Daily Diatribes

There are some things that really bug me.  For example, I hate it when you’re in the men’s room, like Senator Larry E. Craig and you go into a stall and your foot “accidentally” brushes the foot of the guy in the stall next to you.  Repeatedly.  And then, when you wave your hands under the stall in an up and down motion, letting him know you’re ready (and willing and able), he flashes a badge at you and then arrests you.  All because your foot brushed his.  I mean, come on already!  It was an accident.  My foot is always wandering when I’m sitting on the can in a public restroom.  You know you’ve done it too; we’ve all done it.  So give the guy a break.  It happens
 

Or when you’re in the restroom and some woman is using the “diaper free” method of potty training and allows her baby to pee in the sink.  Thanks to Nancy S., I got to see that tidbit on the internet.  Now I know urine is sterile, but geez people!  I don’t generally wash my hands in the toilet!  If I catch you letting your kid whiz in the sink, I’m going to follow you home and whiz in your sink.  If I can get my knees to bend.  
 

I hate it when someone asks you to take an innocuous sounding position on the PTO and you are stupid enough to accept it, trusting that the vague description of “Oh I think you have to write some letters” is accurate.  After it’s too late, you discover that you have actually volunteered to assemble decorative treat bags for every teacher in the school to commemorate his or her birthday.  I hate making treat bags.  It makes my hair stand on end.  But today I assembled forty of those f*****s and tied them off with curling ribbon.  Never accept a PTO position without a full, written job description, including financial statements.
 

I hate when my husband tells me Monday night that he is going to an optional dinner meeting on Tuesday  night.  I hate it when I tell him he can’t go because we have too much happening on Tuesday night and he goes anyway.  So he went and had a free dinner at Thai Emerald.  I got to go to a high school open house, with all three children.  I had to leave in the middle of it to take Amy to soccer, even though it was lightning and they were playing on a field surrounded by trees and it was likely to be the last practice she ever had of anything.  Then I raced back to the school.  It’s a three story school and John has classes on all three stories.  I hiked up and down the steps, cursing Tim all the while.
 

At 8:00, we left the school, I rushed to McDonald’s, then rushed them home, then rushed back to the soccer field to pick up the charred remains of my daughter.  On the way, I aspirated a french fry and wet myself copiously as I tried to hack up the rehydrated, trans fat laden, reconstituted potato.  By the time I got to the field, my throat was sore, my seat was wet and I was ready to join the Foreign Legion.  Anything to get away from the madness that is my life.
 

I am going to bed now and I will dream of diaperless babies peeing on my treat bags while I watch in horror as I choke on a french fry, powerless to stop the babies.  Maybe it’s time to up my medication.

This morning my cable modem did not work.  Again.  And something within me snapped.  The injustice of it all was too much to bear.  How could I go on with no internet?  How was I supposed to function with no Pogo, with no blogs to read?  And so I did it.  I got the phone book (The Real Yellow Pages) and made the call.

I called Shawn at Bellsouth and told him I was done with Habib.  Told him Habib had broken my heart one too many times with his empty promises of fast and unlimited internet service.  Oh sure, it was fast and unlimited….WHEN IT WORKED!!!!  I told him I was ready for a new relationship with a real man, one who kept his promises to me.  I told him I was ready for (cue the dramatic music)…..DSL!!

It took 30 minutes to forge my new ties.  But in the end, I got more for less.  Faster, more reliable high speed internet.  Unlimited long distance and caller ID.  DirecTV with the NFL Sunday ticket and 500 channels to surf!  The only question I had was why did I wait so long?

I waited so long because I foolishly trusted Habib.  “I can change,” he murmured in his thickly accented English, muted by the thousands of miles that separate Alabama from Khazakistan.  “Your modem will work again, I promise,” he whispered seductively.  “Just unplug it from the computer, turn in three circles, point yourself toward Mecca and say ‘Allah be praised’ in pig latin and reconnect your modem.”

But his promises were empty, meaningless, whispered to thousands of faceless women across the world, women who called him when there was no light in their lives, no Pogo on their computer screens.  And he took advantage of us in our distress, whispering promises of unlimited internet, something he didn’t have the power to grant.

And so I say goodbye to Habib and put my trust in Shawn.  Shawn is in Florida, just a day’s drive away.  Shawn understands about Pogo and SEC football.  Shawn also gave me $250 in cash rebates for ditching Habib.  I’m easy, but I ain’t cheap!

My new modem is supposed to be here on Friday.  And the moment I install it, I’m calling Habib and telling him to stick his cable modem where the sun don’t shine!   

Tonight we had hamburgers and macaroni and cheese. Not exactly gourmet fare, but easy and quick to get on the table. Because the goddess had accompanied me on my last trip to the grocery store, the macaroni was shaped like Sponge Bob and his compatriots.

So there we were, eating together companionably, when she stabbed a piece of macaroni and announced “I think this is Sandy.”

John looked at her in contempt. “That’s not Sandy,” he countered. “That’s Squidward.”

Let me interject here that all the macaroni noodles look exactly the same to me: orange blobs with cut out holes. They bear no resemblance to any cartoon character I have ever seen. But my children, being more discerning than me, thought otherwise.

“John, it is so Sandy,” the goddess said in annoyance.

“No it’s, not, it’s Squidward,” he argued.

“I think it looks like that, you know, that thing,” said Tom helpfully.

“You mean Gary the Snail?” asked Amy.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” he agreed. I felt like I had landed on another planet, one where I was the only intelligent life form. Why were these people even looking at the macaroni? Why not just do the American thing and shove it in your mouth without pausing to consider its shape?

Well, my family has issues, what can I say? It was paramount that the noodle be identified before anyone else took another bite. John got up from the table and walked over to get the box. He looked at it, pumped his fist in the air and said “Hah, Sandy isn’t even one of the choices!!” Oh sweet victory, to trump a six year old in the guessing of noodle shapes!! But then his face fell and he was forced to concede “But neither is Squidward.”

Which left us in a dilemma: who was that cheesy noodle character? Amy grabbed the box from John and said “See, I told you. It’s Gary the Snail.”

“Yeah,” said Tom. “Gary the snail.”

I just stared at my plate in shame. I felt as if we were the stars of the pilot episode of an extremely bad sit-com, one that had no chance of ever being picked up by a network, not even the WB. My family, however, happily polished off the rest of their macaroni and cheese, carefully identifying each character before consuming it. All I can say is Thank God for Prozac!!!

God is a woman.  Face it, if God was a man, we would all still be naked.  Because men like naked people.  Especially naked women.

I believe God is a woman and She created man one day because there was nothing better to do.  I imagine Her up in heaven, flipping channels.  Infinite number of cable stations and nothing to watch!  She’s already created the earth and all the animals and She is looking for something to jazz it up a little.  So She decides to create Man.  Perfect.  It’s like 24 hour comedy viewing, Adam running around in the garden of Eden with his doodads flopping around in the wind.   She laughs and laughs because it is good.

But Her enchantment quickly sours when she realizes how helpless man is.  He can’t take care of the animals.  He can barely take care of himself.  He doesn’t know how to feed himself or do anything for himself.  He wanders around in a daze, trying to figure out how to eat and where to sleep and where to hang all the pictures. 

God, realizing Her mistake, creates a woman, in Her own image, to go down and straighten out man.  Woman quickly sets things right in the Garden and Adam lounges around, scratching himself and trying to invent beer.  And they would still be in Paradise today had Adam gotten up off of his rear end and taken care of the snake problem like Eve asked him to do!   

Fast forward to the present and witness my idiot husband’s behavior last night.  Thursday nights are horrible and I informed him there would be no cooking occurring at our home.  The goddess has soccer at 5, Josh has to be at school at 6 and Abby has Soccer at 7.  All over town, of course.  And to top it off, I had to take Abby to the doctor yesterday because she had a 30 minute nosebleed at school.  I immediately diagnosed leukemia, but Renee chalked it up to a sinus infection.  (AND WE GOT AN ACTUAL ANTIBIOTIC!!!!!!)

Anyway, while I was sweating at the goddess’s soccer practice, I realized Abby was too sick to go to soccer, so I called Tim and asked him to make her some soup and a grilled cheese.   I was picking up McDonald’s for the goddess and I was sort of craving a Big Mac myself.  But Tim and Abby both hate Mickey D’s, so I figured he could make dinner for them.

I stopped at Publix to pick up Abby’s prescription and left her in the car.  When I came back out, she said “did you get cheese?”

“No, why?” I asked.

“Because Dad called and said there’s no cheese,” she said.

I snatched the phone and called him immediately.  “There is plenty of cheese,” I said when he answered.  “It’s in the top drawer in the refrigerator.”

“No it’s not,” he said.  “I looked.”

Gaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!  “How hard did you look?” I asked.  I heard the refrigerator door open and heard some rummaging sounds.  “Oh, well, here’s three pieces,” he said grudgingly.

“There is a brand new package in there,” I snarled. 

“Well, whatever, I don’t see any more cheese,” he said defensively.

I drove home, fury in my soul, because I knew damn good and well there was cheese in the refrigerator and he hadn’t looked for it.  We got home and I stomped upstairs.  He had cooked nothing.  No soup, no sandwich, NOTHING!!!

“I’m not hungry,” he said, when I politely screeched at him for not cooking.

“WELL ABBY IS!!!!” I roared.

I went to the refrigerator, flung open the door, and there sat the three pieces of cheese he had located.

“Good thing I’m not hungry,” he sneered, “since that’s not enough to make very many grilled cheese sandwiches.”

Ass.  I opened the drawer in the refrigerator, lifted a package of bologna, and there was the cheese, a brand new package of Kraft Single goodness.

“No cheese,” I shrieked.  “NO CHEESE!!  HERE IS THE CHEESE YOU GOON!!!!”

He shrugged.  “Guess I didn’t look hard enough.”  He reached past me into the refrigerator and snagged a container of cheese spread.  He got some crackers and said “I’m going downstairs to watch football,” leaving me to feed the kids.  Ass!!

I stayed in the kitchen, cooking for our sick child, as my Big Mac got cold and my fries congealed in their grease.  But because God is a woman and She looks out for Her own, the Green Bay Packer’s lost last night!  Guess he should have looked a little harder for the cheese!

I was cleaning my pantry this afternoon, looking for a bag of potatoes that had been in there at least two or three months, maybe even years.  I was desperately hoping the potatoes had not evolved into some sort of multi-eyed, multi-legged potato monster, lurking in the depths, waiting to rip my throat out when I dug too close to its lair.  Anyway, I was deep inside the pantry when the phone rang.

It had rung repeatedly in the last several minutes, but every time I tried to answer it, no one was there.  And the phone display said “conference” which usually means someone else in the house is on the phone.  But the phones were all downstairs and it was just Abby and I in the family room.  Anna was playing upstairs with her friend.  No one else could be on the phone.  Or so I thought.

So there I am, head and shoulders in the pantry, excavating down through layers of empty boxes, bags of chips with only crumbs left in them and 2000 different boxes of cereal when Abby brings me the phone.

“Hold on, she’s right here,” she said and handed me the phone with a puzzled look on her face.

“Hell0,” I muttered, trying to extricate myself from the pantry. 

“Hello, is this….” and she rattled off my address.

“What?” I asked in confusion.

“Is this the homeowner at……” she asked again.

“Yes it is,” I answered, completely bewildered.

“This is the Hoover police department,” she said, “and we received 911 call from some children at your residence and we are calling to make sure there’s no emergency.”

Readers, I nearly swallowed my tongue right then and there.  The bag of potatoes dropped from my suddenly numb fingers and I squeaked “Whaaaaaaaaaattttt?”

“Some children called from your residence,” she repeated patiently, “and we just want to make sure everything is ok.”  It clicked:  the goddess and her buddy (Nancy’s son) were dialing 911 for kicks and giggles.

Mentally I reviewed the state of my home.  No flames shooting out of the roof.  No armed, homicidal maniac in the house brandishing automatic weapons.  No ear piercing shrieks indicating that a child had just been maimed by a stray lite brite peg.  No, everything seemed pretty status quo.

“No ma’am,” I told her.  “There’s no emergency and I am so sorry.  I’m going to kill those children”

She laughed and I suddenly realized I had just verbalized intent to harm the children.  And I had verbalized it to an official of the police department.  Who would have no trouble testifying against me when the case went to trial.

“I mean, uh….uh….I don’t mean I’m actually going to kill them,” I stammered.  “But I promise they will never call you again.”  Cause I’m gonna kill ‘em, I mentally added.

She assured me it was fine and hung up the phone.  I stood looking at it for a minute, wondering how these things happened to me.  They never called 911 from Nancy’s house, only mine.  I walked out of the kitchen, bellowing their names.  No answer.  I bellowed again, as I headed up the stairs.  No answer.

I went into the goddess’s room and there stood Abby, smirking guiltily.  Apparently she could not stand it and had to rush upstairs to tell the kids how much trouble they had caused and how Mommy was now going to chop them up into little tiny pieces.  Or something like that.  It must have been bad, because both children were inside of the closet with the door shut.

“I’m not mad at you,” I snarled quietly, “but you need to come out RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!” 

They emerged from the closet sheepishly, looks of terror on their angelic faces.  “Did you call 911?” I asked quietly.

They denied it of course.  But there on the floor was the incriminating cordless phone.  I snatched it up and scrolled through redial and there it was, plain as day, 911!!  I asked again and they denied it, but they knew I knew they knew it had happened.  I got down in their faces, never breaking eye contact and said “DO NOT EVER DIAL 911 AGAIN, UNDERSTAND??????”

“Yes ma’am,” they both said, eyes downcast.  I walked out of the room and did some breathing exercises.  I am sure my house is now going to be under constant surveillance from the police department.  And if I dial 911, they’ll probably think I’m kidding.  So how’s your afternoon going?

If this gets posted, it will make number three today, thus absolving me of the need to write anything else for the rest of the week.  Here is how people are finding my blog today:

I looked up “buy  funky church pews” because I sure don’t remember that post, and sure enough, it was the “funky butt loving chickens” post.  Told you that would get me noticed!!

And I’m taking a page from Blue Momma’s book and whining about my comments, or lack thereof.  I equate comments with love and I need lots of both!  So throw me a bone occasionally and comment.  It gives my ego a huge, much needed, boost!!!

We went to eat Mexican after church today with a large group of people.  Or maybe we ate a large group of Mexicans at church, I forget which way it was.

Anyway, we were at Hacienda and I was sitting in a corner, running my mouth, which is what I do best.  At one point, I got up to go to the bathroom, but I was blocked in by a woman trying to get her daughter situated on a booster seat.  While I was waiting, I had a good vantage point of the back of my friend Patricia.  I noticed she had a large lump at the base of her neck, and I immediately became concerned.

Because of my extensive Web MD training, I notice things like this, and I am highly qualified to dispense advice.  I told her at once that she needed to have it examined.  I recommended she see… you guessed it…the famous Dr. Renee!  Of course, I did not tell Patricia that Renee would likely call it a virus and tell her it would clear up on its own rather than correctly diagnose it as the malignant neck tumor that it obviously was.  I figured she and Renee could hash it out in the office and I would pocket my referral fee and keep my mouth shut.

After lunch, I moseyed up to the register to pay.  The goddess had conned a quarter out of me and as I was attempting to pay, flirting with my favorite studly cashier, she started whining.  Apparently, the machine had consumed the quarter without dispensing any Skittles.  This caused her much grief and, combined with the day’s lack of video stimulation, she was on the verge of a breakdown.

I got the cashier to give her a refund and I walked over to the machine with her to get her candy.  As I turned, the woman with the children who had been sitting was walking toward me.  We made eye contact and I smiled at her, and she stopped.

“You don’t recognize me do you?” she asked.

Well, of course I didn’t recognize her.  The older I get, the harder it is to recognize anybody!  I have a hard time recognizing the people I am related to, let alone strangers in Mexican restaurants. 

However, I didnt’ tell her that.  I lied like any self respecting person does in that situation.  “Oh hey,” I said in that high, sweet, fakey voice that people adopt when they are trying to cover up their discomfort.  “No, I do know you, just give me a minute.”

I continued to stare at her blankly, jaw slightly agape as I tried to place her.  Avon Lady??  Shrink??  Cashier in the sex toy store???  I knew I would get it in a minute, and I kept assuring her I would as I continued to stare at her, she staring back with a hint of amusement at my discomfort.

Finally, I admitted defeat.  “You look so familiar,” I lied, “but I just can’t remember where I know you from.”

“I’m Andrea,” she said, smiling widely. 

Like that was supposed to mean something to me.  I needed more than that; I needed dates and details and snapshots of us drunk together in that bar in Mexico where I picked up the sword swallower.  And oh man, was his tongue sharp.  But I digress…

“I’m Renee’s sister,” she qualified.

An enormous light bulb flashed over my head.  I believe the light it emitted may have been visible from space.  Now I knew exactly who she was and I could totally see the resemblance, although Andrea has a slightly more, I don’t know, compassionate look about her.

“How did you know I was me?” I asked in delight.  But the delight was immediately replaced with dread when I answered my own question.  “It was that stupid mullet picture, wasn’t it?”

She said “Well yes.  I was pretty sure you were Jennifer, but then when you said Dr. Renee, I knew you were you.”

We stood and chatted for a few minutes and she introduced me to her husband Karl (Carl, Kaarl, Carrl, whatever) and he pointed to the goddess and said reverently “Is that the blonde goddess?” 

I called her over and she simpered and smiled and did the cutesy thing, trying to see if they would fork over another quarter.  When none seemed forthcoming, she started pulling on me, rather insistently, trying to get me to go over to the gumball machine.

However, I was reveling in my first fan moment.  I mean, an actual fan (not a stalker!!) recognized me from my body of work (and my atrocious mullet picture) and wanted to converse with me.  How cool is that?  I bet Dick Schickel never gets recognized in the Mexican restaurant!!  And even if he does, I bet no one wants to talk to him!  And we were bonding!  We compared thyroidectomy scars!  We talked about Renee’s love of the viral diagnosis!  We were buddies.

But the goddess would not be denied and so I sadly bid Karl (Carl, Karol,Carrrl) and Andrea goodbye and went to the machines with the goddess.   Turns out she was afraid to lift the the little door thingy to the Skittle machine because she was afraid the Skittles would fall on the floor.  I jerked it open and one fell on the floor and the world ended right there. 

Not really, but she carried on like it did!  So anyway, Andrea and K(C)arl, it was lovely to meet you, your daughters are beautiful and I am honored you read my silly blog!

The goddess watches too much TV.  I aid and abet her in this enterprise by letting her get away with it because I don’t want to entertain her.  I appease my conscience by telling myself that children’s television is MUCH more educational than it used to be.  I mean, Dora is bilingual and Sesame Street teaches reading. 

Unfortunately, however, she does not watch those shows.  She exists on a steady diet of “Sponge Bob”, “Drake and Josh” and “Hannah Montana”.  Not exactly programming aimed at getting your child into Harvard.

So this morning, after she had begun the Sunday Sponge Bob marathon, I girded my loins (thanks Nancy!) and went into my bedroom.  She was draped over the foot of my bed, 7 inches from the television screen, her eyes bugging out of her head and brain cells slowly dying and being replaced with celluloid images of technicolor starfish.  I turned the TV off and she whipped her head around and stared at me in horror. 

“Sweetie, let’s try to do something other than watch TV this morning,” I chirped cheerily, mentally trying to prepare myself for the onslaught of whining.  She did not disappoint.

“But it wasn’t oooooooooooooooooooovvvvvvvvvvvvvvvveerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr,” she keened pitifully.  Because she had only seen that episode a mere 37 times and how could I possibly deprive her of a chance to make it 38?

I had an unpleasant vision of what life would be like if my adult children became crack addicts and moved back into the house.  I think it might be easier to get them off crack than off of Sponge Bob.  The process of eliminating television could certainly be considered detox.  I held her gently, murmuring to her that it would be fine, the tremors would pass and the bugs would stop crawling over her skin.

We moved into the kitchen and ate breakfast together, she trying to assimilate being at the table instead of eating in front of the TV.  We ate our homemade, organic granola (no, I’m lying, it was Pillsbury cinnamon rolls) and she asked for music.  Inspiration struck, and I located the XM kids channel on AOl.  Suddenly, she was happy.  Because that station plays music from Nickelodeon, so it was a lot like watching TV.

To keep her busy, I gave her a bunch of paper towels and some window cleaner and instructed her to clean the glass on the front door.  That diverted her for awhile, but I could see she was clearly still uncomfortable, in the throes of physical withdrawal from her addiction.  When she got tired of washing windows, she started vaccuuming. 

That was scary.  I let her use the wand attachment and she marched through the house with it held aloft.  I was in mortal fear of her whacking out a window with it or sucking up one of the schnauzers, but she managed to eliminate a fair number of hairballs without causing any collateral damage.

When that got old, a whole fifteen minutes had passed since the TURNING OFF OF THE TELEVISION.  She was sweating lightly and the tremors were more pronounced.  In desperation, I told her to go upstairs and bring down some toys and she could play while I cleaned.  She liked that idea, so she went upstairs and returned with the Littlest Pet Shop Mega Mansion.

For the uninitiated, Littlest Pet Shop animals are tiny, bobble headed creatures with exaggerated, googly eyes.  They multiply in corners and are sharp and pointy and most uncomfortable when your bare foot comes down squarely on one of them.  Anyway, they live in a giant pink and green mega mansion and the goddess brought this down and set it up in the living room, right by the front door where I was mopping.  She then went back up to get the animals and could not find them.

After listening to her moan for ten minutes, I went up and found them, coincidentally, right where they belonged.  I helped her pack up all 340 of them and helped her get them downstairs.  And she actually began to play.  Alone.  Happily.  With No Television!!

At this writing, it has been six hours since the Turning Off and she is feeling much better. One of her school friends has come over to play and I am hoping that keeps her mind off the television.  I bet I’ve save at least six brain cells from permanent extinction today! 

So after I wrote my previous post, I called the treasurer back and got the bank info.  I girded my loins (whatever the hell that means!!) and grimly headed to the bank.  I walked into the bank manager’s office and took a seat, waiting for her to finish her phone call.  I was feeling like a woman headed for the guillotine.  For $500, you can eat an awful lot of cake.

She hung up, gave me her full attention and I crumbled.  Told her about our wonderful trip to Savannah.  Told her how the evil Girl Scout empire would not take a personal check.  Told her about miscalculating the fees and thus charged the entire thing to my credit card.  Told her I had TORN UP THE CHECK!!!!

She looked at me bemusedly.  “Well, we can fix that,” she said.

I nearly fell out of my chair.  The thought that I would not have to do a lapdance for the bank president made me positively giddy.

“What’s the check number?” she asked, fingers poised over the keyboard.

My elation vanished as quickly as it appeared.  The check number was on the check, which had been obliterated by me.  This was the whole reason I was here.

“Uh, uh, I have no idea,” I stammered, feeling my panic return.  “It’s in the bottom of the Jefferson county landfill.”  I heard the bells tolling in the distance; they tolled for me.

“Well, let me see if I can find it on your account.  There should be a copy.”  She tapped away at her keyboard, I poised tensely on the edge of my seat, ready to do whatever she needed me to do, including but not limited to:  washing her car; washing her cat; washing her clothes; or even dismembering an old boyfriend.  There was nothing I wouldn’t do to get back our cookie money!

“Ah here it is,” she said a few minutes later.  “Now I just have to call this company and make sure it hasn’t been cashed and then put a stop payment on it.”

“I’m sure it hasn’t been cashed,” I told her wryly, “unless the rats in the landfill managed to reconstruct it and get it to the bank.”

I left with her assurances that it would all be over soon and she would call me.  I went off to lunch with Teensy and Wendi, with my cell phone in hand, waiting for her call.  I had a perfectly dreadful lunch which I then got free, with a complimentary piece of roulage thrown in for appeasement.  But still, no call.

Finally, I called her when I got home.  “Oh, didn’t you get my message?” she asked.  “I just left you one on your cell.  The check should be ready either tomorrow or Monday.”

So all’s well that ends well.  We will get our money back and I won’t have to get a job to pay back the cookie money.  I feel a bit like a government official, minus the bad hair and the sleazy love interest.  And, unlike government officials,  I usually don’t make the same mistake twice.  Certainly, now I know NEVER to throw away a cashier’s check!  Lesson learned!!   Thank you for all your kind comments and support. 

Some people have an infinite capacity for love.  Others have an infinite capacity for goodness.  Still others possess endless amounts of energy and charm.  Then there’s me.  I have an infinite, inexhaustible supply of stupidity.

I am really not being too hard on myself.  I am a total f***-up when it comes to certain things.  The biggest bone of contention between my husband and myself ultimately boils down to my cavalier attitude towards details.  I am a leetle too laid back when it comes to things like money and saving and, well, details.  I am definitely a grasshopper.  I would rather play all day and worry about tomorrow when it gets here.

So details are not my strong point.  And when we made our reservation for Savannah, instead of waiting for the official confirmation from the girl scout people for our program at the Birthplace (of Juliette Low, founder of scouts, always capitalized and spoken reverently!), I simply guessed at the amount we owed and got a cashier’s check from our troop treasurer so I would be ready.

A month later, the stupid confirmation came, and of course my number was wrong.  And the Birthplace does not issue refunds or credit.  So  I put the whole thing on my credit card and tore up the check.  Did you get that?  I TORE IT UP.

Last night, I got an email from the troop treasurer, who just realized I HAD TORN UP THE CHECK!!!  “You can’t tear up a cashier’s check,” she moaned via e-mail.  “I paid for it.”  Um, Lucy, a little late to tell me that now!

I didn’t know you couldn’t tear up a cashier’s check.  I thought it was a regular check!  I didn’t know!!!!!!  And it was for $500!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Auggggggggghhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!!!

So now I am going to have to go to the bank and offer to perform sexual favors to see if I can get our money back.  Because I am stupid.  But I will tell you right now, for $500, I WILL NOT SWALLOW!!!!!!!