The wrong wine

Summer is winding down — although it’s still plenty hot, here in the desert — and I am gladly using up all my white wines and getting back to my favorite reds. The other night I was having fish for dinner and opening my wine cabinet took out one of the few whites left — Menage a’ Trois. I don’t even remember buying it, but their wines are decent everyday wines and (as the name implies) a blend of three wines.

The fish came out of the oven, the green beans were done and the rice was pretty well ready — maybe a little on the crunchy side. Fish is not my favorite food, but this was pretty decent. I reached for my wine glass and took a sip.


Now I’m guessing this has happened to you at some point. You have your mouth set for something and then you taste something else? Like when you thought you were reaching for water and took a big gulp of milk instead? Or thought you were reaching for milk and it was orange juice? It’s not that it is bad, it’s just not what you expected.

The Menage a’ Trois was sweet! Oh, yuck!

I grabbed the bottle — Moscato! Dessert wine. The blurb on the back said it had a pleasant floral aroma (yep), and the blend of Muscat grapes from three different vineyards yielded a luscious blend of apricot and peaches. You know, if I’d been in the market for an inexpensive dessert wine, it would have been fine, but I wasn’t. I set aside the wine, deciding water was the better choice.

The next day I was in Trader Joe’s and saw their Coastal Sauvignon Blanc. My preference in Sauvignon Blanc is Monkey Bay from New Zealand which is crisp without being bitter, but TJ’s doesn’t carry that. So what the heck, $6.99 for a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

“How bad can it be?” I asked myself as I checked out the label. After years of experience, you would think that when I utter that particular phrase, an alarm would go off in my head saying “put the wine down and step back!” You would guess the thinking part of my brain would say, “spend a little more and get something you know is decent.” But No! I went on ahead. I mean for $6.99 I’ll take a chance.

So that evening I uncorked the TJ’s SB, took a sip and cringed. I hate wine that makes me cringe. It tasted as though the grapes were slightly under-ripe. I sighed and poured a glass. Maybe it’d be okay with fish. (Still had another piece of fish.)

Well, it was okay — just. Drat. So now I had two bottles of wine that I didn’t like. I debated pouring them down the drain — I mean, they weren’t all that expensive. But then, inspiration hit. Why not “blend” them? That’s what they do at the winery, right? They mix the different varietals together until they get what they like. All right, I can do this — and I did.

The result of mixing two “just okay” wine was another “just okay” wine. At least it wasn’t sweet and it didn’t make me cringe, but it didn’t make me smile, either. After two nights of drinking this concoction, I thought, “that’s enough of that!” and headed for Total Wine.

Yeah, good old reliable Monkey Bay!

Yeah, good old reliable Monkey Bay!

There I bought the Monkey Bay and let myself be talked into a French Sauvignon Blanc which the young man assured me was “just as good.” I opened it the other night and it was an improvement over the TJs, but it was still sharp. More acidic than under-ripe, but still a bit on the sharp side.

Now I’m back to Monkey Bay and am looking at the zinfandel I bought at the urging of the same young man. “You’ll love it, ” he assured me. Yeah, well I’ll be the judge of that. And if I don’t, I can always mix it with some of the left over French Sauvignon Blanc. Or I can just pour it all down the sink and go back to drinking what I know!

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Rug Sale at Macy’s

Ever since I dumped that cup of coffee (with cream) on my dining room rug, I’ve been thinking it’s time for a new rug. I don’t think that curdled-cream smell will ever entirely dissipate.

The more I look at it, the more I wonder why I got that rug in the first place — it doesn’t match anything else. My curtains have a dark green background with lighter green leaves and dusty rose-fading-to-beige flowers. The dining room chairs are the  same colors in a small pattern.  Why I thought a  black and burgundy rug would work, I have no idea. Perhaps because it reminded me of a rug at home when I was growing up.

Come spend your money at macy's rug sale!

Come spend your money at macy’s rug sale!

In any case, I find myself looking askance at that rug and wishing for something lighter and prettier. Last week’s paper had a full-page Macy’s ad touting “Huge Rug Sale! 60% off! Come and bring your measurements, fabric swatches and designs.” Hmmm… maybe I should check it out.

So Saturday (a day I promised myself I would never go shopping once I retired), I hied myself over to Macy’s Home Store and found my way to the “Rug Gallery.”  In addition to hundreds of rugs suspended from racks, the floor had pallets piled with more.

The first one I looked at was $899.99. Okay — 60% of $900 is  $540, so the rug would be $360. Still seemed like a lot. I flipped back several of them, enjoying the variety of color and designs, although none appealed to me.

I then looked at the hanging rugs — a little larger and definitely pricier. Wool and silk. A salesman sidled up to me. “Can I help you find something?”

“I’m looking for something  in shades of green for the dining room.”

“These rugs that are hanging have to be ordered. They aren’t in stock. BUT,” he added, “today they’re 10% off.”

“I thought they were on sale for 60% off.”

“Oh, that’s the rugs on the floor,” he said, motioning to the rugs on the pallets. He picked up the tag of the closest hanging rug. “This one you were admiring would be $2,700.” Call me crazy, but spending nearly $3,000 for a rug you are going to walk on, drop food on, the cats are going to sleep on (or worse) just doesn’t work in my world. “Plus delivery,” he added as I just stood there gaping at him.

Piles of rugs -- all at 60% off. And no delivery fee!

Piles of rugs — all at 60% off. And no delivery fee!

“Uh, so I’d better stick to the rugs on the floor.” I motioned to the green and beige one which was in an unattractive modern pattern, but the colors were right. “Let’s see, with 60% off, this one would be about $360, right?”

“Oh no. The price marked is the sale price.”

Yikes! I am way out of my league. I will not be buying a rug from Macy’s. I tell him I’ll think about it (yeah, right), he hands me his card (which will be deposited in the nearest trash can) and I stroll back toward the door, trying to look like someone who could actually buy a $3,000 rug if she really wanted to.

But wait – there’s more!  I’m passing the linens.  I have a weakness for nice sheets. I pause at a display of 800-thread-count sheets and admire a white-on-white stripe. Amazingly, they are sold singly — not in the usual set of two sheets and two pillowcases. You hardly ever see that anymore. Idly, I check the price. $370. WHAT? Three hundred and seventy bucks for a sheet? What are those 800 threads made of anyway? Silk spun by the Empress’s pet worms which she hand feeds with imported mulberry leaves? And of course, you can’t have just one sheet, so that’s $740 for a pair. I pick up the package of pillow cases, bracing myself for a shock. $175. Surely the decimal point is in the wrong place. I rub my eyes and look again. Un-believ-able. So now we’ve racked up $915, right? Plus tax. So right about $1,000. For sheets. To sleep on. At night. In the dark.

A pretty, young saleslady approaches. “May I help you with something?” Ah, yeah, do you have a finance department? Could I take out a loan and pay these off over, say, a year?

“No,” I return her smile. “I’m just passing through.” Or passing out — not sure which. I resume my leisurely stroll toward the exit, still trying to look like someone who could drop thousands of dollars on textiles to walk on and sleep on and still have enough money to buy groceries.

This morning I looked again at the dining room rug. I’m liking it better all the time.

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Could it be a girl ??

I know I’m not the only person on the planet who names my cars. In fact, I’m willing to bet a lot of people do — probably more women than men.

My first car, a little blue Renault, I named Ozzie. No idea why — it just looked like an Ozzie.

My next car was a red Studebaker Hawk when I was in the Foreign Service in Pretoria, South Africa. One of the Foreign Service officers was leaving and sold it at a price I could afford. The car came pre-named: The Sexy Red Flash. So Flash it was.

The Sexy Red Flash

The Sexy Red Flash

In London I got a second-hand Peugeot and named it Scout because it was a trusty little guy who accompanied me on all kinds of adventures into uncharted waters — and meadows and villages.

When I got home to California several years later, I bought a second-hand Volkswagen squareback (fancy name for little station wagon) which I named Jeremy Spencer after two of my favorite Englishmen: Jeremy Brett, an actor, and Spencer for Winston Spencer Churchill. It was a German car, but nevertheless, the English name seemed right.

And on and on. And now, three months after I’ve bought a cute little sparkly Ford Escape, I’m still casting about for a name! After I’d bought it and the dealer had done all their little last-minute things like detailing it (well, they called it detailing, I call it running it through the car wash), and filling it with gas, the salesman took me outside, handed over the keys and said, “Here she is.”

Looks a lot more sparkly in person

Looks a lot more sparkly in person

“She?” I asked. “It’s a girl?”

He looked nonplussed. “Ah, I don’t exactly know. I just thought it was a girl.”

“All my cars have been boys.”


We stood and looked at each other for a moment and then at the car, then back at each other. He shrugged.

“I just never thought of a car as a girl,” I said. He nodded mutely. Obviously, that was not a question that was going to be settled that day.

And so it is, three months gone, and I’ve still not found the right name. Several people suggested Scout Junior, in honor of my last car, a Ford Explorer named Scout that I absolutely loved. But that would make three Scouts and somehow it just doesn’t seem right. This little guy deserves his very own name, but I’m starting to get desperate — all my cars have had names. Even the Toyota Rav4 which I loathed, had a name. I knew almost from the beginning that I wasn’t going to keep it, but told Phyllis Palmer that I was just looking after it until its rightful owner came along. “Oh,” she said, “it’s a foster-car.” So it became Foster.

Yesterday it occurred to me that perhaps I haven’t been able to find a name that fits because maybe — is it possible? — could this be a girl??

Several girls names immediately presented themselves: Veronica, Felicia, Amanda, Rosalind. I rejected them all. Samantha, I’m thinking now. It could be Samantha. Miranda — how about Miranda. I had an aunt by that name and it’s a Shakespearean name. Hmmm…

Every time I get in him (her?) I start reciting names out loud, waiting for the one that clicks. So far, no clicks. I’ll keep trying, and I’ll let you know. Maybe you have a good car name?


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Those dratted 45 Seconds !

Has this ever happened to you? You’re off to run errands — you get in the car, and realize you have forgotten (fill in the blank: shopping list, coupons, sunglasses, water …). Unless you’re super-organized, you have done that. And if you never have, please don’t tell me!

the nearly-forgotten, all-important bottle of cold water.

So the other day, I got in the car, backed out of the garage, reached for my water bottle and … no water. Now this is the desert and September is still plenty hot, so I don’t go anywhere without a bottle of water. So, I stop the car and get out and go back to the house, unlock the steel security door and then the wood door, go inside and snag the water, go back out locking both doors and then unlocking the car which I’d locked out of force of habit. The whole exercise was less than a minute — let’s call it 45 seconds. How much difference can 45 seconds make?

Two blocks later I turn the corner just as the school bell rings and the door burst open at the elementary school, unleashing a torrent of kids. The kids have enough sense not to run into the street, but the parents are another matter making illegal U-turns, double parking, stopping in the middle of the street and motioning to their kid to run across to them, and otherwise doing everything possible to snarl traffic. The flashing sign says “15 miles an hour.” I wish! It’s more like 15 feet an hour. Finally, I inch through and end up right behind a big yellow school bus belching exhaust fumes.

school bus

We get to the corner just as the signal turns red. The school bus, of course, can’t turn right on red, so we sit there for nearly 90 seconds (this is one of the longest signals in Las Vegas coming from a small street onto a main boulevard) until we get a green light. I whip around the dratted bus, finally seeing clear street ahead of me — but not. There is some kind of slow down, but I am now behind a panel van and can’t see what’s happened.

It turns out that what’s happened is somebody just rear-ended another car, and it’s in my lane, but of course I don’t know that because I’m behind a van. The other two lanes move forward, but not mine. After two signal cycles, I manage to change lanes and as I drive by,   I toss them a dirty look — only to realize the car in front of me is stopped dead. I screech to a halt with maybe three inches to spare. The driver in front of me tosses me a dirty look in his rear-view mirror.

At this point I’m thinking I should just turn around and go home, but my $10 free merchandise coupon expires today and I desperately need some new socks. I’m finally free of the school zone, the van, the accident and now it’s a straight shot to Kohl’s. I know what I want and where to get it, so I should be able to get in and out quickly. And I do! Well, almost. I snag a package of athletic socks which are $13.50 — perfect.

So I get to the cash register. There are three registers open and only two people in line. I get there at the same time as another lady — we glance at each other and then I step back and let her go ahead — she only has one item, a coffee pot.

But it isn’t smooth sailing. Why did I think it would be? Cashier #3 closes for her break.  Well, still two cashiers so it can’t take that long. The next person in line has a huge stack of shirts and shoes and several coupons. She’s just ready to pay when the cashier says “would you like to open a Kohl’s account today? It would save you 20%.” Oh, merciful heavens. They go on and on — she’s not sure; she wants to know how much 20% would come to; she already has so many accounts; what would her husband say…

At last cashier #2 is free and the lady in front of me — the one who has just the coffee pot — steps up and explains that this is an exchange. The cashier rings it up at $15.30. “But when I bought it before, it was only $13.50. I shouldn’t have to pay the difference.” The cashier scans something, pulls out an ad and tells her the sale price has expired. She isn’t going to let it go. He finally calls for a manager. At least I’m standing there with a package of socks and not a quart of ice cream! I have now been standing in line for about 8 minutes. All because I went back to get a bottle of water!

Cashier #1 is now done with the lady who finally declined to open the credit card and I step up. With my coupon, it comes to $3.50 plus tax. I have money in my hand when he says, “Oh, wait, that’s not right.” Noooo!!! It’s a good thing I’m holding a package of socks and not an axe or machete because I am very close to a homicidal rage. “Here,” he says, swiping something across the scanner. “It’s $2.80.” “How did that happen?” I ask. “I gave you the 20% off family and friends discount.” It saved me a whole 70 cents — the best thing that’s happened to me all day.

I plunk down my money and head, gratefully, for home. I catch all the green lights, take a quick jog over the freeway (which is what I should have done on the outbound trip) and am home, safe and sound with my new socks in just over an hour. A trip that should have taken 30 minutes — 40, tops — ate up all that extra time just because I went back to get my bottle of water.

And the worst part? As I get out of the car, I realize I never even took the top off the water bottle.



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One cat is not enough …

… but two are way too many. Actually, this was originally said about children, but since I have four cats, I think this is applicable.

People who don’t have cats have some odd ideas — like they’re aloof, not affectionate and want only to be left alone. Well, let me disabuse you of this idea — first of all, meet my two-bodied cat. WHAT? You’ve never heard of a two-bodied cat? Well undoubtedly you’ve heard of a two-headed animal! Sure — you’ve seen them in The Enquirer when you’re standing in the check-out line. There are two-headed goats and dogs and even kittens, so why not an animal with one head and two bodies. Seen here is the Smokey cat with the Blackjack appendage.

Yes! It's the rare two-bodied cat -- a cat with one head and ... oh, wait, maybe not.

Yes! It’s the rare two-bodied cat — a cat with one head and … oh, wait, maybe not.

Oh, wait — it’s not really a two-bodied cat — it’s two cats who specialize in “synchronized sleeping.” But they don’t sleep all the time — they just get in their normal 16-18 hours a day. After all, it can be exhausting being a cat.

After hours of exhausting practice, Smokey and Blackjack have finally perfected "synchronized sleeping." They are hoping this will be considered for the 2018 Olympics. In the meantime, they practice as often as possible.

After hours of exhausting practice, Smokey and Blackjack have finally perfected “synchronized sleeping.” They are hoping this will be considered for the 2018 Olympics. In the meantime, they practice as often as possible.

There’s Paddy O’Cat who has learned to sleep wherever  he happens to be when the sandman strikes. Yes, he could possibly stagger another few feet to a chair, but that Persian rug will have to do.

Paddy has learned to grab a few hours' nap wherever he happens to be. It's not easy being a cat, you know!

Paddy has learned to grab a few hours’ nap wherever he happens to be. It’s not easy being a cat, you know!








And LopEar who proves that there is still a use for phone books in this world. They make the perfect cat pillow.

Although phone books are not used much any more,  they make the perfect pillow for a big cat.

Although phone books are not used much any more, they make the perfect pillow for a big cat.

Lop Ear has also learned the joy of sleeping outdoors, while Smokey prefers the bed. The trouble with sleeping on the bed is that someone is always coming in and flipping on the light! Honestly, how’s a cat supposed to get her quota of sleep with all that going on?

Will someone please turn out the flippin' light? I'm trying to catch a little snooze here!

Will someone please turn out the flippin’ light? I’m trying to catch a little snooze here!

So I hope you have learned that cats are wonderful companions — full of affection and joyously playful. Oh, wait … maybe I have that all wrong.

I think I’d better go sleep on it.




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September 11

September 11 has a different meaning for me than for a lot of people. It was my dad’s birthday. He would have been 114 this year — not a fate that I would wish on anyone. I’m sure that for many of us 9/11 has a different meaning than the one most people think of. This is somebody’s wedding anniversary, birth of their child, the day they started their first job or some other significant event. Disaster isn’t necessarily the first thing that comes to our minds.

However, it was and always will be a day of mourning in the minds of most Americans — a day of terrible loss and tragedy.

I was working at the U.S. Attorney’s Office at the time — I was Victim-Witness Coordinator and my job was to help people who were victims of crimes and to assist witnesses who had been subpoenaed to come to court. It was a job of mostly helping people and I thoroughly enjoyed it.

And it was because of my job that one day over a year after 9/11/2001 I received a phone call from our main office in Washington with an unusual request.

“Robin,” our national coordinator asked, “would you be willing to assist with notifying victims of the World Trade Center tragedy about the trial of the defendant?”

“Uh, like what do you mean, exactly?”

“Well, after the bombing of the federal building in Oklahoma, relatives of the victims complained that the federal government did not keep them informed about the progress of the case. We’re trying to be proactive and let the relatives of the victims know as much as we can.”

“So I would be passing on information and updates?”

“No, no, nothing like that. What we have is names of people whose relatives died in the World Trade Center. You would call and see if they want to be kept appraised of the progress of the trial.”

“Who is being tried?”

“The government has identified one defendant — Khalid Shaikh Mohammed*– who helped to plan the attack.  All we want to know from the families is if they want to be put on the witness notification list and to verify their address and phone number. (This is in the days before e-mails and texts.) You know that ordinarily the Victim-Witness Coordinators in New York would do this, but there are too many people to call. We’re asking Coordinators in other parts of the country to help out.”

“Listen, let me ask my boss and get back to you.” It sounded like a pretty major task. I went to the office next door where Vickie, my fellow Victim-Witness Coordinator and partner-in-crime as we liked to call ourselves, was finishing up a phone call.

“Listen to this,” I said as I related the gist of the phone call from Washington.

“We’d have to ask Kurt,” (our supervisor). “It could be pretty time-consuming. Did they give you a time-frame?”

“Uh, no.”

“How many people would we be calling?” Vickie was always the practical one.

“I guess it depends on how many people pitch in to help out.”

After some discussion and clearance from the boss, I called Washington back and told them Vickie and I would do it. They sent us a list of about 100 names and we divided it up.

It was with some trepidation that I made the first call. The response was one of disbelief followed by a lot of questions. Most of the people I talked to were glad that somebody in the nameless/faceless government actually was reaching out to them. Some of the people wanted to talk; many of them had questions; some of the them cried, but they all thanked me for calling.

We took it slow, Vickie and me, fitting the calls in around our regular work, and doing only a few a day. The emotions could be pretty stressful — on both ends of the line. Two calls in particular remain with me today. The first was to a woman with a distinctly middle-Eastern name. I didn’t know how she would feel about our country prosecuting someone who could possibly be her relative.

“What do you mean? Who is this Khalid Mohammed?” she asked in heavily accented English.

“He is charged with plotting to fly the planes into the World Trade Center,” I told her. “The government plans to put him on trial.”

“No trial! No trial!” she shot back, her voice rising. Oh boy, I thought — this is going to be messy. “Stoning! Stoning!” Her voice was harsh and then she started to sob.

“Ma’am, we don’t stone people in this country.”

“He should be stoned,” she said again in a voice I could barely hear. I heard a conversation in the background and then a softer, younger voice came on the line.

“This is Adiba’s * daughter. You must understand, my mother is very emotional. My brother was killed on 9/11.”

“I’m so sorry. I can certainly understand how she feels. I’m very sorry about your brother.” I wanted to say, but didn’t, that if I had my way, Khalid Mohammed would be taken to Ground Zero and publicly stoned.

The other call that I remember was a woman whose husband had been killed. “It’s been over a year,” she said, “but I still wait for him to come home. I’ll be fixing dinner, and glance out the kitchen window and for a split second I expect to see him come up the walk.” Her voice got very soft. “Then I remember.”

It took me a minute to get past the lump in my throat. “I’m sorry about your husband,” I told her. “I’m sorry.” I was saying that a lot these days.

I said there were two calls that stood out in my mind, but really there were three. The last one was to a man. When he answered the phone, I told him who I was and then said, “I’m calling about Franklin Abernathy.” *

“This is Franklin.” I looked at my paper. Franklin Abernathy was listed as the victim who had been killed.

“You’re alive?” I said rather stupidly.

“Yes, I am.”

“Wow!” I said. “That is good news! That’s great!”

I explained briefly why I had been calling and he said, “Well, you don’t have to notify anybody about me. I’m right here.”

“Vickie!” I yelled as soon as I got off the phone. “I got one! I found someone who is alive!” You would think I had dug him out of the rubble myself. “He’s actually alive!” I said racing into her office and waving the paper.

We sat and looked at the paper together. “That’s good,” Vickie said. “That’s really good.”

“Damn straight.” After all the days of hearing sad stories, heartbroken sobs and going home feeling totally drained, it was beyond wonderful to have a beam of sunlight shine down.

For all the ones who had their lives shattered that day, there will never be enough tears to assuage that hurt. But today I’m going to give thanks for the ones like Frank Abernathy and hope that they are celebrating the anniversary of the day they didn’t die.

* After all these years, I don’t remember the actual names.







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The Fast Food Shuffle

It was Sunday night and I never make dinner on Sunday night. I usually have a big bowl of popcorn and glass of cold milk. (Okay, right here let’s take time out to tell what we all drink with popcorn — and I know everyone goes for something different.)

It might have started back in college when the dining hall was closed Sunday night. They fed us the main meal at noon and then we got a sack lunch for evening. It was always the same — a sandwich of indeterminable meat-like substance which my roommate, Ruth, called “mousemeat,” an apple and a little bag of chips. The counter in the student union building did a big business Sunday evenings. But I digress …

popcorn bowl
A nice big bowl of hot buttered popcorn! My normal Sunday night dinner.

For some reason this Sunday I didn’t actually have lunch. When I got home from church I just wasn’t hungry. It might have something to do with the half a pistachio muffin, the slice of almond ring and the oatmeal, cranberry, raisin cookie that I scarfed down during our adult Sunday School class. (Well, actually, two oatmeal cookies — but they were organic so that makes it okay. And I only ate the second one because it was the only one left, and you can’t keep just one cookie for next week …) So when I got home I just grabbed a couple handfuls of sunflower seeds and called it good.

I made it down to the pottery studio for a couple of hours — and when I got home about 5:00 decided that I was hungry. I remembered that I had a coupon for a free milk shake from Del Taco which was only good for Labor Day weekend. It was free with a purchase of $3 or more. Hmmm… well, I guess I could force myself to get a cheeseburger to go with the shake even though that would be a knockout combination of calories, carbohydrates and cholesterol (the deadly three). But, what the heck — I’d hardly had any lunch. Oh, except an ice cream bar — forgot about that.

I was still wearing my “clay clothes” so wasn’t fit to go inside and I hate using a coupon at the drive-thru because they never get it right and there’s a big hassle at the window, but I wasn’t about to get cleaned up just to go to Del Taco, so on to the drive-thru.

del taco logo

Now has this ever happened to you? I’m approaching Del Taco; I can see that there are no cars in line and just as I pull into the parking lot, two cars come from the other direction and slip in right in front of me! Dang! So now I’m back of somebody who is apparently ordering a six course dinner for a houseful of dinner guests. He’s finally finished and the next car pulls up and the driver goes through some elaborate ordering ritual, consulting the other three people in the car who obviously have never been here before and apparently need an explanation for everything on the menu. But at last they place an order and move on.

When I get to the window I tell the girl I want a Double Del Burger ($3.09) and then explain I have a coupon for a free shake. “Oh, our ice cream machine is broken. We can’t do shakes.” Now what?

“When will it be fixed?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Okay,” I tell her. “I have a coupon for a free shake that is only good this weekend. What do you suggest?”

“I don’t know.”

Her voice sounds small and uncertain. This is evidently the first time she has encountered this problem. I’m now trying to figure out my best bet.

“Is there another Del Taco nearby?” I mouth the answer with her: “I don’t know.”

“All right,” I tell her. “Just cancel my burger.”

“You don’t want the burger?”

“No. If I can’t use the coupon for the free shake, I don’t want the burger, either.” it’s not that I wanted a burger in the first place, but a shake and a burrito didn’t sound right.

By this time the cars in front of me have gotten their food and left and I just sail on through. Now I’m trying to figure out what to do for dinner. Now I actually DO want a burger. WAIT!  I remember that I have a coupon from Burger King for a free Whopper!

At the stop light I fish the coupon out of my purse. Sure enough, it is a coupon for a free Whopper with the purchase of a regular drink and fries. Well, drat, now I’m going to have to eat french fries, too. Burger King is a couple of miles in the other direction, so I make a U-turn on head back.

At the Burger King there is only one car ahead of me and they move on quickly. The voice comes over the speaker:

“I’m sorry to inform you that our broiler is out and we cannot prepare Whoppers or Whopper Juniors. Will you still be ordering?”

“No,” I tell her. “I wanted a Whopper.”

“I’m sorry.”

There is no one behind me and I back out.

“Now what?” I ask myself. The little voice inside my head — the one that makes sense that I don’t listen to all that often, says, “What about the food you have at home? The left-over roasted chicken and that corn you got on sale?”

Oh, pooh, now I have to go home and cook — or at least zap — something. And there will be no feast of calories, carbohydrates and cholesterol. I tell myself this is a good thing. Thirty minutes has elapsed since I left home on this fruitless journey and I’m not even hungry anymore.

As soon as I finish writing this, I’m going to go make a big bowl of popcorn and pour a glass of cold milk. Sunday night dinner.


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