I miss typing. (I embrace the term in response to every single person out there who likes to point out that spaces like this are exercises in typing, not writing. The 99.9% of bloggers who don't have book deals know, okay?) Every blog/diary/WHATEVER has its bare periods, always made worse when the author starts apologizing and promising new posts just around the corner, but it's not like I haven't wanted to type. Everything's just been Sleep-Kindle-Sleep-Kindle for the past six weeks or so. Or else I've been out. Or playing World of Warcraft. But mostly read 'n sleep 'n repeat.

We saw Louie Anderson for free last Sunday evening. I'm not going to comment on the show, as several people there were having a great time. I will say that the venue is terrible, with long skinny tables and people back to back like the proverbial sardines, all having to turn necks to the side to watch the stage. It's the same theatre Thunder from Down Under uses, and - since my entire understanding of male dancers comes from that one Farley/Swayze skit and the movie Bachelor Party - I don't see how it's any fun for bachelorettes, How is Nick the ____ supposed to wedge himself in there to serve the hot dogs?

The night before that, Mike's Uncle John and his wife were in town. They went out to M and had fun seeing the locals end of things. I already had other plans, but it was a nice chance for Mike to roll with his cultural peers a bit. (I've lost track of how many times we've eaten at M's buffet in the past month (six?), but it's still so delicious.)

Spaking of delicious, after leaving Anderson's show early on Sunday (my neck was sore and we'd both stopped laughing 45 minutes earlier), we bopped next door to Regale. Yes, we ate at Excalibur. Yes, we ate at a restaurant that was once known as Lance-a-Lotta Pasta. But guess what? It was really delicious!

Regale is doing a prix fixe dinner menu for $20 now that includes garlic breadsticks, salad, a choice of three entrees, and tiramisu for dessert. Mike had the rigatoni bolognese with meatballs the size of small fists. I had eggplant something or other with spaghetti marinara. Not eggplant parmigiana, but crepe-like eggplant noodles all rolled up with a cheese filling. Even though spaghetti marinara is usually the most boring pasta in any lineup (it's what I grew up thinking was pretty much the only pasta, back before everyone used the word "pasta" all of the time), everything was nicely seasoned and I regretted not packing a second stomach. Who knew you could get a good meal at the Excalibur?

Apparently ChaCha knew, because I asked before we went to the show. But ChaCha isn't always trustworthy. (If you don't know about ChaCha, this is the nutshell: Have a question? Text it to 242242. ChaCha will answer. ChaCha will even cite its source. And ChaCha is free, unlike that KGBKGB service that is all over the television lately.)

Still, even though ChaCha only quoted a single Yelp review back to me (when I specifically asked for the overall opinion of established critics), they were right in their praise of Regale. And I''m not just saying nice things because I took their "Expeditor" test and now can sit around and earn ChaCha money whenever I want. And by money I'm talking single pennies at a pop. Maybe I'm not allowed to disclose that? Anyway, Expeditors just reformat the questions that come in and decide what kind of specialist needs to address the queries. Rarely do they get to answer anything themselves, unless it's a click-click move like weather, crystal ball fun, whatever. So, if you do use ChaCha, know that I might be sitting there, judging you for your "ur" instead of "your" (as I retype it), and looking at your recent question history, wondering how many "sexual rhyme" requests you're going to make.

Oh, and ChaCha believes that I can't wear a brown shirt with black pants unless it is a very light brown shirt. Renee, if you're reading this, I guess I bow to conventional wisdom. I mean, I'm not going to stop wearing my brown shirt with black pants or anything - I still can't believe this is a hardcore rule, not when people match lime green and blood orange with impunity. Sometimes, to me, black and brown together are simply autumnal and sedate. Which means I've gone from not caring about fashion but knowing the "rules" to being completely out-of-touch and not to be trusted with the almighty question: "Does this go?"

What else? I saw Twilight. I hoped it would inspire me to move on to the second book, which so far has left me completely uninterested, despite Kindle sampling and having the hardcover out for so long that I wasn't allowed to use the public library again until I returned it.

I want to like Twilight. It's not happening. I have zero interest in the characters. But everyone I respect loves the books, so... it's like I'm wearing that brown shirt with black pants on more than one level.

Speaking of pressing the nose to the glass of Everyone Else's Window - I have secret angst. Isn't that fabulous? (And Twilight-y?) And kind of old hat, predictable, and boring? (Like Twilight? Okay, I'll stop.)

Yeah, well, I wasn't planning to have secret angst. What happened was I had regular angst, and then I realized I couldn't mention it on Facebook because, OOPS, not everyone on Facebook is actually my friend. I'm only 43 people into FB and I've already relaxed my borders too much. (And apparently I update my status message "a lot"? Renee was right about the brown-n-black, so she's probably right about this, too. I've started asking everyone who is not my friend how often they update, and I think I'm playing in the "You're Confusing This Site with Twitter" sandbox. Except I rarely Twitter, because I think of it more as a blog than a status update site, and this is a whole lot of thinking going nowhere important, isn't it?)

Or maybe the people of interest on FB are friends, but they are also the source of nameless angst that is better suffered with mild and vague public handwringing, like my own coy Blind Item in the tabloid that is my life (Readership: 1), than hashed out "sensibly." Whatever.

And I can't describe a single thing about this angst here because, OOPS, who decided to have her own little Summer of Love, Trust, and Sharing because Things Are Different These Days and let FB and this site know about each other? And I can't tell any offline people because you know how they are, supporting and reassuring and all that garbage. This is angst, not a situation. There's nothing to fix. I'm just doomed to be a bit miserable until I take a big breath and forge deeply ahead or else bury everything deep and hum the "Not Happening, Not Happening" scene from Erik the Viking. (Ooo. I need to check for Erik the Viking Flair.)

And all Mike does is point out worse scenarios and remind me of how good everything else is, which, again, is no good when you have angst. Plus 200 points for not trying to lay a solution on the table like a typical guy, but still no large plush toy from the premium shelf, sir. He does okay for a person who prefers the more upbeat Cure songs, to the breathy moans of Lullaby but - once more - this is angst. It's all on me to choose whether I'm going to be grumpy because I can't change other people into being something different.

Everything will be fine. (Just out of curiosity, heh heh heh, how hard is it to get Paxil? Prozac? What's the one with the bouncy smiley face? If I cut the smiley off a Wal-Mart shelf tag and stick it on Captain Morgan's body, will that work? Because I think I read that if you pour a rum and Coke on an angst stain it disappears within two shots? Like hydrochloric acid on the driveway, right? Or Taco Bell packets and pennies? I'm nearly 40 - I'm too old for black eyeliner. And my hazel eyes may be too brown, anyway.)

29 April 2009 |






Carnival Elation (2009)
Carnival Splendor (2009)
Carnival Spirit (2010)
Carnival Spirit (2011)
Carnival Splendor (2011)
Norwegian Pearl to Alaska (2012)