I had a reasonably important, face-to-face meeting today, but no vehicle, so I decided to walk.
Two and a half miles, in eyeball-scouring wind.
A little misplaced optimism (followed by about three-quarters of a mile flat-out sprint) put me there in the nick of time, but not early enough to straighten up first.
I visited the ladies room four hours later and was overjoyed to see, in the mirror, that I appeared to have spritzed my entire face–eyebrows to jawline–with a mysterious black substance.
I’m assuming it was mascara, since there was none of that left on my eyelashes.
I was extra-attractive, I assure you.
Almost as attractive as dinner turned out to be, after six hours in the oven. In case you can’t tell, that’s “bbq” chicken in the middle there. As I took the picture, one of my sons asked, “Why do you keep taking pictures of dinner?”
“It’s my New Year’s resolution,” I told him. “I’m going to make dinner every night this year, and I’m going to have evidence to prove it.”
“HA. I give you until next Wednesday.”
I made derogatory comments about his faith.
Another son predicted March.
They took bets.
What they don’t know is that as of today, I really am out of ideas. Partly because tomorrow will be exactly two weeks since I’ve been to the grocery store.
The lasagna episode was that traumatic.
Sort of. Just think… If I went another two weeks, things could get so much more creative than this (and they’d deserve it, too, for betting against me):