Good Hamburgers

On Monday night, before VBS got rolling…before THE REAL MEN IN PINK memorized some Bible verses and made sheep out of cottonballs…there was dinner.

More specifically, dinner happened at McDonald’s because the boy and Enzo assured me that yes!  Yes, indeed!  They really WOULD die if they didn’t eat something RIGHT! THIS! SECOND!  It had, after all, been ninety full minutes since they had devoured their frozen yogurt pops like half-starved cavemen after a mammoth hunt.

I called Hubs to discuss dinner, because that’s our routine.

“What do you want for dinner?”

“I don’t care. What do YOU want for dinner?”

“I don’t care.  I asked you first.”

We are actually quite mature in our dinner-menu decisions.  Ultimately, I simply long for Hubs to say, “You know, you’ve had a busy day getting your nails done and having coffee with the girls and washing that load of dark clothes; why don’t we go sit on the deck at the bar and grill for dinner?”

My answer is always the same.

Yes.  And please.

So Monday, after the “What-Do-You-Want-For-Dinner-Oh-I-Don’t-Care” routine, Hubs informed me that he’d actually had a large lunch (which is to say that Hubs ACTUALLY ATE lunch, which he usually doesn’t do), and that he really didn’t want any dinner.

Bingo.

Bump.  Set.  Spike.  And the ball hit the floor for the score.

I was off the hook for cooking, which is my ultimate goal in life.

I looked at the starving boys, who were literally wasting away from malnutrition before my eyes, and said, “McDonald’s?”

REAL MEN WHO WEAR PINK also dance when they are overjoyed.  So we piled into the Suburban, and we drove down the hill, and we tucked ourselves in at a table with some cheeseburgers.

The boy and Enzo were so wound up and so goofy at the restaurant, my side ached from laughing at them.  They were pretending to be on a commercial for McDonald’s, advertising Pure Burger Perfection.  And then…it hit me.  I had a video camera in my iPhone, so I got a little footage of them hamming it up over cheeseburgers with no onions, please.

And then today, when I wanted to insert that video into my blog, I realized that it wasn’t an easy chore, like making a souffle or even a Beef Wellington is.  Extracting a video from my iPhone, importing it onto my big Mac (That’s for you, McDonald’s!), and then resizing said video, so that people’s computers aren’t tied up for months on end like they were wrapped up in the NFL lock-out as they downloaded the video, was hard.

Hard.  Like a rock.

At some point before I threw in the towel and said, “Did someone say the words open bar?”, I decided that I was going to achieve Video Resizing Victory, no matter what.  I Googled information online by typing in key phrases like, “How on earth do I get a video off of my iPhone and change the size on it before my next birthday rolls around?”  I even stooped to…ahem…reading a manual.  And, people, nothing was working.  It could be because I had a difficult time focusing beyond the Table of Contents on the manual, but I gave it the old college try.

I spent TWO! HOURS! trying to emerge as the winner in this shrink-the-video-down battle, before I realized that I wasn’t fighting with the right weapon.

Which was…you know…an understanding of anything more technologically advanced than, say, the eight-track player.  Or the rotary dial phone.  Or even the Crayon.

In the end, I called my IT guy, and I said, “Listen, Hubs.  I think I have myself some special needs, because resizing this video is bringing me to the edge of catching Tourettes.  I will actually cook dinner tonight, if YOU can get this video resized.”

We had grilled tuna steaks tonight.  With asparagus.  And a baked potato.

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