(MORE) FOOD FOR THOUGHT...

OK, let me begin by stating up front that we are not fine-dining virgins.

As middle-aged people, we have been to a few nice restaurants or two. (In other words, girlfriend doesn't cook on weekends. Or as my sister Re says: Friday night is takeout night; Saturday night is take me out night!)

So we go out with two friends to a BYOB in Philly that has garnered some solid reviews. I've made sure to come on an empty stomach to fully enjoy my meal, not an easy task for a chowhound. Our friends are a bit late, so as we wait, we hanker for a piece of bread, but notice no bread baskets on other tables. When the friends arrive, the server brings us something that looks like wisps of fried dough. She mentions something about it being dusted with powdered sugar and chocolate. Really? So what do they have on the menu for dessert - broccoli? We four devour the wisps in no time. After a miniscule salad (my beloved describes it as "four pieces of fluffed-up lettuce") and a bitsy square of cornbread each (finally, a bread product!), our dinners are served. The server explains to each of us ( and, we notice, to every other patron in the place) what the meal is, otherwise no one would know that this is indeed the dish we ordered. Everything is child-sized and minimalism reigns. I have a paella with a superb sauce but no rice. What do these people have against starches and carbohydrates? Vegetables are the size of grapes. We consume the meal quickly. When the server asks how everything is, my friend, the kind of tall, slender woman who never had to wrestle with a zipper her entire life, says in all honesty that it was delicious, but the portions were extremely small. As a chubette, I wanted to second that emotion, but swallow my thoughts along with the last bits of shrimp on my plate. The server looks annoyed. We dare not order dessert for fear it will resemble a Hershey Kiss and flee elsewhere for some hearty sweets and coffee.

So all I'm saying is that culinary innovation is an artform that we appreciate fully, but one that we admire even more when we're full.

Anybody up for a midnight run to Mickey D's?

ALL'S (NOT) FAIR...

Who's running the asylum?

I mean that literally.

In Seattle recently, a hospital administrator allowed a mentally ill murderer to accompany 30 other patients on a "field trip" to the Spokane County Fair and - ooopps, wouldn't ya just know it - the killer slipped through the crowds and managed to escape.

The absconded murderer had been committed to the mental hospital in 1987 after he was acquitted by reason of insanity of slaying an elderly woman, soaking her body in gasoline to throw off the search dogs and burying her in her flower garden.(Yes, he was deemed insane, yet was apparently sane enough to try to cover up his dirty deeds. Interesting...)

So, obviously, this wasn't your commonplace criminal or even a remorseless thug- you know, the ones who claim that their victim "fell into the knife I was using to defend myself." This 47-year-old was a psycho killer who possessed a creative knack for finding innovative ways to dispose of little old lady corpses. Maybe it's just me, but if I'm reviewing the list of who gets to attend outings from the mental institution and who should stay behind for more intense therapy, I'd put the vicious cutthroat in the "not the County Fair type" category.

And he wasn't a model mental hospital patient, either. According to the newspaper report, two weeks before he escaped, a judge ruled that this man remained a threat to the public because of "his aggressive behavior and his decreased awareness of his psychosis." Yeah, that sounds like just the type of fella we want to come to our little fair! Come on down, folks, we have a Ferris wheel, farm animals, cotton candy and an escaped lunatic that will make the Haunted House tent seem like a Wiggles concert!

The good news is that eventually the slippery killer was captured, without incident, more than 180 miles away.  All old women in the area were deemed safe and able to return to their gardening.

Hopefully, though, the next time the mental hospital administrators decide to schedule a fun outing, they'll bring the whole gang along, but leave all murderers behind, even if they are accused of being killjoys.

Other Than That...

You have to love the art of the understatement.

Last week, a defense lawyer said this about his former client: "The fact that something really bad happened here is really sad, because he's an otherwise nice guy. He went to work every day and paid child support."

The "something really sad" was the death of a 50-year-old father of four and the critical injuries of his wife and teenage daughter. They were in their car when a vehicle driven by a guy named John J. Lawless (you got that right), 37, crossed the center line on a curve and suddenly slammed into the family's car.

Old Johnny Boy wasn't a newcomer to the drunken driving routine. Here's his incredible resume:

*In 1996, he was first arrested for drunken driving and placed in an alcohol-treatment program for first-time offenders. His blood alcohol level was three times the current limit for legal intoxication.

*During 1998, he was twice found guilty of drunken driving. He was sentenced  to 60 days in jail and a year of house arrest. Only five days after getting his electronic-monitoring bracelet for house arrest, he was arrested for driving while intoxicated.

* In 2002, after being arrested again for drunken driving and failing to complete numerous treatment programs, he was sentenced to six to 12 months in prison.

* In 2004, he was arrested again for drunken driving, but charges were dismissed.

* In 2005, he was convicted of drunken driving and sentenced for up to two years, but he appealed and charges were withdrawn.

* 2009, January, he was yet again arrested for drunken driving.

Then in September, he decided to have some more cocktails and instead of calling a cab, he hopped in his shiny red car and totally, irreversibly ruined a family's life, forever.

And after all of this misery, a lawyer has the gall to say "other than that, he was a nice guy" the kind who "went to work every day" (don't we all, you moron?) and "paid his child support (it's the law, you dimwit).

Yeah, pal, and other than that statement, maybe you're a thoughtful, caring human being.

But, somehow, I fiercely doubt it.

Baby Needs a New Pair of Shoes...

At least we didn't see anyone crying this time.

During our last venture to Atlantic City, we spotted two people crying. One women was talking into a pay phone, bawling her eyes out, the other one was walking through the casino sobbing. You don't see folks blubbering while they're bowling or at an amusement park or other forms of recreation. But somehow, at a casino, seeing people randomly boohoo is not  unexpected.

The casinos are a hoot and a people-watching feast. But we only visit AC about once a year, so it's not like we are experts by any means. We try roulette, but mostly we feed the slots like all of the other amateurs. This visit, however, my 20-something niece was with us and she introduced us to craps. I learned that it takes the concentration of a NASA scientist and the multi-tasking skills of an octomom to decipher the intricacies of craps. I can't get the image of my lovely young niece, looking all fresh and blonde and adorable, bellying up to the craps table like a pro among a throng of focused male players. You go, girl!

At the end of the day, did we win? Some of us broke even, some of us lost a few bucks and some of us (ok, ME) may as well have taken their hard-earned freelance writing dollars and flung them out along the Garden State Parkway. We have the luck of the Irish, which means no luck at all and by all means, we should keep our day jobs.

So, no, we didn't see any tears during this adventure, unless you count the drops that formed in my eyes when I checked my empty wallet on the long ride home. See ya next year, AC! And if baby really needs a new pair of shoes, maybe we'll even try Vegas...

Yo, Dollface...

So here's the quandary: My best pal is miffed because some middle-aged sales guy in a furniture store addressed her first as "hon" and then as "sweetie." (If you have ever stepped into a furniture store, you know that the salespeople in these places are specially trained to hunt you down and hold on to you with the persistence of a cheerleader looking for a suitable quarterback to take to Homecoming.)

She didn't mind his basic sales rap, but the unexpected terms of endearment had "buddy, you just lost a sale" written all over it.

I know what she means. Over the phone, a customer service guy once tried to calm me down by saying, "OK, dear..."

I took "OK, dear" as the equivalent of "Now get a hold of yourself, Granny" and icily informed him that it would be best for everyone if he refrained from addressing me as if I went to school with Mamie Eisenhower.

It reminds me of an older in-law who I took to dinner one evening at a lovely restaurant. She did not enjoy the familiarity displayed by our sixty-something waitress who addressed us as "luv" and "honey." I'm used to the Philly favorites - "hon" and "youse" - and didn't even notice her catch phrases. "She acts as if she knows us," my in-law noted disdainfully. Me? I'll take the love-bug waitress over the server who never looks you in the eye while reciting "a gluten-free salmon steak served with a wisp of wasabi glaze and a cornucopia of twice-baked carrots and confetti snow peas" in a strained monotone.

Ironically, my bud who was annoyed by the creepy furniture man often uses monikers such as "sis" and "doll" when chatting with me, as in "where's that fifty bucks you owe me, sis" or "OK, doll, you gotta do something about that wardrobe of yours."

But we've known each other since the first moon landing. The furniture dude? He's a newbie and shouldn't take such liberties. It's OK for my sweetie to call me "sweetie" and your mom to call you "hon" but folks need to know where to draw the affectionate line.

But then again, after being greeted once too often with "bee-ach" or, "hey, *!#hole" maybe a salutation of, "greetings, pumpkin!" isn't so bad after all.

You know what I mean, snookums?