We FINALLY Got This Table.

No.

Of COURSE it's not the real Honus Wagner card.

I don't know where that is (someone will enlighten me) (MAYBE. No one reads this blog but my dad and husband.), but it's so unimaginably valuable, that to glue it to the wall would be unthinkable.

Still, it's a nice spot to have a dinner or a few drinks; both, even. I like this table, but I don't ever ask for it. I figure that for each rare occasion we are seated there, provided it's a random gift rather than an engineered favor, it's a special baseball moment shared.

 

Oh, GOD! Indeed, divine inspiration!

I love Cleveland Heights.

later edit: This is the one that came home with me. Marvelous. Went splendidly with spicy vegan spaghetti sauce and chicken parmesan. Afterwards, I had it with a Malley's pretzel bar. Another good pairing, and it nailed my PMS.

 

Mystery SOLVED.

Since the time I discovered my Swedish heritage I've been trying to justify it to the curious urges and desires I naturally feel. Completely on the level, you understand!

*You* know. The eternity of 'nature v nurture'. I'm adopted. There's no escaping this argument. DAILY.

Some days, HOURLY.

Rick helped me today. It was on my second Belgian beer.

I commented on how I really loved EVERYTHING Belgian put in front of me, and I simply didn't understand that. Perhaps there just isn't enough available that is Swedish!

Rick, on the other hand, speculates that perhaps that is the precise reason why Scandinavians needed to go a'viking in the first place.

I know *I'D* leave home for Belgian beer. (And honey. And jams/jellies. And soups. And cheese. To say nothing of the chocolate.) Whether those genius Trappist Monks had anything to do with them or not!

BROKEN GLASS -- DO NOT TOUCH!!

In the (ahem) "Ladies' " restroom at the Lizard. (only tonight am I questioning things...) There's gotta be a mighty story. I'm just glad I wasn't around to witness whatever it was that went down.

It's really so much more fun to make up my own stories. That way no one ends up hurt, and if I want, there can be mutants. Or robots and alien autopsies and blackmarket dinosaur embryos and overwritten memories in human brains -- or, at least, positronic ones. See? So much more entertaining. And no cops, just mysterious government-"types" in dark trench coats.

For the record, I never take a picture in a public restroom unless I'm completely alone. I just keep finding odd things in restrooms. Blog-worthy things. Things like black plastic trash bags taped over broken mirrors as a "safety precaution".

These are things I deem blog-worthy, or at least, things I think the world should know.

And since I don't get many comments on this blog, I feel confident no one actually reads it. Not to the point that people are going to start pointing me out in the streets as "that girl who takes the restroom pictures".

I'm not the WeeGee of Kohler, American Standard, and Moen -- eeeww: that guy was sensationally creepy. I just think restaurant managers need to think very hard about what really IS acceptable, and what they think "passes" for acceptable, as far as their customers are concerned. And believe me, many of their customers are, in fact, quite concerned.

Meh. It won't stop us from going to the Lizard. They've got great wings!

 

 

Anniversary Beer @the Lizard (it RAWX!!)

We are at the Winking Lizard for anniversary dinner and World Tour of Beers tasting. This is Gaspar, a Belgian Ale, and it's marvelously good. However, I am WAAAAAYY behind with the Tour. Not even halfway through. So if there are volunteers to assist My Beloved and me on our sacred quest of quaffing, by all means please *speak THE HECK up*. I'd like to get pregnant, and CAN'T, with this onerous task hanging over my head. *Please*.

 

Just to Prove It 2 My Beloved

See? I told you.

(edit, next day: Yeah, I don't know what I was talking about, either. Probably for the best.)

 

Wordless Weds: I'm Lutheran. I'm a pro. I can handle this.