Allegedly, there was a surprise party planned. I call bullshit. I hate surprise parties. Hate them. Like the kind of hate reserved for your most loathed enemy hate. If you know anything about me, if you have any shred of compassion for me, you will NEVER throw me a surprise ANYTHING. They never work out. Never. Inevitably, you have to pretend you are happy to be there and happy you were surprised. You end up shaking hands and hugging people you cannot stand the sight of but they are there because the organizers thought their attendance was a good idea. There will be activities that make you want to stab your eyes out or that make full grown men kick the shit out of each other because someone does not know the rules or cannot keep score/count while drinking warm beer. Food that passes for a dog's lunch will be served. The music will be provided by someone who has a hard on for 90's boy bands and American Idol and you will eventually want to give your ears the ol' Van Gogh just to make the noise stop.
Those are just some of the issues you face at one of these things. And if you don't squeeeeee and give it some jumpy claps, you will be labeled an ungrateful bitch by the organizers. No thanks, not ever.
Thanks, but I'll take my pain in other places. Do not organize a surprise anything for me and I will not dropkick you in the crotch after a good old fashioned curb stomping. Deal? I am not usually prone to violence, but this surprise party business could potentially cause me to lose what is left of my sense of rational and cut a bitch wide open. Failing that, remember, I like to be creative when plotting vengeance. Oh, I can bring the wrath, bitches.
One ought to be able to do their favorite things on their birthday. And this year, I did exactly that...eating, geeking, and humping.
In an effort to be low key and still have a bit of fun, Mr. I.T. took me to the Cactus Club Cafe at West Edmonton Mall.
Oh yum. Oh my effing yummy yum. If you have not yet been, you have to go. Rob Feenie, Canada's only Iron Chef, has created a menu that is splentastic.
I had the blackened creole chicken with mashed potatoes and asparagus. Seriously, this has to be some of the best chicken I have ever eaten...
The portion of chicken was HUGE. I gave Mr. I.T. about a quarter of it because I could not finish it. Neither of us could finish the mashed potatoes because I am sure the kitchen was mistaken and sent out an order for five on my one plate. The asparagus was done to perfection and if you are going to eat chicken at the Cactus Club, throw yourself at this!
Mr. I.T. had the garden burger with a side seasonal greens salad. When he ordered it, I had my reservations. Mostly because when you order a vegetarian burger, you are usually served an oat-laden piece of cardboard with red pepper accents, but also because Mr. I.T. is an impossibly fussy eater. IMPOSSIBLY fussy. When this came...
... I had a wee taste. If you had not told me the burger was vegetarian, I would have swore it was beef. The patty had substance, it was juicy and well seasoned. The entire burger looked like a real burger...
... not one of those alfalfa sprout laden, tofurky wearing veggie burgers you are used to seeing. And can we just have a moment to celebrate the salad? Spinach, romaine, that stuff that looks like dandelions, a vinaigrette to die for, and shaved carrots and beets being chased around by slivers of almonds. It was the first but not the last orgasm of the night.
When you go, make sure you make a reservation. We went on a Wednesday night at 5.00 and were out of there by 6.10. When we left, there was a line up out the door and half down the block.
Much later, in an effort to remind me how important creativity is, how important it is to expand one's mind, how I need to be doing the things I love to do, Mr. I.T. parked me here and here. Thank you for reminding me about me and how I am my best natural resource. He is, admittedly, not the most romantic man on the face of the planet, but that had to be the best gift a person could give me.
I would tell you about the humping but Mr. I.T. and I have an public embargo on that. If I had not been strictly forbidden, I would tell you that, when later discussing some of the judgey bitches at The Office, he reminded me that interracial couples are sexy and people would be searching for us on porn before them. Allegedly.
*Note* All photos used in this post are not even a little bit mine. Totally hijacked from the Internet. Because I forgot my camera. Which is uber not cool when one wants to blog about what they ate. Am. Blonde.
