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Karma double-crossed me, kicked me in the face, and stole my lunch money.

1 Mar
English: Vinita Hotel, in Vinita, Oklahoma

English: Vinita Hotel, in Vinita, Oklahoma (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

So this morning I blissfully headed out the door to do a Mary Kay party.  I left in plenty of time and I had everything ready. 

The party was a bit farther than I usually go, but it was for a sweet little lady who is a great customer so I was happy to go.  I got there just fine and my new iPhone bailed me out when I couldn’t find Pat’s house.  I tried to call her, but I had entered her phone number wrong into my phone.  Never fear, I used my Mary Kay app to log onto my website and find her correct number.

The party was fine-I sold what I sell on average–even though 2 of the guests refused to try the product because they were not going to remove their makeup.  This always surprises me, though it happens occasionally.  I talked a little bit too much and left a little late, but all was well.  Here’s where things started to go downhill.

Since my trip required getting on the Oklahoma Turnpike, I headed towards the Vinita toll booth.  It wasn’t labeled very well and I wasn’t sure if I should pay toll or take a ticket (and pay later.)  I opted for take a ticket because that is how it had worked when I came from the opposite direction.  As soon as I was through the booth, and past the point of no return, I could see that my ticket was for the wrong direction.  It was for west and I wanted to go east.  Right on the ticket is says something like, “It is unlawful to take this ticket and travel in a different direction than stated.”  I panicked.  I did not want to be unlawful.  FIGHT OR FLIGHT! FIGHT OR FLIGHT!  I went west even though I was already late and even though I knew it was the wrong direction because I didn’t want to be unlawful.  It cost me 20 minutes and $3.25 in toll fees to go down to riggin’ friggin’ Big Cabin and turn around.  I imagined telling the whole thing to my dad and how he would laugh and ask, “What are you such a silly goose for?”  The worst thing is it was all so deja vu, like, I’m pretty sure that I have done this very same thing before.  Next time, Vinita, I’m traveling east no matter what.  Get a better sign.

Now an hour late instead of half an hour late, I continue to the Baby-sitter’s and pick up the girls.  I really hate being late to the babysitter’s.  It makes me feel so flaky and bad mom and unreliable.

I let the DH know that I will be late home and make one last Mary Kay delivery before heading home.  Now I’ve been on the road for more than 2 hours and I’m tired.  Not sleepy tired, just that numb “I can’t believe I’m still in this stupid car when I just want to be home” tired.  So I’m just on auto-pilot, thinking about home and what I’m going to cook for dinner, when suddenly I see those beautiful red & blue flashing lights in my rear view mirror.  Yep, that’s right, I’ve totally missed the 30 MPH sign and since my auto-pilot default is 45, I’m in trouble.

Don’t worry, I did not miss the irony of getting pulled over for speeding when I already ruined my afternoon in an attempt to avoid being “unlawful.”   The thing is I wasn’t trying to speed.  I just wasn’t paying attention because I was so done.

Is it just me, or are police officers getting really young these days?  Mine was wearing a jacket that was too big for him and a mustache that was WAY too big for him.  After he decided to give me a ticket, he went into this schpeal about how my signing it was not an admission of guilt, just and acknowledgement that I had received it.  I asked him if I could just pay it and not go to court, which he said I could.  Then he repeated the whole schpeal about how my signing it was not an admission of guilt, just and acknowledgement that I had received it, and then get this, he said in this very wheedle-whiny unsure voice, “So…will you sign it?”  I’m not sure what he expected me to do instead.  Flip out and scream at him in front of my 4-year-old?  Wake up the baby?  Maybe the way I was just sitting there with my hands in my lap and staring straight ahead all defeated made him think I was about to go psyco.

When I got home, the big kids had done their chores and the DH was washing dishes.  Ah Home, sweet Home.

Then as I unpacked my Mary Kay bags, I discovered I had lost one of the sales slips from the party.  Not only does that mean I don’t have the lady’s information and can’t get paid, it also means her bank card information is where?  Still at Pat’s house?  Blowing down the Oklahoma Turnpike?  There was that bit where my car window got tired of going up and down at toll booths and just stayed stuck down for awhile…..Oh the humiliation of having to call her and tell her I’ve gone and lost her card number who knows where.  How to avoid that in the future?  I bet my iPhone has an app.  Curses for not thinking of that sooner.

Oh I just want to curl up in a ball and eat a bunch of chocolate.  Wait…already did that and am 500 calories over my limit for the day.  Super.

I think the best part about being married is that at the end of a day like today, I can go home and get a good hug and know that somebody still thinks I’m great, even if I’m an idiot.  

And I’ll tell him about that speeding ticket tomorrow, first thing, I swear.  It’s just that when I took a breath to tell him, I felt like I might start crying and so I stopped…

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Why I hate Chopped

14 Sep

**Warning.  Enormous Self-Pity Party follows.  You may just want to click away and come back later.**

Everyone is a critic these days. And my family seems to think I’m some kind of gourmet chef hopeful that they need to guide in the right direction.  

At the dinner table last night, this is what I heard: 

I didn’t really like the apple pie; the apples were too chewy.

Seriously? I just made 100% from scratch apple pie with apples I picked from a tree myself, whole wheat flour & butter in the crust, and the ONLY thing that can be said for it is “the apples were too chewy”?

Why didn’t they just say:  

You know how you spent all day on your feet today cutting up apples and blanching them and canning them in glass jars in all their beautiful caramel brown glory? And you know how you got all hot and sweaty because there isn’t even a fan in the kitchen, let alone A/C, and your back aches and your shoulders ache and your neck aches from stirring apples & sugar & spices together?

Yeah, that was all wasted.

And those 11 quarts of apple pie filling on the shelf? Don’t want them.

  If your family isn’t as picky as mine and you like apple pie and want to can your own filling, there is a wonderful tutorial here that will take you step by step through the process.  May you have better luck than I.  Maybe I’ve set the bar too high for myself and that is why my family is hard to please.  Maybe if we ate HamburgerHelper  and Spaghetti O’s every night and the only pie they ever got was made by Walmart, they’d appreciate food more. I’m off to read out of my The Joy of Cooking cookbook because I’ve lost the joy and I need to find it again.

Why I hate “Chopped”

14 Sep

**Warning.  Enormous Self-Pity Party follows.  You may just want to click away and come back later.**

Everyone is a critic these days. And my family seems to think I’m some kind of gourmet chef hopeful that they need to guide in the right direction.

At the dinner table last night, this is what I heard: 

     I didn’t really like the apple pie; the apples were too chewy.

 

Seriously? I just made 100% from scratch apple pie with apples I picked from a tree myself, whole wheat flour & butter in the crust, and the ONLY thing that can be said for it is “the apples were too chewy”?

Why didn’t they just say:

You know how you spent all day on your feet today cutting up apples and blanching them and canning them in glass jars in all their beautiful caramel brown glory? And you know how you got all hot and sweaty because there isn’t even a fan in the kitchen, let alone A/C, and your back aches and your shoulders ache and your neck aches from stirring apples & sugar & spices together?

Yeah, that was all wasted.

And those 11 quarts of apple pie filling on the shelf? Don’t want them.

  If your family isn’t as picky as mine and you like apple pie and want to can your own filling, there is a wonderful tutorial here that will take you step by step through the process.  May you have better luck than I.  Maybe I’ve set the bar too high for myself and that is why my family is hard to please.  Maybe if we ate HamburgerHelper  and Spaghetti O’s every night and the only pie they ever got was made by Walmart, they’d appreciate food more. I’m off to read out of my The Joy of Cooking cookbook because I’ve lost the joy and I need to find it again.