A humorous look at the little things in life

Somos perdedores. June 6, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — ashleyolsonrosen @ 4:23 pm

Recommended wine for today’s entry: Cabre & Sabate semi-dry Cava. This was a staple in our fridge for the Spain odyssey: sold at the Mercadona (grocery chain) for less than 2 Euros (about $2.80 American). Hard to pass up! And while it has bubbles, it lacks the sweetness of champagne. I plan to search for it at my local liquor store — will advise if I can find it!

We spent 13 days in Spain — the first 8 in a small city on the Mediterranean, south of Barcelona. It is called Villanova and it is absolutely charming. If there were other tourists there, we didn’t recognize them as such. Of course, maybe they were simply not as inappropriate, bumbling and dangerous as the Griswolds. Or us.

I will say, we wasted NO time presenting ourselves as the freakshow American family who were renting on Calle Don Miguel de Cabayo. After a refreshing little 5 1/2 hour nap, we got all gussied up and went walking up the Principal Rambla — the main avenue — in search of some vittles, I reckon. We thought we were over the jet lag.

As we approached the beach, looking at the pictures of food posted by all the menus at about a million little cafes, bars and restaurants, we discussed the fact everyone recommended we try paella at some point.

It wouldn’t be wise, though, we decided. It’s expensive for one thing. Oh, and our oldest daughter is a vegetarian who eats no meat or fish, so she’s out. I don’t eat meat and I avoid seafood in Europe because in one single trip to Rome, I ordered shrimp three different times, gagged when their little faces were still attached, and never ate a single bite of it. Well, I’m no dummy and I finally figured out that they are just a little too graphic for me over there. So, with a mental image of the promised “baby squid,” I agreed that I had no need to sample paella. Our youngest daughter was in Spain last summer and vehemently declared that paella was “absolutely the most disgusting thing she had ever tasted.” I might point out that this child was raised on my cooking and that statement is saying a LOT.

That left my husband, who said he wanted to try it, but he wasn’t very hungry tonight.

Finally we found a restaurant that suited us. Right on the beach, filled with locals. We used hand gestures that might have landed four planes and eventually discerned that we were to seat ourselves.

When the waiter approached, I used my very best Spanish to ask for a wine list. Well, I said “vino” and then he came back with the BIGGEST bottle of wine I’d ever seen. Before hyperventilating, I saw that it was just a clever wine list that didn’t include any wines by the glass. Jet lag or no jet lag, I couldn’t drink a bottle by myself. At least not if I had to parade back up the posh avenue later.

“Cuatro Estrellas, por favor,” I said, clearly and distinctly with my super-cool Spanish accent that I got from listening to Sofia Vergara on Modern Family. Estrella is a really good beer from the Catalunya region of Spain. The waiter repeated it: Cuatro ayeyiyiI’mtalkingsofastyoucan’tevenseemymouthmovecanyou?

Si, I answered confidently. We were entrenched. Totally.

My husband didn’t think the waiter knew what I’d said. So I sneered at him and told him he was stupid and I’d had like 12 years of Spanish that ended just a short 30 years ago and I think I can order four beers. Geez, give me some credit.

While we waited for our beers, we took in the surroundings. The owner of the place, a jovial looking fellow, periodically came out and slapped the backs and shook the hands of all his pals at surrounding tables. Our feelings were a little hurt, but we, like the Griswolds, figured our day would come.

Then my daughter peed in the men’s room. Come on, it’s a foreign country. Give her a break. No, it didn’t say hombre and mujer. It had a picture of someone in a dress and someone in trousers. So when the whole bar watched her proceed with full confidence into the trousered door, there was a bit of chatter. Me? Of course I knew where to go. I just didn’t remember that it was a sliding door and when I went to leave, I yanked and pushed and yanked and pushed, causing quite a clamor, I might add. So when I went by all the drunken sots (OK, they weren’t) sitting at the bar, there was a bit more chatter.

Where was the beer when you need it? Still no sign. Someone did come though and very efficiently set our table with brightly colored paper placemats. Ha! No one else had THOSE. We speculated that our visit from the owner was certainly only moments away.

The waiter came back and we stumbled through our orders: two vegetal sandwiches for the vegetarians, and bikini sandwiches (ham & cheese) for the meat eaters. Oh, and we had to try something from the tapas menu — potatas fritas, fried chunks of potato with a spicy aoili sauce. OK, and a plate of olives too. So what if we looked like gluttonous Americans. And we were too thirsty to care what we looked like. Maybe, we told each other, maybe they bring the drinks with the food. Here. In Spain. Maybe.

But then our food came it was awesome except for three things:

  1. the vegetable sandwich had no vegetables and was, in fact, a tuna salad sandwich;
  2. my daughter doesn’t eat fish; and
  3. we still didn’t have any beers.

So we caught the waiter again and ordered another sandwich — just queso y pan, we emphasized. No atun (tuna), no carne (meat), no pesce (fish). Just cheese and bread. And WAIT — can we have our cuatro cervesas? Por favor.

Finally, our waiter approached, carrying a tray with sandwich #5 and CUATRO ESTRELLAS!! We were gleeful. And trailing behind him? Right! The owner!

…He was carrying two of the CUATRO PAELLAS that were coming to our table. Yes, sixty dollars worth the paellas. What are the freakin’ chances that the only beer I knew rhymed with the expensive, labor-intensive dish?

You have never seen four people shake their heads faster and with more conviction.

It’s blurry, but here’s one of my daughters’ reactions:

You can't see me now, right?

 Hmm. A rather inauspicious beginning, I guess. I was actually more astonished that they actually thought that four normal-sized humans sat down and ordered: 4 HUGE paellas, 5 sandwiches, fried potatoes and a trough of olives. With no liquids.

Somos perdedores. We are losers. And there’s more … but I’ll save that for another day.


Crap my spouse says…and why we’ve made it 28 years May 21, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — ashleyolsonrosen @ 10:26 am


The last time I fed him.

Recommended sip for today’s entry: It’s a beer night. I’m gonna recommend a Newcastle Brown Ale, one of my beloved spouse’s favorite beers. Since he is the focus of the blog today, let’s suggest this English Brown Ale that pairs well with earthy and nutty cheeses, meats, and … (his personal pairing) potato chips.

OK, on this the occasion of my 28th anniversary, I promised to let you in on our secret to a happy marriage. Hmm. I may have over-promised. I’m not really sure why it works. A lot of days it doesn’t seem to be working at all. But more often than not, it does. I guess my advice is: Have Low Expectations.

I’m just kidding. My advice for a long and happy marriage is to laugh.

Those of you who know Jeff may know that he is funny. Mean funny, but funny all the same.

And this year, as you know, we’ve been through a lot of changes. We’ve become empty nesters — at least most of the time — and my husband’s company is leaving the city, so things haven’t exactly been stellar at the office. Anyway, we’ve spent a whole lot of nights, just the two of us, watching TV. And if you thought that the show S@#T My Dad Says was funny, you’ll love Crap Jeff Says.

Before you read this, you must pinkie swear that you know he is ALWAYS kidding. After the first few remarks, I began to log them in the memo file on my phone, which just prodded him to produce more.

His thoughts on the state of our union and my special allure:

If I wasn’t forced to be with you for financial reasons, I wouldn’t be.

You’re still reasonably good looking. For your age, I mean.

I’m not disappointed with the predicament I find myself in.

I really need something to do at work so that I can stomach sitting her with you at night.

She’s a hag, but you look every bit as good as she does.

Low light suits you.

His (really tempting) come-on lines:

Oh come on, I think you’re beautiful. But you don’t give me anything.

I even said you smelled good. You’d think that would get me a tongue kiss or something.

Why don’t you look at me more? I am totally smoking hot.

And then, when he FINALLY noticed, after four months, that I was writing his comments down:

Why are you writing that shit down? You’re not Taylor Swift. You could be her grandma.

A discussion about my idol, Claire on Modern Family:

Him: I don’t think she’s all that pretty.

Me: I want to be her.

Him: You ARE her.

When I criticized C.C. Sabathia, the uh…chunky… pitcher for the Yankees:

Huh. How many Major League wins do YOU have, Flabby?

On the fact that I didn’t breastfeed our children:

They’re all screwed up because you didn’t let them drink your cow milk.

And finally, when I said that if he didn’t treat me with more respect, I’d leave him for someone better:

If I cut your Achilles tendon, you wouldn’t be able to run.

Well, in light of all that, I’m thinking you all either think a) he’s really funny or b) I’m a saint. A hag of a saint, but a saint. Anyway, I’m stupid enough to think it’s funny. I’ll keep you all apprised…I’m sure that as he ages and the filters (uh, not sure they ever existed) wear down, the Crap Jeff Says will only get better!!

And finally, a tribute to Horrendous Bridesmaids Garments of the 1980s:

The headwear really makes the ensemble.


In times of stress, there’s nothing like a nasty retort to make one feel better May 20, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — ashleyolsonrosen @ 12:15 pm

Recommended wine for today’s entry: Poema Metodo Tradicional Cava. I choose this Spanish dry bubbly because we leave for Spain on Saturday — I know, FINALLY! This is what we will be toasting with tomorrow night in anticipation of this exciting trip. If you often find champagne too sweet after a glass or two, you have to try Cava. Yum! Actually, if I’m smart, I’ll leave a bottle for our housesitters … since we’re leaving THEM with the gimpy dog and the geriatric cat colony.

Woe is me, woe is me, woe is me.

 I have spent the past two weeks at veterinarians, dentists, doctors and hairdressers. With the girls home from college, we’ve been getting all the pets in the house patched up and the people in the house polished, probed and preened.

The rest of the time, I’ve been running errands and more errands to ensure that on our trip to Spain I don’t forget something essential – like spare contact lenses for my daughter or a dual voltage straightener or Dramamine or crayons for the plane (yes, they are 18 and 21 – I never claimed they were mature).


 As unpleasant as many of these experiences have been, there has been humor along the way. I am a bit high-strung lately, and I have very nearly blurted nasty retorts to some of the fine people I’ve been dealing with. Here are a few examples of things I wish I’d said:

Situation: In the liquor store, Friday before Derby. Hurrying to the wine refrigerator in the back because there’s no time for chillin’ before I’m be startin’ swillin’. I just made that up. I run into friend of mine who works at liquor store (and yes, she was my friend BEFORE she worked in a liquor store). A very large woman who looks like a Harlem Globetrotter in drag asks her how to make a mint julep with no alcohol because — with I swear a disparaging look at me as I stash bottles into my cart — NONE OF HER FRIENDS ARE (wrinkles nose in disgust) DRINKERS.

I wish I’d said: Sure you can, mister. That would leave you with a tasty blend of sugar, ice and a mint sprig. Ooh, ooh, I know — you could even add a touch of red food coloring if any of your friends are hummingbirds!

I bet they don’t gamble either. Sheesh.

Situation: That Sunday, which happened to also be Mother’s Day, our outside kitty turned up very, very sick. I mean, he looks like a float in the Macy’s parade and he wasn’t eating. He was dehydrated and lethargic. So I waited until 1:30 in the morning, waiting for what I really don’t know, THEN I announced to my husband that we were going to the Pet Emergency Room. This place charges you $400 to acknowledge your presence in the waiting room. After an exam, the vet, who was very nice, came out and explained that Anastasia (yes, it’s a he. Not my fault) was, indeed, very sick. He had formed crystals in his pee tube and they would need to be removed with a catheter — to the tune of $1,200- $1,400 if we left him there for the whole treatment.

At this point, I looked to my husband with the question — Are we gonna pay that?

And his response, which I wish I had said ‘cuz it was really funny: Well, what am I gonna do? Get it out of there with a straw?

It was even funnier at what was by then 3 a.m.

Situation: annual mammogram. Yee haw. So in the pre-smash interview, she said, “Do you have implants?”

And I wish I’d said: Yes, I got the pre-sagged B cups. They were on sale.

Then, just before she began to maul me, she said, “I think my hands might be a little cold.”

And I wish I’d said: You THINK they might be a little cold? I think you might be dead.

Then the OB/GYN asked me how menopause was treating me.

And I wish I’d said: Menopause? Nothing but pure awesomeness. Bliss. I was sweating so much in the line at the bank the other day, I swear I saw them go for the robber button.

Situation: When I went to pick up the cat from the overpriced emergency clinic and transport him to his regular vet, I told the four vet techs at the front desk what I was there for. They all smiled really sweetly, then all perused a menu, ordered their lunches, shared a few squirts of lilac-scented hand lotion, sent a fax to someone in the back room that said Happy Birthday, and then it took three of them to get the fourth dolt untangled from her own phone cord.

Then, looking at me as if I’d just walked up, one of them said, “Has anyone checked you out?”

And I wish I’d said: Not unless you count the pasty, bald guy in the corner with the chihuhua in his lap.

Instead, I paid them the balance of what we owed them, for which we nearly had to seek a second mortgage. Then I waited for 15 more minutes.

And I wish I’d said: Listen, I’m glad y’all are having so much fun. It’s been lovely to watch. But I gave you your $800 a very VERY long time ago. Now how about you bring me my corpulent cat with the half ear, dingleberries and the screwed up pee tube and we call it even?

Situation: Yesterday, I went to Walgreens to get a few last things for the trip. As I walked in, this ancient woman who moved like one of those rubber skeletons you hang at Halloween, all loose-jointed and stuff, dances over to the door, hops in front of me and goes, HELLO!!

Uh, hello, creepy scary lady.

Then she pops up in the toothpaste aisle, putting a hand on my shoulder and again shouting HELLO!! like she hadn’t seen me in ages and ages and was, in fact, my long-lost grandmother.

I just smiled.

Of course, she was also the checkout lady, and when she looked up and gleefully bellowed HELLO! I wish I’d said: Listen, lady, I don’t know what experimental happy pills the pharmacy department has you hopped up on, but I just think you should know that this isn’t your high school reunion.

You know, sometimes purging after the fact really does help. Thanks for listening.

There’ll even be a new post tomorrow, since I’ll be out of town for awhile. In honor of our 28th anniversary, I’ll be publishing

SHIT MY HUSBAND SAYS. You are definitely going to want to wait and read it after a couple beverages. Hysterical stuff!


Who says a carriage is more romantic than a tractor? I say potato… April 29, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — ashleyolsonrosen @ 5:12 pm

Recommended wine for today’s entry: Duh. Prince William champagne. According to, Halewood International has owned the Prince William Champagne brand for decades but now, with the Royal Wedding coming, the brand is looking to cash in. The brand is releasing a limited edition commemorative label, using the ‘Prince William’ and ‘Royal Wedding’ trademarks. The champagne is expected to retail for around £25.

Were you one of the people who got up in the middle of the night to watch the royal wedding? Oh my! Such pomp and circumstance! Such splendor and beauty! Such magnificent gownage!

Did I watch it? Absolutely not. At least not live. I mean, if I’m gonna get up in the middle of the night, it’s gonna be for something far, far more glamorous than a wedding between two people whom I’ve not met, who didn’t even consider inviting me, and who, I feel sure, would only give me a second glance if I were to burst into flames on the sidewalk in front of them. I only thought of that because when we were in London many years ago, the queen mum herself rode by in the back of a stately car. She turned, gave us a look that said, “ugh… Appalachians,” and then she whizzed right on by, even though my daughters and I were waving with all our might.

Anyway, I only get up in the middle of the night for important things like a major menopause moment, a cat emitting the warning heaves of a furball about to fly on my pillow, a dog growling at a prowler, or — more likely — a tabby who is taunting him. Or, as I have done more often than not lately, when the weather alert call comes and I traipse to the basement with my family and whichever pets have not done anything to disappoint me lately.

Anyway, since last night I somehow managed to sleep all the way through the night, I caught the wedding highlight reel while I was on the treadmill this morning. I have to admit, it was spectacular. Even me, who only goes to weddings if they have an open bar. I’m not one to care too much about the perfect flowers, the engraved napkins, the cake that costs more than our normal grocery bill for a fiscal year. I do enjoy a good reception though, and it sounds like Party Prince Harry had a rockin’ after-party planned!

Of course, had I been invited, I would have had to go to the ceremony, take a nap, go to the reception, take a nap, then head to Harry’s bash. So I guess it’s good they didn’t invite me, because I would have had to take my naps in little out-of-the-way nooks at the Abbey, and I bet someone would have pulled me out by my feet and my elegant dress would’ve gotten pulled up when they dragged me and all those snobby Brits would be saying, “criminy, look a’ that … showin’ her knickers in Westminster here in front o’ God un everyone. Bloody Americans.”

Here are a couple other thoughts I had while watching the replay:

I know exactly what was going through Kate’s sister’s head as she loomed in the background, holding the train on the dress and keeping the unruly pack of children who were trailing the bride at bay: Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. (In the words of Jan Brady in a favorite Brady Bunch episode dealing with sibling rivalry…)

And I’m glad that Camilla didn’t wander outside while they were readying the carriage for the grand departure, because I’m pretty sure someone would’ve mistakenly thrown a halter over her head and joined her up.

I was scanning the crowd, looking for Kate’s college roommates, who not only got dissed and didn’t get to be bridesmaids, but they didn’t even get to sit in the front row or anything. Seriously, how’d you like to spend four years holding your roommates’ hair while they threw up  just to get stiffed from being a royal bridesmaid?

What? Not everyone did that? Well, I lived with a particularly fun-loving group of girls, and we did.

I thought it was cute when Prince Harry turned and peeked at Kate as she approached, then smirked and leaned over to his brother (who still hadn’t seen his betrothed) and whispered something. Then his cheeks got all pink and cute as only the British do. Well, I know boys and I am willing to bet that the whispered phrase had the word boobs in it.

I also was thinking that this wedding has absolutely ruined the lives of many of us middle-aged Americans with daughters. I mean, when we visited London, one of my daughters, 9 at the time, stated that she was definitely getting married at Westminster Abbey. No honey, we explained patiently, it is absolutely illegal to have weddings there. In fact, I think I remember that someone once tried to get married there and it caused the whole Revolutionary War. As I’ve mentioned before, I lie to my kids a lot.

But now, just when we had them all bought into the glory and glamour of nuptials that involve a kegger at the VFW Hall and a disco ball throwing its magical light across the concrete floor, now this comes along. How are we supposed to compete with that?

I suppose now we’re gonna have to put flowers on the tractor for the grand departure. OK, and we’ll throw in a round of Jello shots.


Oh lawdy, now I’m writing about worms. April 25, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — ashleyolsonrosen @ 1:57 pm
Tags: , , , ,

Recommended wine for today’s entry: The 2009 Ben Marco Malbec. The Wall Street Journal’s Oenofile column recently discussed the tendency for people to order the second-cheapest wine on a wine list. According to them, this isn’t always the way to find a bargain as the least expensive wines are often marked up the most. From Argentina, the Ben Marco is described as a “big, plush, almost purple wine with notes of dark plum and tobacco.” They said it runs about $20 a bottle retail.

My husband called and I told him that I was busy writing a blog about earthworms. Within ten minutes he e-mailed me a link to a posting for a job he thought I should look into.

This is how I got worms on my mind (not to be confused with IN my mind):

I record for the blind and reading impaired. Usually I record a local collegiate sports magazine, which I enjoy, but after basketball season they only publish once a month. Last Thursday, after a full week of torrential and non-stop rain, I looked forward to taking refuge in my little sound proof booth that lacks windows. I could pretend it was pretty outside. I was set to record the appendix of a book for preschool teachers, filled with flashback-inducing songs and games like Who Stole the Cookies From the Cookie Jar. Noooooooo. I had finally, after 15 years, banished freakin’ Barney memories to the deepest recesses of my mind and NOW look what you’ve done!

Anyway, one of the songs was this one:

Nobody likes me, everybody hates me,
I think I’ll go eat worms!
Big fat juicy ones,
Eensie weensy squeensy ones,
See how they wiggle and squirm!

Down goes the first one, down goes the second one,
Oh how they wiggle and squirm!
Up comes the first one, up comes the second one,
Oh how they wiggle and squirm!

I bite off the heads, and suck out the juice,
And throw the skins away!
Nobody knows how fat I grow,
On worms three times a day!

Well, I don’t know about YOU, but besides being totally inappropriate for a three-year-old, this is just plain DISGUSTING. It wasn’t enough to describe their slimy little bodies slithering down one’s throat or “juice” inside them that is actually their bowels and other such appealing parts. No, this children’s song actually includes a verse about vomit.

I’m thinking that Romper Room would not have sanctioned this song.

And now I can’t stop thinking about worms. Because I am ONCE AGAIN stuck at my house waiting for the icemaker repairman, I took the opportunity to do a little research on worms.

Here is the picture on the Web site I found:

The fun fact just to the right of this said, “A worm has no arms, legs or eyes.” As a teaching tool, I think this is akin to offering a picture of the QE2 in the chapter on Columbus’ voyage.

Anyway, I have always been fascinated by the fact that worms, in the event you slice them in half, can regenerate the part of their body that has gone missing. I went to verify that fact and, sure enough, it’s true: “Earthworms have the ability to replace or replicate lost segments. This ability varies greatly depending on the species of worm you have, the amount of damage to the worm and where it is cut. It may be easy for a worm to replace a lost tail, but may be very difficult or impossible to replace a lost head if things are not just right.”

I wonder if things ever go awry and they end up with two butts. Or two heads like CatDog. Wormworm. But if they don’t have eyes or noses, I imagine their head and their butt look just alike anyway, so except for always fighting to be lineleader, they’d probably be OK.

A particularly interesting fact I never knew — worms are hermaphrodites. Yup, you got it — they have female parts and male parts. So never say, “Go f—  yourself!” to a worm, because you will undoubtedly see something you really didn’t mean to.

If I could talk to a worm, here are some things I would ask them:

  • Why don’t you get off the black asphalt when the sun’s really hot before you crisp up into worm bacon? 
  • When it rains, does the wildest worm in the backyard suddenly scream POOL PARTY!! and you all scooch scooch scooch through the torrential rain just to get to the bottom of my pool? Is it like the Jonestown of the worm world? Could y’all maybe stop with the pool parties, on account of all your decomposing carcasses are taking the allure out of our sparkling blue waters.
  • So like when I used to go fishing and I accidently broke one of you all while putting it on the hook, did it like regenerate a new tail just in time to get eaten lock, stock and barrel by a fish?
  • What happens if a worm is claustrophobic? I mean, I’ve looked into those bait pails and it appears you worms have absolutely NO regard for personal space.

In closing, I am going to offer you a list of things that worms like to eat and things that they do NOT like to eat. For example, don’t even THINK about going out into your flooded backyard and shredding up some glossy colored paper for them. They will run shrieking into your swimming pool.


My friends are freaks too! April 18, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — ashleyolsonrosen @ 1:04 pm
Tags: , , ,

Recommended wine for today’s entry: Greystone Cellars chardonnay. This is the wine my friend and I had for the first time at dinner the other night. It was on special and we really liked it. Wine Enthusiast gave it a 90, and this review: “Suprisingly rich and complex for the price. Shows pineapple, pear and oaky vanilla flavors that are deep and long, and balanced with crisp acidity. Very drinkable and a great value. ” Looks like it retails for under $15 — definitely one to try!

Today’s entry comes from my friend Henrietta. Henrietta is not her real name, but since she wouldn’t allow me to identify her, I gave her an ugly pseudonym to punish her. For background, Henrietta is an attractive and petite 52-year-old, happily married woman.

And last Thursday, Henrietta had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.  But it was really funny if you weren’t Henrietta.

First she stopped at a small, local fruit market and deli, where she ordered lemon-pepper turkey from the deli counter. She couldn’t help notice that the young man who waited on her was nice looking, albeit much younger than she. He wore gloves while cutting and packaging her turkey, and when he handed her the plastic bag, he commented that most of the lemon pepper coating had stuck to his gloves. He made a comment about having most of the “good stuff” on his hands still.

Well, Henrietta opened her mouth and just before she replied, she realized that saying, “You should lick your fingers” might be a bit racy to say to the poor young buck.

So she didn’t. Instead, she got all spazzy and said, “I should lick your fingers.”

Then she grabbed her turkey, ran to the checkout counter and paid with … duh — cash. That was, oddly enough, my first question for her when I stopped laughing at the story. Because I have said horrifying things enough times that I am programmed to leave anything that can be used to identify me safely ensconced in my purse. Henrietta, having just propositioned the poor guy, was smart enough not to be traceable.

Flash forward to that same evening: Her husband, undoubtedly feeling that the turkey she offered for dinner was now, in some way, dirty, suggested that they go to a pizza place in the eclectic part of town. Henrietta agreed, and while her husband was ordering or parking the car or something, she befriended one of the eclectics. He was a bit hippiesh with a long ponytail and was the antithesis of Henrietta’s husband, who had on a polo shirt and khakis — and had a fleece pullover with his country club logo on it draped over his chair, in case the evening became cool.

Well, Mr. Eclectic chatted it up with Henrietta while her husband was away, because even hippies, who seem so laid back, are really just boy nymphomaniacs with longer tresses. He asked her if they were there for All-You-Can-Drink night and expounded on the featured beer, some odd import that he seemed to know a lot about. Henrietta was actually impressed with his beer knowledge, but informed him that no, if she were to participate in All-You-Can-Drink, she would need a driver to get her home.

Mr. Eclectic had Yellow Cab’s number programmed in his phone.

When her husband returned, she pointed out her new boyfriend, who was sitting at a table kitty-corner behind her husband. They ate their pizza; Mr. Eclectic got his money’s worth for All-You-Can-Drink night.

Pretty soon, Henrietta heard Mr. Eclectic hmmm….how do I say this so it’s not gross? Well, hell, it IS gross — he formulated and spit out a hocker. Then two. Then three. Henrietta thought that was gross.

But that was nothing.

Because then she heard the sound of water rushing, gushing even, and looked up just as Mr. Eclectic projectile vomited up, up through the air, arcing down and landing in and about the back of her husband’s chair and then splushed to a dramatic finish in a pool about his legs and feet.

Yeah, in retrospect, the hockers weren’t all that gross.

But wait! This guy was not some tacky loser. He didn’t puke and run, which I have to admit, I would have been inclined to do. Nope, not him, he approached Henrietta and husband, professing his remorse, repeating, “I’m not that guy. I don’t want you to think I’m that guy…” over and over and over. He offered to buy a new country club fleece.

No thanks, they replied. Just step away, please. Just stand back. (Of course they assumed there was more where that came from as he had four beer glasses sitting on his table.)

Then — and I think this is the denouement — then he said, “Don’t worry, man, it’s not that gross — I mean, it was just beer that went down the wrong way — see? It’s all liquid. Just beer. Look, there aren’t any chunks or anything.”

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? You projectile puked on my feet and ankles and NOW we are going to analyze it?

Well, because he wasn’t that guy, he did go in and get my friend a $10 gift card. And he got a bottle of water, which showed good judgment.

For a couple minutes. Because before they left, he four more beers lined up in front of him again.

I just hope he used Yellow Cab’s number.

I love when I hear that freakish things happen to other people — remember, I welcome your stories, either in the form of guest blogs or, if you are the shy type like Henrietta here (except when she’s offering to lick hot young strangers’ fingers…), I’ll relay the stories. Just email me at!


The Iceman Doth Not Cometh April 12, 2011

Filed under: Uncategorized — ashleyolsonrosen @ 12:30 pm

Recommended wine for today’s entry: San Pietro Alto Adige 2009 Pinot Grigio. This was an awesome Italian wine that my friends Quint and Tippi brought when they came to watch the Final Four. Luckily the wine was great because the outcome of the game was NOT great. You definitely want to give the San Pietro, which I found to be drier than many pinot grigios in a very pleasant way, a try. Winemaker’s notes: “San Pietro Pinot Grigio comes from vineyards in the Bassa Atesina hills of the Alto Adige, an area long known for their superb white wines and offering the ideal growing conditions for this particular varietal. This wine is fuller in colour than other wines of the Alto Adige, full but soft to the palate with a good acidic balance with a slight note of ripe fruit. The aroma is of tropical fruit and honey. Truly lovely wine!”

I think I may have mentioned … at length … that our icemaker was broken. That was 12 weeks ago and IT…IS…STILL…BROKEN. (I am taking deep breaths and counting to 10.)

Actually, it wasn’t always the icemaker. It started as a teeny-tiny, barely perceptible, leak in a hose in the back of the refrigerator. As you may recall, it took the very nice retired gentleman a total of six visits and $270 (because he only charged us for about a third of his efforts as they were undeniably futile in nature). And when he finished, voila! The leak had stopped.

…and the icemaker was broken. This time, we called in appliance EXPERTS. One shaky guy, two blowhards and a know-it-all later, we have a brand-spanking-new icemaker (warranty), two new filters, a new fuse and no ice. We also have another $308.87 missing from our checking account.

The know-it-all thought he had it fixed both times he visited. Once, he made it do a test cycle and, to prove to me that water had reached the ice mold, he stuck his fingers into the water that was to become my ice and melt into my water and go down my throat, extracted them and said, “look, water!”

Yay! When you’re done infesting all the ice cubes, can you please lick around the mouth of our milk carton?

Anyway, what I’m getting at, is … yesterday I waited for repairmen. Again. But because I’m a multi-tasker, I went ahead and scheduled ADT to come out for a small repair too. ADT was coming between noon and 5 p.m., and the appliance people (who had recently received an earful from my husband) were expected between 11 a.m. and 2 p.m.

I say expected because I am still waiting. They’re gonna call when they’re on their way. I will have to remember to bring my cell phone when they move me into a nursing home.

I hate hate hate hate hate to be stuck home. I don’t mind staying home if no one tells me I have to, but if I have to, I hate hate hate (you get it) it. Oh, and the TVs are broken because here on Green Acres we got us one of dem satellite dishes and it wasn’t scoopin’ up no signal or nuthin’. So the house was really super creepily quiet.

Except when it thundered somewhere far, far away like in China and set my neurotic dog racing through the house, window to window, barking loud enough for the Chinese thunder to hear him. That almost always happened when I got on the phone.

For example, the Medco pharmacy now has a tape that says this:

Thank you for calling the Medco pharmacy refill line. Your call may be monitored or recorded for quality assurance. Please speak in a normal tone of voice and say your nine-digit prescription number.


The number is also called an RX number and may be found on your …



Anyway, as time wore on and I got more and more and more bored and I finished the ironing, which was the high point of my day … enough said … I got grumpier and grumpier and finally the psycho dog had pissed me off for the last time as I tried to talk one of my children out of having a collegiate-workload-induced panic attack. He was barking so loudly (and his equally stupid sister was chiming in) that the alarm system thought there was glass breaking and it kept going off. So I hung up with my daughter and commenced to screaming.


My cell phone rang, so I held a finger in the dog’s startled face. That was to let him know that I was NOT finished with him.


Mrs. Rozzen? (Repair people are unable to pronounce 5-letter names correctly.)


I’m with ADT. I think I’m at your house.

Oh, OK. Here, it’s raining, I’ll open the garage door — come in that way.

I’m in your garage.

So I opened the door and there he stood, about six feet and a 1″ thick door away from my tirade.

I quickly worked out a well-crafted ruse so that he wouldn’t know I was bitterly disappointed in a golden retriever, but perhaps he would think I had a juvenile delinquent child who had been sent up to his room.

UGH, I said. Kids!

Then I showed him where the security system was, and, to fill the awkward silence that I am sure only I noticed, I said…

It is sooooo quiet in this house. The TV is broken too and I have been stuck here alone all day.

Well, so far so good on the well-crafted ruse. The look on his face said I am either dealing with Sybil or Baby Jane and there is an artery pulsing in her temple.

So, after he determined that he was unable to fix the ADT problem, he took his leave (rather quickly I might add), and I resumed my vigil, still assuming that The Iceman Cometh.

He did not cometh, and he did not call. His boss, Crystal, did call me at 4:20, after prodding by my husband.

Mrs. Rozzen?

Yep. (I was trying to sound terse. No, I was terse.)

Has Chas called you yet?


Well, he was supposed to be there by 2.

Seriously? Did you call to rub my nose in it?

I wish I knew where he was. His truck doesn’t have GPS and he doesn’t have a phone.

OK, lady, I was in sales in like 1987 and I had a pager attached to my waistband that always pulled my pants down because it was the size of a drive-in movie speaker, so my boss could find me. He doesn’t have a cell phone in 2011?

Well, he was on vacation last week.

Oh, OK, sorry, that clears that up at least.

I’m sure he’ll call soon. He’s only 20 hours late.

Today I’m waiting for the satellite TV repairman anyhow.


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