it didn't even have any crunch left

Last week was a bit of a doozy at work.  And not just because first thing Monday morning I put a packet of papers on one of the big bosses' desks with a post-it note that said "Thnaks!"   

THNAKS.

Smooth.

I really like my job, but sometimes the work can get a wee bit on the sad side and last week had a lot of those days.

Luckily my coworkers and I have a code that we use when one of us is feeling A TINY BIT OVERWHELMED.  The code is, "Hey, want to go for a stroll?" And the rest of us know to dig for loose change in the bottom of our purses so we can head downstairs to the secret vending machines and then wander around the first floor while we eat our snacks and play a game we like to call "Which Set of Doors Do You Think Leads to the Morgue?"

Because our office is in the same building as the coroner.  Which is weird.

And I realize that a game involving the morgue may not sound like a typical cheer up game.  However, it works for us and we have narrowed it down to two sets of doors.

Down one particularly cold hallway.

 However, the highlight of our afternoon strolls is always our stop at the secret vending machines.  We categorize them as "secret" because the prices are at least thirty cents lower than the prices in all of the other vending machines in the building, so we are convinced that the vending machine company has forgotten about these machines in the last several months, and therefore the prices have stayed low.  We don't want to many people to find out about these bargain snacks, so we try not to mention them to others.

My snack of choice at our secret stash is usually a bag of goldfish, but one afternoon last week I was feeling particularly wild and chose a Nestle Crunch bar. 

I ripped it open as soon as I got my hands on it, and took a big bite right away.

It couldn't have been more disgusting.

I pulled the wrapper open a little bit more, and upon further inspection I came to the conclusion that the vending machine company REALLY HAS forgotten about these vending machines.

Because that is one stale candy bar.

Looks like it's time to start shelling out that extra thirty cents for something that was made this decade.

just because i want to remember

Emily and I had planned to do some serious hanging out last Sunday, and before I drove home we exchanged a few texts discussing logistics.  After we settled on 12:30 and a loose outline of things to do, I sent her one last text that said, "Hey...want to wear matching outfits today?!" because, as my mom says, I JUST LIKE TO GET A REACTION OUT OF HER.

I just KNEW that her response would be something along the lines of  "NO WAY LAURA, I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU WOULD ASK ME THAT.  I AM SIXTEEN YEARS OLD NOT SIX! YOU ARE SO WEIRD."

So imagine my shock when I read her reply.

"Sure!  What are you wearing?"

JUST WHEN YOU THINK YOU KNOW SOMEONE.

 

my weekend, five days later

Each afternoon before I leave work, I write a few reminders on a post-it about things I need to do or places I need to go the next day.  I didn't put this brilliant system into place because I have so many things to do at work that I can't remember them all, but more so because once I walk out of the office I have a lot of other things on my mind such as "I wonder if Jessica Simpson had that baby yet," and "Why can't I remember if I like blackberries?"  

So before I called it quits on Monday afternoon, I wrote Tuesday's note and included a capitalized, underlined reminder of COURT HEARING, 1:00. 

And then I went home and exchanged my gunmetal gray nail polish for a more courtroom-appropriate pale pink.  And when I woke up on Tuesday I put on my black suit and and grabbed the bag that I bring to court.

And then I got to the office and discovered that the hearing was not really Tuesday at all. 

It was Wednesday.

My whole post-it note reminder system would be such an effective tool if only it were accurate.

The only explanation is that I had not yet recovered from my exhausting weekend.

Oh, I kid because my weekend was the epitome of low-key.  Matt came over after work on Friday, which worked out well because he is one of my favorite people to see.  He had to work at 7:00 the next morning so he didn't stay super late, and after he left Michelle and I decided that we had enough time to watch an episode of the Bachelor from earlier this season.

Which is how we found ourselves in our pajamas, on the couch, watching reality tv RERUNS at 11:00 on a Friday night.  It really is exactly how glamorous we dreamed our Friday nights would be when we first started thinking about moving out.

On Saturday morning I texted Emily to see if she wanted to do something, and she responded to tell me that her schedule was actually pretty packed for the day and she didn't think she could fit me in, and that Sunday would really work better for her.

Okay then.

So instead I went to the bank and exchanged all of the change I've been saving for 116 dolla dolla bills ya'll and then stopped by the grocery store for some necessities.  I got lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, some bread, a quart of coffee creamer, and provolone cheese.

And I don't know why I just recounted my grocery list, but I think it's clear that THE CONTENT AROUND HERE IS JUST RIVETING.

I put the produce on the checkout belt first, then the bread, and finally the creamer and cheese.  And then I heard a voice say "Well, you were doing pretty well until the creamer and the cheese."  Which was weird because I've never heard my conscience ACTUALLY SPEAK ALOUD before.

Turns out it wasn't my conscience at all but instead a fellow grocery shopper who happened to be A SUPER ENTHUSIASTIC nutrition student.  In the five minutes he stood behind me in line, he shared his views on dairy, the importance of asparagus and other green vegetables, the best sources of protein, differences in bottled water and tap water, and his theory on heart disease elimination.  

In case you were wondering, he did not mention the nutritional value of white chocolate macadamia coffee creamer.

After my errands I went home to relax a little bit because WHY NOT, and then Michelle and I browsed Home Goods, TJ Maxx, and Bed Bath and Beyond.

I babysat on Saturday night.  The kids were only awake for an hour before I put them to bed, but in that hour we pretended that we were mummies, ate about 16 cheese sticks, and played at least 30 rounds of Marco Polo.  

And right now you're probably thinking, "Oh how neat, the family must have a pool in which to play Marco Polo!"  Oh no, we played the non-aquatic version of Marco Polo.  In the living room.  It seems as though the kids have figured put a roundabout way of being able to play tag in the house.

On Sunday I met up with Emily to hang out since her schedule was finally open, and our first stop was McDonald's for some shamrock shakes.  TIS THE SEASON for mint milkshakes in a disturbing shade of lime green. 

 After that we went to the car wash.  I had a coupon for a free car wash and almost went before I babysat on Saturday but I thought, OH NO, I WILL WAIT UNTIL TOMORROW BECAUSE EMILY WILL LOVE TO GO TO THE CAR WASH WITH ME.  It was like I forgot that she is now sixteen years old and is no longer blown away with excitement at a trip to the car wash.

But alas, we went anyway and she was less than impressed but still pleasant company.  We spent the rest of the afternoon walking and shopping and talking and I stuck around the house long enough to get an invite for dinner which I accepted OF COURSE.  

I was home from about noon on Sunday until around 8:30 that night.  IT WAS LIKE I NEVER MOVED OUT AT ALL!

Here's hoping this weekend is just as good!

 

looking the part

It should come as a surprise to approximately nobody that Michelle and I are not what you would call gifted in the tool department.  Oh sure, we have enough knowledge to get by, but don't be fooled by the fact that we hung this very large, heavy picture ALL BY OURSELVES without the aid of a level or a man.


Because there are eight very uneven picture hangers and six feet of wire behind this poorly hung piece of bargain Bed Bath & Beyond artwork.

We encourage all visitors to SIT WITH CAUTION on that couch. 

And I can understand why someone might assume that the person who hung this mirror so expertly on the door frame to be a TOOL EXPERT.

But what really happened is that Michelle came home right before I started the mirror installation process, and I told her that my game plan was to just screw this bad boy into the door frame and call it a day.  And then she asked how you know if you are supposed to screw something into the wall or nail it.

Well, hmm.

I'm sure there's a universal rule of thumb, but I tend to just operate by the "grab whichever is closest" method, and it has served me well thus far.  In other words, that mirror is still securely attached to my door frame and I can get a 360 degree view of my hair whenever I please. 

Despite the fact that Michelle and I may not know how to use all of our tools, we own a plethora of them.

In fact, this is a picture of our tool shelf.

 I have no explanation for the hot rollers and their presence on the designated tool shelf.  Although let's be honest, they are a tool in their own right.

And I realize that the snowman gift bag may seem like an unlikely container for tools.  I would not disagree, but I would bet that no other hammers in Pennsylvania have such a cheery, seasonally appropriate place to call home.

Since I have moved into my own apartment, I have incorporated a new question in my typical conversation when I go back home.  And that question is, "So do you guys have anything that you're trying to get rid of?"

And asking that one simple question has provided me with several things over the last few months, including but not limited to a giant bottle of windshield washer fluid, two tilapia filets, yankee candle coupons, a tupperware of coffee grounds, a candle holder, pork, and a gallon of liquid fabric softener.

 So, you know, SCORE.

I stopped by the house the other night and before I even had a chance to ask my standard question, my dad said, "Oh! I left something on the fireplace for you!"

And just like that I became the proud owner of an OFFICIAL tool bag.

I think somehow my dad must have known that we were keeping our screwdrivers in a pale blue snowman gift bag.

Well, no longer!  Because now our tools reside in this professional, totally legit tool bag. And while we may not be able to correctly utilize each tool in this bag, we certainly look like we know what we're doing.

And isn't that half the battle?

sunday stroll with my sister

the chef idea was a little premature

 Less than 24 hours ago I published this post detailing my recent culinary successes. 

And then tonight I came home from work and started to cook some spaghetti and sauce for dinner.  At the last minute I decided that a lightly toasted roll and butter would go perfectly with the spaghetti, so I grabbed a roll and slid it in the toaster.  

And then this happened. 

 

So I think I'll stick with the paralegal thing.

perhaps a career as a chef isn't out of the realm of possibility

 Last week was filled with culinary achievements. Given my history in the kitchen, this is notable and worth documenting.

 On Wednesday I made cupcakes for a co-worker's birthday.  The only problem that arose with that was when I stopped at the grocery store for some icing and discovered that my friend Betty Crocker makes both white AND vanilla icing.  All these years I thought white icing and vanilla icing were one and the same, but old Betty shattered that lifelong belief with just one glance down aisle 7. 

I ended up choosing the vanilla, and I had grand plans to empty the dishwasher and organize the fridge while I waited for the cupcakes to bake.  In reality, what ended up happening was that I stood in front of the sink for ten minutes, turning our garbage disposal off and and trying to determine if the loud, unpleasant grinding noise it was making meant that some sort of serious mechanical diagnosis was imminent.

 After living on my own for a few months, I have discovered something about myself.  

I am a big time maintenance hypochondriac.  

Sure, we've had some legitimate maintenance issues, including but not limited to NO HEAT IN JANUARY.  However, let's just say that Michelle and I have the maintenance number on speed dial.  And we have requested EMERGENCY MAINTENANCE not once, not twice, but THREE times. 

I am surprised that our numbers have not yet been blocked at the maintenance office.  It's really only a matter of time.

After thoughtful consideration I decided that the noise coming from the garbage disposal did not warrant a call to our maintenance friends Sid and Bruce because listen, I do not want to push our luck with them.  

And after all, it was probably just the fork that got stuck in there making all that noise.

JUST KIDDING about the fork.

It was totally a spoon.

After my disposal decision I reached into the cabinet to grab some potholders for the cupcake trays, and I came across this little gem.

  Originally I thought it was a bird's beak, but upon further inspection I realized that it is actually some sort of crustacean claw.  I don't know why I never saw it in the cabinet before, but it sure makes removing hot dishes from the oven a lot more fun.  It also makes it a lot trickier, as there is really only room for one, MAYBE two fingers in the top pincer.  Luckily I was able to successfully extract the cupcakes from the oven wearing the lobster claw.  

It wasn't easy, but I did it.

And finally, on Sunday I had my family over for dinner for my dad's birthday.  I will admit that I was a little bit nervous, but it went well!

 

 JUST LOOK AT HOW HAPPY THEY ARE!

Really, we had a lovely time and, as I told my mom, we didn't have to call for a pizza!  I call that a success!

it was officially the first time i had a real weapon in my car

Well, I spent the better part of my day today at the police station.

I went out partying last night and got a little carried away.

JUST KIDDING.  

I was actually there for work, and as I was driving back to the office I started to think about how I spent the first seven or eight years of my life being reduced to tears whenever I saw a man in any sort of official uniform.  The real kicker was the fact that my family lived mere miles from a large naval base, which meant that there were uniformed men, and therefore tears from yours truly, everywhere we went.  

The bank.  

The library.  

The movies.  

And I can still picture, CLEAR AS DAY, men in military uniforms standing at the deli counter in the grocery store.  

I was a JOY for my parents to take out in public!

I don't know why I had such fear of men in uniform when I was little, but rest assured that I have made a complete and total recovery and now I have to resist saying OH YOU LOOK SO HANDSOME IN YOUR UNIFORM.  PLEASE, TELL ME ABOUT ALL OF YOUR BADGES!

My phone rang at work last week and one of my detective friends was on the other line, calling abut a hearing that he had been subpoenaed to.   Imagine my surprise when I heard him say, "I'm calling about the hearing on Thursday.  Could I...uhhh...ride with you?"

HOLD. THE. PHONE.

And hold the phone is just what I did.  In fact, I said, "Well Detective, let me just think a little bit about that and get back to you," and then I hung that phone right up.

SMOOTH MOVE, LAURA.

I did have several reservations about using my car and driving skillz to transport an officer of the law. 

Specifically, what would I say when he got in my car?  HOP IN DETECTIVE, AND BUCKLE UP!

I was also worried about my occasional lead foot.  Would the detective judge me and my speed?  Worse yet, could he issue me a ticket if I displayed disregard for that pesky speed limit?

Another concern I had revolved around my friend Flo at Progressive Insurance.  I am participating in the Snapshot Discount program, which means that I have a small device plugged into my car that beeps when I make a mistake.  Or, more specifically, when I engage in "harsh braking."  During my first thirty days of monitoring I earned a 27% discount (HOLLA), but the device does still beep once in a while because while I'm almost perfect, I'm not quite there yet.  And it is not a dainty, delicate beep beep beep.  Oh no.  It's more of an obnoxious BEEP. BEEP.  BEEEEEEEP.

And finally, what kind of music do detectives listen to?  I doubt he would appreciate a soundtrack of my friends Flo Rida and Pitbull, whose songs place a heavy focus on those same illegal activities that the detective spends his life trying to eliminate.

After some soul searching and co-worker consulting, I called the detective back and told him to meet me at the office Thursday morning and we would journey together. 

And so he did.  The hearing was in downtown Philadelphia, a place I had never driven before I started this job in September.  And if you had told me when I signed that offer letter that in just a few short months I would be driving into Philadelphia ALONE with a detective and his weaponry in the passenger seat I would have said YOU CRAZY.


But alas, that's what happened.  And I am proud to report that I got us there and back with no major crises.  We listened to a neutral radio station.  I didn't speed and and my Progressive monitor didn't beep AT ALL.  I really concentrated on braking very gently because seriously, how embarrassing would a violation beep have been?! 

And the best news of all is that I didn't even shed one tear.

I'm really growing up.

and a happy presidents day to all

I haven't written on this little blog very much lately, and I miss it.

I think the problem is that I've been doing a WHOLE LOT of thinking at work lately (imagine!), and when I get home I just want to let my brain relax for an hour or seven.  And that relaxation usually comes in the form of reading a book or hanging out with Matt or watching reality tv with Michelle or going to Target and walking up and down every single aisle JUST BECAUSE I CAN.

And also, you never know when you may come across an item that you didn't even know existed before you arrived at Target, but once you see it there you purchase it because suddenly YOU CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT IT.

That that rationale is responsible for making me the proud owner of an ice cube tray that makes ice specifically for water bottles and 20 individual servings of cilantro.  

I don't use cilantro EVER, so why I decided that I need TWENTY individual servings is really beyond me.  All I can say is that I lose the ability to distinguish need from want the second I walk through the doors of Target. 

Anyway, after I spend several hours relaxing, I get in bed at 11:00 and suddenly my brain is raring to go and I am thinking in story lines and paragraph organization and word choice and half of me wants to go to sleep and the other half of me wants to get out of bed and write something.

I'll be honest, the half that wants to go to sleep usually wins out because I am a girl who needs her 8 hours every night.  But sometimes I think that is the wrong decision.  As you can see, it is QUITE THE DILEMMA.

And now for something completely unrelated. 

I was using the oven yesterday, and as soon as I turned it on to preheat, I dragged a kitchen chair down the hall to disconnect the smoke detectors in a preemptive effort to save our eardrums from the inevitable beeping.

I decided to just leave the chair in my bedroom until I was finished using the oven and could put the smoke detectors back on.

While I sat on the couch and waited for my dinner to finish cooking, Michelle came into the kitchen.  She stood in front of our kitchen table and three chairs and exclaimed:

 'WE'VE BEEN ROBBED!"

And then we laughed for ten minutes because WE ARE EACH OTHER'S BIGGEST FANS.

And also, what kind of robber would steal ONE KITCHEN CHAIR?

Happy Monday!

i promise i don't know anyone named donna

When I text Matt a word that ends in "er," I replace the "er" with an "a" in what I can only describe as an effort to sound more gangster.

Or gangsta, if you will.

Well, apparently my new iPhone has not yet become accustomed to my quirky habit of letter replacement.

 

i hear the prius is nice

On Tuesday afternoon I get a text from Matt asking how things were going.  "Good," I told him.  "I left work a little while ago and now I'm trying to get gas."

He responded with one word.   

"Trying?" 

I informed him that I had been to THREE gas stations and still didn't have any gas in my car and was getting A WEE BIT FRUSTRATED.  And then, coincidentally and/or intentionally, he did not ask any follow up questions.  I think he saw a can of worms there and did not want to open it.

(Perhaps he didn't want to throw FUEL on a fire!)

((Oh, I am so witty.))

Well, the can is about to be opened.

When I was learning to drive, I remember my dad telling me that I should get my gas at Sunoco.  I can't say this with complete certainty, but I believe his loyalty to Sunoco has something to do with the fact that Sunoco doesn't drill for oil in the Middle East.  I think the oil comes from a place called the Pacific Rim.  I should probably google that to be sure, but googling is a slippery slope with me because one minute I'm researching oil drilling and the next I'm on People.com checking for any updates in the life of Beyonce or seeing if perhaps Kate Middleton wore a new dress this week.

Also, my parents may/may not own stock in Sunoco.  I can't remember, but I always feel good when I support companies that they own stock in.  They also happen to own stock in McDonald's, which is especially beneficial when my car gets a mind of it's own and JUST DRIVE ITSELF TO MCDONALD'S and before I know it I'm sitting in the drive-thru waiting for a medium iced-caramel coffee with two creams, one sugar, and some whipped cream thankyouverymuch.  

And that teeny tiny feeling of McDonald's guilt that occasionally shows up is soon negated by the realization that not only am I enjoying a delicious treat, but also assisting my parents on their way to a luxurious retirement!

THAT'S WHAT I CALL A WIN-WIN!

  Anyway, ever since my dad told me that Sunoco is his gas station recommendation, that is the only gas station I've ever used.  Because I am a rule-follower.  And I knew when I moved that I would have to find a Sunoco near my apartment to become my new "home station."  Turns out that there is a Sunoco conveniently located about a mile from my office and not far from my apartment. It even has flat screen TVs at each pump, which is a bonus because there's nothing like getting the day's news while standing at the gas pump.

 

The other afternoon when I was leaving work, my gas light came on.  I had an important errand to run, specifically I needed to swing by Target for some grown-up necessities like milk and medicine.

Okay, I really just needed nail polish.  And so I navigated Old Blue to Target so I could buy some nail polish.  Gas light blazing and priorities clearly in check. 

I knew I was risking getting stranded on the side of the road with no gas, but at least I would have been able to paint my nails a lovely shade of Fancy Delancy while I waited to be rescued.

Luckily my car started when I came out of Target, and I drove down a busy street that I knew had a bunch of stations.  I found a Getty and an Exxon right next to each other.  The price at the Exxon was about twenty cents lower, so I decided to go there because HELLO, I AM SO FISCALLY RESPONSIBLE. 

I pulled into Exxon and all of the pumps were open, which was surprising since the Exxon is on a busy road, and it was rush hour.  But still, SCORE.  I pulled up to a pump, got my wallet out, and turned the car off.  I walked over to the pump and as I went to slide my debit card, I noticed a sign on the screen informing me that the pumps were out of service.  

Upon further examination of the station, it became evident that the gas station was indeed completely abandoned.  

Nice.

No wonder the price was so low.  IT WAS FROM 2009. 

I'm sure passersby got A KICK out of the girl trying to get gas at the abandoned gas station.   

I turned my car on and drove next door into the Getty parking lot, where I quickly realized that it was a full serve station with attendants at every pump.  I am not a fan of those stations.  I like to pump my own gas because it seems I have some sort of control issues when it comes to my car.

And it was goodbye, Getty.

My last resort was another Exxon a few stoplights away.  While this one was actually in operation, every single pump was occupied and I just left out of pure frustration.  BOTH MY CAR AND MY JOY WERE ON EMPTY.

I decided that I would just get up a little bit early the next morning and stop at my trusty Sunoco station on the way to work, where I could get both gas and the morning news all at once! 

When I walked into the apartment, Michelle asked how I was, and so I told her.  

"I just tried to get gas at THREE GAS STATIONS, and couldn't get gas at ANY of them!!"

And that's when Michelle said "Oh, did you go to that Luk Oil on the corner?!  I ALWAYS have trouble at that one!" 

And that is why Michelle and I are friends. 

And also why I am looking into electric cars.

let's just say things didn't exactly go as planned

On Saturday evening Matt and I boarded the train, destined for the annual Philadelphia auto show.  There are two big train stations in the city, Market East and Suburban.  As we were riding along, I asked Matt where we would be getting off.  "Suburban Station," he said.  "The car show is at the convention center, which is right above the station."

I would like to state for the record that it was at that moment that I heard a tiny voice inside my head say that the convention center is actually above Market East.  However, since the part of my brain that tends to make sweeping navigational decisions is usually wrong, I ignored it.  

The train arrived at Market East station and things suddenly became SUPER BUSY.  Ninety percent of our fellow passengers exited the train, and a whole new slew boarded.  Matt and I watched the remarkable exchange of passengers and marveled at WHERE ALL OF THESE PEOPLE COULD POSSIBLY BE GOING.

Once everyone had a seat, the train started chugging again and a few minutes later we arrived at Suburban.  Matt and I got off the train and walked upstairs so we could find the right entrance to the convention center.

After a few moments Matt started walked a little bit slower and semi-aimlessly.  Finally he said, "I'm looking for signs for the convention center.  Do you see any?"

"I.......actually think the convention center is above Market East Station," I told him.

I wasn't sure what kind of reaction he would have to this major navigational error, but he laughed and shook his head and said "OH MY GOSH YOU'RE RIGHT! WHAT WAS I THINKING?"

And also, NO WONDER ALL OF THOSE PEOPLE GOT OFF AT MARKET EAST.

Matt works in the city.  He gets off at Market East Station, and sees signs for the convention center, EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.  I'm just going to say we chalk this one up to the fact that he was so focused on my beauty that he wasn't giving navigation his full attention. 

(AND WHO COULD BLAME HIM?)

((I WAS WEARING NEW LIP GLOSS.))

Anywho after it was determined that we were in fact at the wrong train station, we walked around for approximately four more minutes while we looked for the staircase that would lead us up to the correct street.  

In those four minutes we saw an older fellow running through the station violently screaming profanities at the top of his lungs, a man who had not one stitch of clothing below his belly button use a recycling container as a public restroom, and some questionable characters participate in what I am fairly certain was a drug deal.  

WELCOME TO PHILADELPHIA.

After the probable drug dealing incident I squeezed Matt's hand as hard as I could and whisper-yelled through tightly clenched teeth, "I don't care what street we end up on, just find the nearest staircase and Get.  Me.  OUT OF HEREEE."

Once we were safe outside, we decided to walk to the convention center.  It's really not too far of a walk, and we figured that we could find someplace to eat along the way.  Somehow we ended up at the convention center SEVERAL BLOCKS AWAY and had not found a dinner spot.  My hunger level was approximately a 4 and my cheerfulness level was approximately a -300.  

I will be honest with you, the next hour or so is a bit of a blur, but before I knew it we were back on the train to Suburban Station because word on the street was that there was an Applebee's near the station where we could eat, and far be it from me to turn down a trip to Applebee's.

Applebee's had a TWO AND A HALF HOUR WAIT.

We tried the Irish pub next door.

An hour.

The Italian restaurant down the block.  Forty minutes.  I informed the hostess that I COULD NOT WAIT FORTY MINUTES.  CAN'T YOU SEE THAT I AM A WEARY TRAVELER?

And so we walked across the street to Cozi to get some sandwiches and FOR GOODNESS SAKE SOME WATER.

We ordered at the counter, found a table, and waited for them to call out our dinners.

Suddenly my tuscan chicken pesto sandwich became like a mirage in the dessert.

Matt went over to inquire as to the state of our sandwiches because HE HAD ONE GRUMPY GIRLFRIEND ON HIS HANDS.  LOOK AT THAT TABLE OVER THERE, SHE IS THE ONE WITH STEAM COMING OUT OF HER EARS.

EVEN MY 3-D GLITZY LIPGLOSS HAD WORN OFF.

Matt returned to the table and I couldn't quite decipher the look on his face, but it was somewhere between extreme frustration and a resigned smile. 

"Well," he said, "They have to make more bread."

And it was at that moment that my head exploded into a million tiny pieces.

I will admit that I was not operating at full capacity by that point.  I was hungry and thirsty and my feet hurt and I JUST WANTED TO BE GRUMPY.

And then Matt said, "Look on the bright side, Laura!  We will have extremely fresh bread!!"

Clearly we deal with hunger and exhaustion in similar fashions.

I'm happy to report that our sandwiches FINALLY, AND I DO MEAN FINALLY arrived.  I devoured my tuscan chicken pesto and chips, and my mood improved and I was ready to salvage the evening.

We walked back to Suburban AND GOT ON THE TRAIN AGAIN and made it to the car show.

It was all worth it, because we ended up having a lot of fun together AND I scored some snazzy new wheels...

I don't recognize that man standing beside my new ride, but I can only imagine that he is just jealous of the fact that my car says BOSS in large silver letters.

After the car show we got back on the train and rode home.  We said goodbye to the train conductors, who at that point felt like old friends, ONE LAST TIME.

And then we decided that next year we should drive to the car show.

After all, you can never go wrong driving somewhere in a yellow 'Stang with the word BOSS painted on the side.

i can't believe she didn't give me a little more credit

Last night I texted Emily for some sisterly/medical advice.

 

 And then I learned that Emily is a girl who doesn't shy away from asking the obvious questions.

Exhibit A.

I am happy to report that my thumb and I will be just fine.