Friday, November 28, 2008

the resuts are in

Whew! Bullet dodged. My New Year's resolution will be to actually get my ass to the doctor and get a frickin' IUD.

Now, time for a drink!

Wednesday, November 26, 2008

any reason to stop outlining...

This will be my last post for a few days, I swear.

I know you don't care about my marital bliss, but here's an excerpt from a phone conversation with my husband, who, while working today at our local Best Buy, ogled both Knowshon Moreno and Scott Speedman (btw, I had to google Scott Speedman because I never watched that crap show Felicity, so don't get the wrong idea about me)...


him: Hello?

me: Is there an ice cream delivery man?

him: I don’t think so, sweetie.

me: BOOOOOOOO but I WANT SOME. Do you think I can go to the store in my lingerie and rain boots?

him: Well you, can, but you’ll probably get arrested.

me: But I WANT SOME, and I can't put clothes on because then I’ll have to take my rain boots off and my feets will get cold.

him: Knowshon Moreno came in the store today.

me: Oh, yeah? Why are all the fancy people coming in today? Did you talk to him?

him: No, but I stood next to him to compare my size.

me: You what?

him: Oh, you know, I just stood next to him while he was in the checkout line to see how big I am compared to an all-star runningback.

me: Oh. Well, that’s a totally normal thing to do.

him: He really wasn’t that much taller than me. Only a little bit. He was like about my dad’s height, I guess.

me: Okay.

him: Scott Speedman was taller though. He was like, almost six feet.

me: So there’s no ice cream delivery man?


muggle quidditch

Now you all know that I am decidedly Not Athletic, but I might, I just might be willing to try this...

that's why they don't call it 'Plan A'

A couple of weeks ago, I went temporarily insane.

I forgot that I am not on birth control anymore. I say "anymore" like I stopped taking it a month ago or something, but I've actually been off it for THREE YEARS.

Stop making that face. Birth control makes me fat(ter) and crazy(ier).

So one fine Friday about two weeks ago, my dear husband and I had a ridiculous unprotected sexfest. Stop making that face also. I am a Respectable Married Lady which entitles me to speak freely about my church-and-state-approved sexy times. Heh, well, mostly church-and-state-approved, but sometimes I have a little too much to drink and.......

At the end of that fine Friday, I was puttering around my house and getting ready for a party when I stopped short and said, "WHAT THE FUCK?!?!"

Why the hell did we do that? And where the hell were Ryan's judgment and maturity that are always far superior to mine and insist on wrapping it up have probably prevented like three hundred pregnancies? EEEEEK!!!!!

I leapt into the nearest non-stinky clothes, and we headed for Walgreen's. I entered Walgreen's with trepidation - after all, the ATH populace consists of either ultraliberal hippies or creepy ultraconservatives. There isn't much in between, so I was rightfully afraid that the pharmacy counter might be staffed by


You get the idea. (And before any Catholics get pissed at me, you KNOW old Benedict there would NOT sell me plan B if I asked for it, so it's just true. He is probably nicer than Ann Coulter, though.)

Fortunately, the pharmacy tech looked more like this:

I breathed a sigh of relief and asked if they carried Plan B.

"Ohhhh yeahhhh surrreeee, like definitelyyyyyy, tooooootalllllyyyyyy," he replied, in a kind but obvious effort to make me feel not-judged. "I just hafta go get it, like ONE SECOND, okay, I'll be riiiiiiiiight back, noooo probleeeeem, yeeaaaaah!"

(Dear Walgreen's hippie, if you're out there, thanks for that! It was very nice of you, and it made me giggle.)

So I took the Plan B, and everything should be fine, right? WELL......a dear friend of mine had a similar Fine Friday once and took Plan B within a few hours of her adventures, too.

She's due in December.

I was telling my dear Lindsey, whose daddy is a doctor, about the shocking turn of events in my friend's life, and she sagely replied, "That's why it's called Plan B. If it worked every time, they'd call it Plan A.

In spite of this knowledge, I figured everything would be juuuust fine. Until I got nauseous. I have been nauseous for FIVE DAYS now, AND I am late. Eeeeeeek!!!

No, I haven't tested yet, and I know you're making that FACE at me again. I have not tested because I a) don't want to, b) want to wait a little longer because I would fucking murder someone if I got a false negative, and c) payday is not for a few more days and I insist on only using the $25 fancy digital tests that clearly say "PREGNANT" or "NOT PREGNANT." I can't deal with trying to decipher those fucking teeny little lines after the eternal 3 minute wait because you can ALWAYS see the stupid line whether it actually changes color or not.

Rather than focusing on reality, which is always such a drag, I've been trying to think of the good things that would come from being preggo. So far I have come up with three:

1) People have to be nice to me even if I act like a wretched bitch. Look out, Bridezilla. I'll be wanting a party.

2) I have a medically legitimate reason to need new clothes all the time. Plus, I am always wandering through Target and getting confused when I see a super cute dress but I can't find my size and even if I could I can't figure out what this big pouch on the front is for anway - oh. I'm in the Liz Lange maternity section again. I would be able to wear that cute stuff.

3) I will not have to clean the kitty litter box for like a year! Apparently if you touch cat poo while you're pregnant, you run a significant risk of birthing one of these:

and then you will have to get this guy

to exorcise the evil kitty litter demon from your home.

Friday, November 21, 2008

wedding chronicles, part IV and a half

Okay, so she provided a totally normal response to the Hairdresser Situation. She said, "no worries" and she'll talk to The Groom about it, but she doesn't think it's something they can afford either.

Please note that within this statement lies the fact that she did indeed expect me to pay for both of their hairstyles, and also the acknowledgement that it is indeed NOT affordable.

But whatevs. I'm off the hook. However, then I received this: (clicky on the image to read it)

Oh, sure. When I said I couldn't afford a ridiculously expensive hairstylist, what I meant was, "I'd like to spend $100+ at a fricking SPA!!!!!"


wedding chronicles, part IV - No Means No

I know, I know, email is cowardly, but this situation is terrifying. Click the image to see it in a readable size.

Of course, I will let you know as soon as she replies.......Keep your fingers crossed for sanity.

Thursday, November 20, 2008

wedding chronicles, part III

Fancy invitations that much to my surprise required rush shipping to receive them in less than 2 weeks - $62.58

Enough stamps to mail all that shit - $12.60

Wedding gift from registry that actually qualified for Free Super Saver Shipping - $34.00

Tank of gas to get to Atlanta now that prices are reasonable again - $20.00

Cost of food for ridiculous and inappropriate shower - $62.35

Cost of prizes for idiotic shower game at ridiculous and inappropriate shower - $35.00

Amount of money I have made this year - About $300


Given my current financial predicament, I am pondering new avenues of income. Considering the overwhelmingly positive reaction to my Halloween costume, I am thinking about responding to this...

It was really the "no anal required" that drew me in. After all, I am a woman of principle.

So you're all dying to know how the shower went down. At long last, here goes...

At the last minute, it came to my attention that The Bride wanted some freaking GAMES at her "shower" (which I decided was more appropriately titled "Engagement Party" because of the whole "you're not invited but come to my party anyway and by the way here's where I'm registered" thing). Here's the deal with games - they're usually stupid, and you have to provide prizes. At my wedding shower, the games were short and painless, and the gifts were overall goofy dollar store fare, which was delightful and fun - Lee press-on nails, an assortment of fiesta-related magnets, and some polyester hair extentions. Awesome! But this party is for adults - most of whom I have never met. Scratch that, all of whom. So what's a partygiver to do? Sigh. Get fancy shit I can't afford.

So I got all ready to head to the ATL for the party, and on the way I was horrified to recall that I hadn't planned any games and had no prizes. I stopped at that foul excuse for a shopping mall out here and darted into Victoria's Secret.

"Two ten-dollar gift cards, please!" I requested hurriedly. "Sure," the salesgirl replied. "But just so you know, if you buy $10 worth of merchandise, you get a gift card with a mystery amount on it, anywhere from $10-$500."

Sweeeeet!! I thought. A way to recoup a tinky tiny bit of my losses. "Okay!" I replied. I darted to the horribly stinky perfumey stuff section, grabbed a little trio of sample thingies, and ran back to the register. I paid for the stuff (see: Above) and dashed for the car, feeling a little brighter that I now had a little prezzie for myself. As I drove, I entertained fantasies of a $500 panty spree. I would spend it all on crotchless g-strings and thus reaffirm my non-matronliness.

I arrived at the Bride's house a teensie bit late because of my prize stop. I bustled in and offered her the gift from me (which I had forgotten to wrap, but I'm not Superwoman, okay? don't judge.) She crinkled her face and said, "Okay, thanks, but I think we should take that to the restaurant for me to open." Her mom was at her place too, but she wasn't going to come to the party because of a migraine or something - probably she had overdosed on her daughter's relentless insanity and was desperate for any means of escape. I envied her migraine and tried to will myself into tuberculosis or dysentery.

Anyway, her mom had also brought a gift for her. Now if it were me, I'm just sayin', I would have opened a gift from my mom with my mom, so she could see my delight and I could thank her. If it were me. Just sayin'. But it wasn't me, so we took the gift with us for her to open at the restaurant. Why a grown woman wants to open as many gifts as possible in public, I'll never understand, but whatevs. It seemed relatively minor brattery at the time.
We arrived at the restaurant fashionably late (only like 5 minutes) with a leetle bit of complaint from her, but nothing too bad. Nobody was there yet anyway (heh! my credit cards smiled with glee inside my wallet at this). I struggled to get all my crap out of the car as the valet stood boredly waiting for my keys. I gathered up my coat, my scarf, my purse, my camera, my gift for her, and the card The Groom's mom had sent to me to give to her. She grabbed the gift from her mom, and we headed into the restaurant. As we neared the entrance, she turned to me and said,

"I really shouldn't be carrying my own wedding gift, should I?"

and she handed it to me!!!!!! I struggled to remain upright.

"Oh, heh, right, I suppose not......" I mumbled from beneath a mountain of packages and winter garments that I hadn't even been able to put on, owing to my present status as wedding-gift-laden pack mule.

In we went. I unloaded. The Maid of Honor was there, and one other guest had arrived. I felt a bit of premature glee at the low attendance, and my credit cards exhaled in relief.

People trickled in over the next 30 minutes or so, and we wound up with about 7 guests, not counting me, The Maid, and The Bride. We kept a steady flow of food, and really not too many drinks because people didn't seem interested in the cans of PBR we'd provided.

Yep, that's right - PBR. Now, make no mistake, I like PBR. Most of my friends like PBR. But here's the deal - I had printed on the invitations that "hors d'ourves" (or however the hell you spell it) would be served, so that it was abundantly clear any alcohol was to be purchased by the guests themselves. Yes, I am well aware this is a shitty way to throw a party, but it was all the Maid and I could afford, being forced into having a restaurant party. By the way, I'd like to mention that I was mortified to throw this kind of obviously cheap-ass party - I can throw a fucking killer party at home, where I can cook and buy the alcohol myself. But I was not willing to effing beggar myself to satisfy the unreasonable demands of my increasingly cunty "friend."

So my policy, clear as could be, was NO ALCOHOL. Then we find out, The Bride demands we serve PBR and maybe another beer like Sweetwater. Sweetwater? Fuck that. It's $4 a bottle! And I already said I wasn't paying for any alcohol! RARRRRR!!!

So this, dear readers, is why we served PBR to nice professional middle-aged ladies at this ridiculous travesty of a "party."

The party progressed more or less pleasantly. We played the stupid "Who knows the Bride best?" game. I know it's not uncommon for people who win prizes to give their prizes to the bride, but it's certainly not a rule or standard as far as I know. Well. As I've already mentioned, I got one of those little sampler packs of Victoria's Secret lotion, stinky body spray, and shower gel for a prize. The nice lady who won it was Bride's Ex-Boss. Ex-Boss popped open a bottle and gave it a sniff, and then passed it around the table for every to have a smell. When it was the Bride's turn to take a whiff, what did she do?

She dropped it into her bag of gifts without batting an eye or saying a word!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Ex-Boss graciously ignored this. I am fairly certain I managed to pick my jaw up off the floor before anyone noticed - not that it would have mattered if anyone besides The Bride noticed, and she certainly wouldn't have since she has lately been stricken oblivious to anything but herself.

Party continues, slightly boring, slightly awkward, and then people started to disperse. I heard one of the guests who had ordered a few glasses of wine pull the waitress aside and say she'd like to pay for her wine separately. My credit cards and I were delighted to see that people had gotten the hint about alcohol and were kindly covering their drinks.

Before the waitress could take the guest's card, however, The Bride intervened. "No, no, no, Guest!" she said.

"Ohh, no, I expected to pay for my wine, I want to," the wonderful, respectful guest replied. "Really!"

"NO, Guest," The Bride insisted, "Absolutely not. It's covered."

"Oh, um, well, okay," said Guest, clearly uncomfortable because HER MAMA TAUGHT HER BETTER THAN THAT.

Again, I collected my teeth from the floor and sat frozen in disbelief.

This would be a good place to note that the alleged credit card The Bride's mom had given her to help cover party expenses never materialized.

A little while later, I heard The Bride discussing with the remaining guests that her hairdresser would also be doing The Groom's hair. What? Why? He has long hair, but good lord! All he has to do is comb it or pull it back or something. Well, whatever, not my wedding. What do I care?

Oh, I soon found out why I care.

The Bride turned to and said, "Oh, and I have Hairdresser's card for you, so you can call him and set everything up."

What?!?!?! I had imagined after telling her I couldn't afford this outrageous party and still being forced into it, and also not having heard a peep about this hair business since originally discussing it, that I was off the hook! And now Hairdresser is doing The Groom's hair also?! Am I on the hook for that too?!

"," I replied.

The Maid and I went to settle up the total. The server told us that Ex-Boss had stealthily snuck and paid 1/3 of the total bill for us! What a dear! She was just about to walk out, so I trotted after her and quietly thanked her. She was so gracious about it, and I just thought she was so generous and nice. Good people. Her mama raised her up right, too.

I didn't tell The Bride that Ex-Boss had chipped in, but I just casually commented that I thought she was lovely and nice. "Yeah," The Bride replied. "When she's not being a huge bitch. I can't even believe she actually came. I guess someone made her."

Gahhhh!!!! Of all the ungrateful Bridezillary! I resisted the urge to slap the shit out of her.

After the party dispersed, The Maid and I suffered through a few drinks at the bar with The Bride, and The Bride's Neighbor. Neighbor has been her neighbor for like 10 years or something. He's total fucking drunkard, and apparently an impressively ill-informed asshole.

As The Bride and I shuffled through the photos of the party on my camera, she saw the photos from the Prop 8 protest the day before. We briefly discussed, and went along our beery way. Enter Neighbor and his intoxicated opinion.

"So you're against democracy, aren't you?" he slurred.

"Why, no, as a matter of fact, I'm not," I replied.

"Well, that law in California was passed by the voters! That's democracy! If you protest that, you protest democracy! You're trying to overturn democracy!"

"Perhaps you could think of it as part of the democratic process. Perhaps when there's another vote in the future, the protests against previous votes will have an influence the next time around," I explained reasonably.

"You want to overturn democracy!" he insisted.

"Okay," I said patiently. "You know, the majority once favored slavery and segregation. Do you think if we voted to resegregate, that'd be okay?"

"Well, no, of course not." He shrugged. "But that's democracy. You're the one in law school, aren't you?" For a moment he looked concerned that he might lose this battle of wits.

I sighed. "Yes, I am the one in law school, and okay, Neighbor." He continued talking to himself for a few minutes, and I ignored him as only a woman in a bar knows how.

A little while later, he tried again. "I bet you think Roe versus Wade is good law, dontcha?"

"I think it's currently the law, if that's what you mean by 'good' law," I answered.

"Well, I think it's bad law. I think the states should be able to decide! Don't you think states should decide?" he demanded.

"I wouldn't really consider myself a federalist, no," I said. He crinkled up his face, deep in beery thought.

"Well, I am! I am......that.....that you said," he blubbered.

"A federalist?" I asked.

"Yeah! A federalist!" he said, clearly pleased with himself and his expanded vocabulary.

"Okay," I said and reentered my mental Woman In A Hostile Bar cocoon.

Look what a nice lady I am. I taught an asshole a new vocabulary word, and I didn't even tell him to go fuck himself for trying to provoke me. I also didn't take out all my pent-up MATRON of honor frustration on him by stabbing him in the eyeball with one of my high heels. I am the picture of magnanimity and restraint. Miss Manners and Emily Post would be pleased with me, indeed.

At this point I finally excused myself, citing homework and studying, etc., and got the fuck out of there before my head exploded.

Oooooh, I forgot to tell you, I got my stupid MATRON dress. It has a bow on the back that must be amputated immediately. It is also about fifty sizes too big for me (how did this happen when they took my measurements?????), so it will require extensive (read: expensive) alterations.

Stay tuned. The wedding takes place December 21. I am sure there will be more to report.

MINOR UPDATE: Oh. I also forgot to tell you - that "free" Victoria's Secret giftcard I got - I left it in the bag at the restaurant. :( I hope the nice waitress found it and kept it.

wedding chronicles, part II - The Other Shower

OMG, guys!! I almost forgot to include this.........

So I sent an invitation to The Groom's mother, even though she lives out of state because that is just One Of Those Things You Do To Be Polite. It makes people feel included. It is also a sort of Miss Manners CYA thing. Obviously she wouldn't be coming, but she still called to RSVP (as polite people tend to do).

Mom-in-law was just so pleasant and sweet. We chatted for 10 minutes or so, about this and that. She said, "Oh, I just think this is so sweeeeeet. I mean, I never thought Groom would get married, and I'm sure you never thought Briiiiiiiide would get married, ha-ha!"

Teehehehehehehehe, I adore this lady already. I chuckled in lieu of a "no comment" and mentally looked forward to the days when I am older and can get away with saying whatever the hell I want.

So she asked if she could send a gift for The Bride to my house, and if I'd deliver it to the party. I said sure.

"Well, I'm just gonna have to think of something a little creative for them," she said. "I sure won't be getting them any towels, ha-ha!"

"Hah...hah...?" I said.

"Well, they have enough of those, you know!" she said.

"Oh," I said, confused. "I didn't know."

"Oh, they got all those towels! Someone gave them a ton of towels. Were you not at The Other Shower?" she asked.

WHAT THE FUCK? I quickly shuffled through my mind for any vague memory of another shower, or any reason there could have been another shower I didn't know about. Could it have been in Mom-in-law's state? Nah, then she'd know I wasn't there and wouldn't be asking.

"Oh, haha," I replied. "No, I couldn't make it unfortunately." I didn't want this nice lady to know she'd just let a gigantic, screeching, pissed-off cat out of a bag. In hindsight, I wonder if she clued me in on purpose, so I'd know just what kind of Bridezillary I was up against.

We wrapped up the conversation with pleasantries, and really I am looking forward to meet her. Aside from the fact that it'll be at this appalling wedding, of course.

Here are the things I want to know:

1) Whether this was an out of state shower, a family-only shower, or a surprise shower, why the fuck was I not informed? I have never heard of the MATRON of Honor not being invited to a shower, even if it's out of state and I couldn't go (see Miss Manners CYA, above).

2) Who the fuck that has a wedding with only about 30 total guests needs TWO SHOWERS?

3) Why the hell am I going to all this trouble and expense to throw her ass a shower when somebody already did?!?!?!?!?!


enough scary shit.

Terrifying nightmare post - redacted. Didn't want too many people to know just how mentally ill I am.

The salt worked. Either that, or the fact that Ryan let me sleep with the lights on and be a little spoon all night long. Menfolk, take note - that is how you treat your sweetie.

On to more important things........I WANT THESE.

I obviously have the heart and soul of an exotic dancer. Note to self: drop out of school , purchase several pink feather boas, and renew tanning bed membership immediately.

Monday, November 17, 2008

wedding chronicles, part I

I have been bestowed with the grand honor of being my friend's "MATRON OF HONOR."

Not that I need to dissect the atrocities of this particular appellation, but I think I will anyway because it's my blog, and I said so. A "matron" is not a fucking fancy 25 year old woman with a tattooed ass and colorful sexual history. A "matron" is the dumpy old battle axe who runs the nurses' ward at an army hospital, okay? She's overstarched, undersexed, and never plucks the weird fuzzy hairs from her chin. She's NOT ME.

Okay, so now that's out of the way, I suppose must protect the identities of the parties involved (even the guilty ones), so let's called the bride.......Errrrr......Ummmm.......The Bride, I guess. That'll work.

So The Bride has been seeing this nice nice man. We'll call him The Groom. The Groom, from what I can tell, is a prince. The first time I met him, he bought me an enormous dinner, and then he ordered every dessert on the menu for me, The Bride, and The Bride's respectfully titled MAID of honor, errr, The Maid, to share. He then chivalrously excused himself for a smoke (okay, ew) while we three little piggies gorged ourselves on sundry calorie-laden delights.

So I like The Groom. The Groom can stay. He even likes her fucking cat! This cat is a piss monster who pisses in her BED, shits right beSIDE the litter box, and takes every opportunity to snag your favorite new sweater with his wretched little claws. And hey, if you're reading this, you probably know - I am a cat lady. If I don't like a cat, that cat is guaranteed to be a first-class asshole. I attribute his ability to like the cat to an already threadbare wardrobe and what must be the most underdeveloped sense of smell ever.

Okay, so they got engaged. Cool. Nobody saw that coming, but great. I had often worried for The Bride because she sometimes seemed rather unhappy and lonely. This is not to say, mind you, that the lack of a man makes one unhappy and lonely, but when one wants a man but remains monogamously entangled with an incontinent cat, well.........unhappy and lonely, yeah.

So she tells me they have to get married sort of quickly, for some rather sad family reasons that I won't include. "How quickly," I asked. "Well," she replied, one fine September day, "in December, before Christmas."

So, she tells me, she's already booked the venue - it's at a local fancy-pants place. At - get ready for it - At. Eight. Thirty. Eh. Em.

What the fuck?

"Well," she continued, oblivious to the fact that that is fucking WEIRD, "it was either 8:30 a.m. or 8 o'clock at night, and I was not gonna do that."

"Uh huh," I nodded, as I thought she had finally gone totally fucking crackers. Of course she wouldn't want to have it that late, and save money, because nobody wants dinner or anything that late - serve your wedding cake, some coffee, and everybody goes to bed. Prohibitively uncomplicated and affordable, I totally agree.

I politely steered the conversation to the details of planning - a justice of the peace, or a minister? Justice of the peace. How many guests? Maybe 30ish. What about your hair? "Oh, I'll do it."

"What?!" I shrieked, unable to mask my fright.

"Well, I figured I can do it, but anyway Mom'll be there, and you'll be there, and my cousin who used to do hair....." As she prattled on about this family-reunion homemade hair nightmare in the making, I imagined myself at eight-forty eh em in the bathroom of the aforementioned fancy-pants resort, with a tearful bride-to-be with something like the illegitimate two-headed child of a pineapple and a french twist spackled to her head with dollar-store hairspray. This, I told myself, THIS, is Just Too Damn Much. I was NOT gonna deal with that clusterfuck when, not IF, WHEN it happened. Because it would.

So in an outburst purely driven by instincts of self-preservation, I offered, "How about if my wedding present to you is that I pay to get your hair done?"

"Oh! Well! We can see about that."

We discussed a few details, who does her hair, how to get in touch with him, and how likely is it that we can get this guy anydamnwhere by 7 am to do her hair. I suggested a coke binge the night before, so he'd actually still be awake and have no idea how early he was up and working.

We pretty much left it at that. Next order of business: an ickle celebration of sorts? Sure, she's having a family-only wedding pretty much, but she deserves to have a little girls' night out with her work buddies, some informal cocktails at the local bar or something. So I suggested as much - would she like to ask around the office and pick a Friday they could all go out for drinks? I'd be happy to send out some emails and organize. What followed can only be characterized as a bridezilla moment -

"Actually, yeah, you can throw me a shower. And we can have it here*; they have a new party room you can rent."

What? Who can rent? I looked wildly around, confident that some Rich Best Friend had walked up and joined the conversation, unbeknownst to me. Nobody to the left. Nobody to the right. Behind? Nope. Fuck!

Wretchedly, I mumbled, "Uhhhh....heh-heh....yeah. We'll see......"

Some of you may not know - a formal fancy shower is NOT something you invite people to if they aren't invited to the wedding. Showers suggest gifts, and you should NEVER mix uninvited guests with compulsory gift-giving. So basically what she was asking me to do was the worst breach of etiquette known to matrimony.

A week or so later, The Bride and I traveled to a dress shop to pick out a shiny, ill-fitting, matronly monstrosity to wear to in her wedding. The dress we settled on was actually not unutterably foul, so I thought perhaps she had regained a measure of her sanity since we last talked wedding. I gathered all my courage and began, "So about the shower thing.......Look, Bride, there's just no way I can afford to have it at a restaurant. I'd be more than happy to have it at your place and cook, or someone else's if that's too much for you to worry about, but I really just can't do it at a restaurant." I waited for her to graciously say, "Oh, of course! I totally understand, no worries."

I'm still waiting.

What she actually said was, "Oh, hon, don't worry about it. People will chip in, and Mom gave me a credit card to help cover expenses." Knowing all was now officially lost, I drooped in defeat, and my credit cards trembled with fear. Stay tuned.


* "here" refers to the somewhat pricey seafood restaurant where this all went down.