was a very tiny notch.

Needless to say the spirit did not move me.

WHAT THE FUCK, BEEOTCH?! Did you not do the ring check? Surely you did. Because checking for the ring? That is what we, as women, do. We check for the ring. Always. Even when we aren't interested, even when it is none of our business, we still check for the ring. We are ring-checker-for-ers.

But okay. I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Because I can understand how you might have taken one look at that husband of mine and the desire to jump his bones might have pushed out every rational thought in your head. And I can understand how you might have then inched slowly towards him, under the guise of browsing for books, until you were standing very near to him (or, to use his words, "uncomfortably close"). But what I'm having trouble understanding is how in such close proximity you still didn't notice the ring. It's right there! On his hand! And so I'm thinking that either you are a wannabe homewrecker bitch or you are just really fucking stupid.

And I have to tell you that as my husband was relaying this story to me, I was going with the wannabe homewrecker bitch theory. Until he got to the part when you said, all the while giggling to your girlfriend, "This one's about Windows XP...I think that's what I have at home." And that's when I realized that, in fact, you're just really fucking stupid. Not because you're so clueless about computers that you don't even know what operating system you're running, but because you just admitted that you're that clueless about computers WHILE TRYING TO PICK UP A GUY IN THE TECHNOLOGY SECTION OF A BOOKSTORE. Not just admitted it, but actually used it as your line. Here's the thing - smart boys don't think stupid girls are cute. They think you're stupid. And moreover, geek geniuses fucking hate Windows. You might as well have announced that you have gonorrhea. Really, I think that would have gone over better.

Maybe you sensed that my husband thought you were a fucking idiot and perhaps as a result you lost a little courage. That is the only reason I can think of for why you walked away, still giggling with your girlfriend, just to then send A GUY over to get my husband's number on your behalf. A DUDE! When your buddy approached with his "Hey man, excuse me" routine, my poor husband thought he was about to be recruited for fucking Amway. And honestly, he would have written down his number for that way hella sooner than he would have for you. Which is not to say he is at all interested in Amway; it's just to say he is NOT AT ALL INTERESTED IN YOU. Because he's married. Because you're really fucking stupid. And because he doesn't even like blondes. Especially ones who use Windows.

(Check out the recently redesigned twig, home of wtf? tuesdays.)

Sunday evening Rob and I were sitting on the sofa with our laptops, waiting for Grey's Anatomy to begin. The tv was on but we were tuning it out until the show started. So there we were, typing and clicking away, when the sound from the tv penetrated our focus and we both slowly looked up from our laptops, stared incredulously for a moment at the tv screen, and then simultaneously burst into laughter.

It was the commercial's jingle that had caught our attention. You know commercial jingles - upbeat catchy little tunes sung by a woman who can somehow convey through her singing voice the fact that she is smiling? Yes, this one was no different. Very upbeat, very catchy, very smiley: Smith's! Funeral Hooooome and Creeematoooriuuuuum!