A Day in the Life. Sigh.

So the other day I met a friend for lunch in a quaint little German Village restaurant just down the street from where I work.  The only negative about quaint little German Village is that the streets are paved with bricks. Sounds all old-timey and makes you want to come visit, doesn’t it?  Well, hold your horses there, Skippy, because it’s not all that and a bag o’ chips. 

In reality, it’s a pain in the you-know-what.  Because the bricks are old and uneven.  Really uneven.  They are so uneven that cars that routinely drive up and down the bricked streets require front end alignments every 23 days.  I’m not even kidding.  My last car had a permanent list to the left because one time I waited a whole month before scheduling the alignment. 

And even though I’m a veteran German Village driver after having worked here for the last ten years, I did something really stupid on my way to the restaurant.  I tried to apply lipstick.

Go ahead – shake your head and roll your eyes. I deserve it.

Instead of looking less scary and ghost-like with my natural, non-existent lip color, I looked like Ronald McDonald with the exaggerated line drawn all around his mouth. 

But at least I wasn’t wearing the baggy yellow jumpsuit, goofy shoes or the fright wig.

 

Didn’t matter.  The big red mouth thing alone was scary enough. 

Nevertheless, I arrived at the restaurant within moments.  Knowing I wanted to make a pit stop to remove my Ronald-like lips, I happily snagged a spot on the street right by the restaurant.  I even parallel parked like I knew what I was doing and managed to align my car relatively, well, parallel to the curb.

Score – right?

Fortunately, I was first at the restaurant so I had time to fix the scary lipstick situation and by the time I emerged from the ladies room, the hostess was looking at me a little less aghast than she had upon first seeing me enter the joint. 

My friend arrived and we proceeded to have a lovely lunch together.  By the time the meal was over, of course, my lipstick was non-existent again so, yes, it did occur to me that applying lipstick prior to eating is a wasted effort.

But the real trouble started when I returned to my carefully parallel parked car on the street.  No, it was not a victim of a hit-and-run driver.  No, I was not blocked in with the cars in front and back of me so close to my bumpers that I couldn’t maneuver out of the spot without a can opener. 

The real problem?   Two words: The. Birds.

I swear to you, every bird in the tri-state area must have flown over my car to leave a deposit.  Every single one.  I am serious. If all those droppings had been hail hitting my car, it would have been totaled. 

It looked so bad, I was embarrassed to get in it and drive it away.  On the other hand, since I was clearly standing under a flight pattern of birds that had just eaten lunch, I decided being out in the open was not a great idea. 

Getting hit by bird do-do anywhere on my person would have been grounds for a true hissy fit the likes no one has ever seen.  All I would’ve needed was the crazy Ronald-like lips and someone would’ve called 911 and the men in the white coats would’ve come to take me away.

That might’ve been bad, but at least I wouldn’t have been the one who had to clean off my car.

It was disgusting!  And crunchy. I practically had to take a sand blaster to the vehicle to get the stuff off.  So no amount of drive-thru car washing would’ve helped.

Because I was at home when I did the cleaning, I didn’t run back out to take the car through a car wash to get it uniformly clean.  So my car was half clean and half dirty.  The birds apparently missed the lower panels. 

So for the past several days I’d been thinking I really needed to run through a car wash. Only there isn’t one close by and my schedule has been a little hectic. 

Well, as it turns out, it’s a good thing I didn’t spend my hard-earned dollars at the car wash.  Why?  Because as I was leaving the office yesterday, I noticed that my car was once again covered with bird...”stuff.”  And I had been nowhere near the restaurant I visited the other day! Instead, I was innocently parked in my own parking space at the office.  This, my friends, led me to draw the following conclusion: The birds had found me!

I shook my fist at the empty sky screaming, “WHY ME?” 

But the birds did not answer.

So what is this? Is it retribution for something I did in a past life?  Are they especially attracted to white cars? Did I not annihilate enough pigs in the Angry Birds game?  

Nah.  Probably it’s payback because I hated their movie.  You know the one?  The Birds.  Scared the snot out of me when I was a kid and I can’t stand it when more than two or three birds gather at one time.  I think they probably know this.

Interestingly, the black truck and the red car on either side of my car were guano-free.  Not one drop.  So maybe – just maybe – my paranoia is justified.

I had to do the sand-blasting thing again last night when I got home.  And I counted.  There were precisely 39 “hits” on my car.  Thirty-nine!  That’s a lot.  My car now has more clean areas than dirty, but it still needs some attention with a little soap and water.

So my plan this evening is to find a car wash – fork over the extra bucks for the deluxe wash – and then race home and hide my car in the garage all weekend.  And I will hope that the birds have decided they’ve paid me back enough and they’ll move on to another victim. Either that or the last of 'em have flown south for the winter.

But let me just tell you.  If a bird even accidentally flies into our garage in the next few days, I will be the one calling 911 and asking for the men in the white coats to come get me. 

Ronald McDonald lips won’t be necessary.

The Last “Blonde Moment” of 2011

The date was December 29th and the place was a popular German Village delicatessen. I was meeting my sister and her family for lunch before they headed to northeast Ohio to visit our parents for a couple days before starting the long trek back to Milwaukee. They were coming from Hocking Hills to get there whereas I had to walk a mere block from my office.

While this particular deli is wonderful, I rarely patronize it because it’s always jam packed and I’m not a big fan of sitting so close to the next table that my neighbor could easily snatch a bite of my dill pickle without even stretching out his arm and before I noticed that he’d done so. Nor do I particularly want to hear the strangers at the table next to me discussing the results of Uncle Wilbur’s annual colo-rectal exam.

It’s amazing what some people consider acceptable dinner table talk.

Anyway, since I was so close to the deli, I told my sister that I’d snag a table and wait for them. I thought that perhaps the restaurant might be a little less busy since it was a holiday week and my commute downtown had been surprisingly easy.

What I didn’t realize was that it was a holiday week and all those people who weren’t working were hanging out and eating at places like German Village delicatessens.

Sigh.

I walked into the place and it was, as usual, jam packed. And the line to order was nearly out the door. But, wonder of wonders, I found an empty table, so I abruptly sat down to claim it as if the music had stopped during a rousing game of Musical Chairs.

But then it started. People glaring at me sitting there at an empty table while they walked by holding trays full of food. Or people asking if they could take one of the chairs from the table, even though we were already going to be one short.

Since I was growing increasingly uncomfortable, I frantically texted my sister asking their ETA. She texted me back that they had taken a wrong turn and were still 20 minutes out.

Well, that did it. I told her I couldn’t in good conscience hold on to an empty table for another 20 minutes when it would easily be an hour before we had our food in front of us and could make use of the table.

When we agreed to meet at another restaurant, which we would determine upon their arrival, I abandoned my table. But as I walked toward the door, I heard a mad scramble behind me, so I knew Round 2 of Musical Chairs had just begun.

But here comes the “blonde moment” part.

As I stood outside the deli waiting for my sister and her family, I heard music. I thought it was being piped outside from speakers in the restaurant. It was Christmas music from B.E. Taylor, who is a musician from the Pittsburgh area. I love his songs and listen to his Christmas albums every December to get myself in the holiday spirit.

But I didn’t think B.E. Taylor was well known to the average Columbus-ite, so I assumed that whoever had selected the music was from the Pittsburgh area.

So I stood there smiling and thinking I was completely in sync with my nameless friend inside the German Village delicatessen who selected the music. And I nearly started singing “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” along with ol’ B.E. That would’ve been disastrous because I’m quite sure some passerby would’ve called, at the very least, the music police.

It was just about then that I realized that there was no music being piped out to the street from speakers at the German Village delicatessen. It was music that was loaded onto my iPhone.

Somehow it had gotten switched on during the whole Musical Chairs scramble and other people inside the deli had been listening to my music the whole time I was sitting there. Surely some of them had wondered why I didn’t at least plug in an ear bud to keep my music to myself.

Still waiting for my sister to show up, I stood there feeling my face grow hot, which was my clue that it was also beet red. I could only shake my head and smile ruefully. But, fortunately, there wasn’t anyone around right then to witness my blonde moment.

Ah well. At least my Christmas music was playing during the Christmas season. I mean, it’s not like "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen" was playing on my iPhone at Easter.

But, just in case it happens again, I think I’m going to switch the first song in my playlist to something a little more generic and non-holiday-specific. Like Led Zeppelin or something. By the time Stairway to Heaven finishes playing, I’d have placed my order at the deli, gotten my food, and found an empty table. Musical Chairs optional.

Gotta Go...Gotta Go...Gotta Go Right Now!

I’ve noticed something as I’ve gotten older. Well, yeah, there are a whole lot of somethings I’ve noticed as I’ve gotten older. I can’t see as well. I can’t hear as well. I can’t remember stuff anymore. And my body creaks a whole lot more. But, I mean, besides all that.

What I’ve noticed is that I don’t like to be too far away from a restroom at any given time. I may not even have to go, but when I can’t go, I seem to develop the urge. Weird.

Put me in the OSU football stadium to watch the Buckeyes and the first thing I want to do after I’ve climbed all those cement steps is to head back down them so I can use the ladies room.

Get me on a plane and settled in my seat with my seatbelt securely fastened across my lap – and I immediately wonder if I should make a quick run to the loo before the flight takes off.

Now, you should know that I don’t actually GO to the bathroom once I arrive in my stadium or airplane seat. I just think I probably need to – even if I don’t.

I’ve also noticed that my driving habits have changed. I used to be able to drive for a minimum of 4.75 hours before a potty break was required. Nowadays, I can’t even make it to my parents’ home in Alliance – which is about a 2 hour and 20 minute drive – without making a pit stop along the way.

Sometimes getting older ain’t all that much fun is it?

So today was definitely a challenge for me. See, I didn’t have easy access to a bathroom while I was at work – and I felt like I had to go. All. Day. Long.

We had a couple of little old Italian masons in our German Village office all day repairing the brick wall that is located in the room next to my office. I don’t know if you’ve ever had a brick wall repaired, but red brick dust flies everywhere! We had plastic sheeting taped up all over the place to try to keep the dust to a minimum. And the door to my office was closed all day. Which meant I was practically hermetically sealed inside…and there are no, uh, “facilities” inside my office either.

I stopped drinking water at 8:35AM, which was hard to do because I normally drink water all day long to get in my requisite 8 glasses a day. Yep, I’m a veritable H20 drinking machine while at work.

So all morning I wanted to emerge from my cave to hit the john, even though I hadn’t had a drop to drink and was probably even slightly dehydrated. The thought of a powder room break crossed my mind approximately once every 45 seconds. This, as you can imagine, made it difficult to concentrate on any actual work.

Lunchtime was a blessing and I figured I would just spend the entire hour in the WC. Except…ewwww. So I didn’t, of course.

Normally at lunchtime, I suck down a whole can of Diet Dr. Pepper or another glass of water, but today I took a few miniscule sips from my water bottle fearing the need would hit me just as the afternoon brick repair session began.

This is all probably payback, you know. When I was younger and had the constitution of a, well, a younger person, I didn’t need to go to the restroom as often. But I had friends whose bladders must be the size of a teaspoon. Not only that, but they’d had children, which in female language apparently means they have to use the latrine infinitely more times as often as the rest of us. Like every 60 seconds.

One time a girlfriend and I drove to Cape Cod to spend a week at the beach. I’d made the drive a number of times previously, so I knew how long the trip should take given the usual potty breaks, which were timed with gasoline fill-ups to minimize stops. Ha. Little did I know that we’d have to stop every hour on the hour so she could make a pit stop. Just as we’d get a good driving rhythm going, she’d tell me she needed to stop. Arrrgghh! I thought we’d NEVER get there!

If she’d been a guy, I would’ve handed her a Big Gulp cup. But, nooooo. Couldn’t do that.

Sigh. You know what they say about paybacks, right? So I guess I should apologize to my friend for my superior attitude back then. Maybe I should hope that I get older quick. That way, I won’t remember all the things I used to give people a hard time about, and then won’t have to apologize. Or at least won’t remember that I should!

By the way…you ever notice how many euphemisms there are for “bathroom”?

Thurman Café

One night last week Vince had an appointment downtown, so we decided to meet for a quick dinner somewhere in German Village. My modus operandi is that at 5:01 I’m already outta German Village and headed north on my way home. I do not tarry and I do not dawdle – but not having to forage in the fridge for some semblance of a meal was a definite incentive.

Vince has long waxed poetic about the “Thurman Burger” at a little restaurant/bar in German Village called the Thurman Café, a family-owned restaurant that has been in existence since 1942. Despite all these years of working downtown and in German Village, I had never been to the Thurman Café. So that is where we decided to meet.

I didn’t actually count them, so don’t quote me on this, but I’d guess that there are only about 12 tables and booths in this joint, along with the stools along the bar. They do have long benches in the waiting area where people take their beers to sit, drink, talk to their friends and relax. Possibly they are working up an appetite in anticipation of eating one of those Thurman Burgers. And, from what I understand, there is usually quite a lengthy wait to get seated, so this outer room also handles the overflow.

We only had about a 10 minute wait and then we were seated at a little two-top table, which didn’t seem big enough if the burgers were as big as they say. It was…but just barely! We had a great server/bartender help us. As she said, she wanted to make my “first time” an extra special one. Ha ha…not the first burger I’ve ever had, lady.

But it was the first burger from Thurman’s I ever had…and that probably qualified as a “first time”!

Vince ordered a Thurman Burger and I ordered one of their Blue Cheeseburgers. Mine was delicious, by the way – just let me get that out of the way. I managed almost half of it before giving up in defeat. But this, too, is my modus operandi. I rarely leave a restaurant without a container to take home for another meal. And KFC has nothin’ on the finger-lickin’ good thing. Yum!

The Thurman Burger itself, however, is a height-defying tower of ¾ lb. of burger, bun and all the fixings held together by what must have been specially-ordered extra-long toothpicks. My eyes widened in amazement when it was brought to the table and placed in front of my husband. There would be no way on God’s green earth that I could manage one of those things! But, Vince, well, he’s da man and somehow he managed to eat the thing without dripping most of it down the front of his shirt. I do not know how. I think he didn’t let go and just kept eating until it was gone. If he had let go, it probably would’ve burst apart in a flurry of tomato, pickle, burger and bun.

Apparently, they have a burger on the menu even bigger than the Thurman Burger, which is called the Thurman-ator. This gastric monstrosity contains DOUBLE the meat. Are they kidding? I didn’t see anyone eating the Thurman-ator when we were there. Who knows – maybe the wait staff would be legally required to have paramedics on-site with their resuscitation paddles just in case. I can’t imagine what a double the meat burger could possibly look like. But I do think it takes gluttony to a whole new level.

The restaurant received national attention when the guy from Man v. Food came to Columbus and filmed a show featuring the Thurman Burger. I don’t watch that show – other than once when it was on TV in someone else’s living room. In that episode, host Adam Richman consumed mass quantities of some sort of spicy seafood, which would pretty much be my nightmare meal, so I quickly lost interest. As Vince frequently says about my spicy food eating habits, “Ketchup is spicy for Janie…” And, no, sadly, he’s not really kidding.

I have to assume that the episode featuring the Thurman Burger was a success, or else Thurman’s Café wouldn’t still be promoting the Man v. Food episode with a big sign in its front room.

Anyway, my first visit to the Thurman Café was an enjoyable one. I mean, I was sitting there with my husband – so what’s not to like? And the second half of the burger turned into dinner for both of us the next day, so we certainly couldn’t complain about the value!

But, it’s now an entire week later…and I think I’m still working on the whole digestion thing. I'd say it should be a celery stick-and-water sorta weekend...but we're going to a cookout tomorrow evening. Hopefully, burgers will not be on the menu!

(Graphic Image by: Modern Photography)

Flowering Trees and Stuff

The other day I was driving back to the office after my lunch break and I have to admit that I was a little distracted. I was thinking about the tasks I needed to accomplish that afternoon and about the busy schedule we had that evening. I think I was also noticing the chipped nail polish on my left thumbnail, which started me thinking about the sorry state of my toes, but that’s another story.

Suddenly, I looked – really looked – at the road ahead of me. And I was knocked out! Not literally, of course, which is a good thing since I was driving.

But the Flowering Pear trees that line the street were bursting with blooms and it was like fluffy white clouds had descended from the sky and landed on the trees. I was awestruck. I say this, because my eyes snapped open just as my lower jaw unhinged and my mouth opened wide. I probably looked like a fish, so I’m thinking that should qualify as “awestruck.”

Right then I wished I had my camera so I could stop in the middle of the road to take a picture. Thank goodness the camera was safely tucked away at home as I’m sure I would’ve at the very least pissed off the drivers behind me who would’ve had to slam on their brakes to avoid the foolish woman taking pictures of the trees from the middle of the road. The very worst would’ve been if the drivers behind me were also distracted enough not to notice the foolish woman standing in the middle of the road snapping pictures of trees.

Anyway.

I’ve worked in German Village for about eight years now and the beauty of the flowering trees and carefully tended gardens around here never cease to amaze me. But it’s like I have this reaction every single year. Wouldn’t you think I’d be used to it by now? Oh well, I guess I’d rather be amazed at the beauty of God’s creation than to be blasé and all world-weary about it.

Okay, and if I am to be completely honest here, I think I especially like that other people are doing all the gardening work and I just get to enjoy it! I’m not a digging in the dirt kinda person. Just think what it does to a good manicure. Or at least that’s an excuse I can come up with off the top of my head. Yeah, I think I’ll stick with that one.

Sometimes I get cranky about German Village. The cool looking brick-lined streets can be a bumpy ride from hell that tortures the shocks and struts on my car. I cannot tell you how many nails have had to be pulled out of the tires over all these years because the spaces between the bricks are perfect hiding places for sharp, pointy objects. And I sometimes have to say a quick prayer and hope for the best as I attempt to cross a street at which the drivers perpendicular to me do not have a stop sign. It’s way too hard to see oncoming traffic down here. Sometimes I think I even close my eyes a little bit. Probably I shouldn’t admit that.

But even with all of those shortcomings and take-your-life-in-your-hands moments, I do appreciate the beauty of this small community. Just don’t ask me to move down here. Parking is another issue altogether.

I hope you enjoy these spring-filled, flowering trees days. They only come once a year.

Oh, and I brought my camera today. Film at 11.