Last night, I tore my apartment apart looking for some documents I could have sworn I put in my pink, zip-up, expandable file folder holder. Evidently, I was mistaken. As I was muttering and growling under my breath, I thought of a bag sitting next to my childhood bed with a book, some envelopes, candy, and other random things. The more I thought about it, the more I thought maybe I had shoved my documents in there. Since I needed them the next day (today), I scooped up my purse and keys and, still wearing my leotard and tights from ballet class, I drove two towns over to my parents' house.
Without any warning, I blew through the back door like a whirlwind, startling my parents and their rather vocal dog. I trotted upstairs and made a beeline for the bag. They weren't in there. I grumbled some more and peered in my closet and along my shelves before I eventually found them in my purple suit case that I had used to roll books, notebooks, and general thesis crap to and from the library in grad school.
Relieved, I made my way downstairs more sedately and chatted with my parents briefly. Mom said she had a couple things for me in the van - a cookbook to return to one of my coworkers and a pair of sandals. She and I wear the same size shoe, but her feet need more comfort in life than mine. For goodness sake, I shove mine into pointe shoes once a week, not that I'm any good. (Oh my word, check out the short video below to see what I WISH I could do!)
Anyway, she bought these sandals, thinking they would work for her feet but, after one wear, changed her mind. So, last night, she bequeathed them to me. Who am I to turn down free shoes? I accepted them sight unseen. She pulled out her key fob and zapped the van open for me. I grabbed the bag with the book and sandals and skedaddled back home.
After a long day in not-too-terribly-high heels, my feet were killing me when I came home. Some days I can wear those particular heels all day and be fine and dandy. Other days, I want to chop my feet off and never walk again. I was somewhere in the middle. I was in a post-work daze, verging on a food-coma, flopped on the couch when I remembered the beans.
We are throwing a retirement party at work, tomorrow, for a woman who has been with the company for 28 of its 30 years running. When asked what she wanted for catering, she said, "Steak and lobster!" then settled on Q'Doba. We'll have a taco bar, chips and salsa, sour cream and guacamole, and a big cake from Sandra Kay. Some people got to talking and decided we ought to bring rice and beans to go with the taco bar. Since I'm in charge of the party, I said that sounded like a great idea and made sure I got volunteered for the refried beans. They way they were talking about black bean recipes had me worried about doing it right. I was assured that all I had to do was get a giant can of frijoles and dump it in a crock pot. That's good, because I've been wanting to open my crock pot. The box is still sealed. It's a red and black crock pot. It'll go great with my red and black Kitchenaid mixer I don't have yet.
So, as I was slumped over on the couch, thinking it'd be a darn shame to move, I remembered the frijoles. Well, shoot.
I had already changed into blue jeans and I thought this would be a good time to try out the new sandals. I slipped them on, carried my crock pot out to the car for tomorrow, and drove to the grocery store. I figured as long as I was there, I'd pick up some lemons, a spray bottle, and some vinegar. Okay, and a package of Reese's dark chocolate peanut butter cups. Yes, that was the first thing on my mental list.
I was able to find the beans, though the cans weren't as large as I envisioned, so I bought four. Hopefully that'll be enough. I was tempted to buy beano to sneak into the crock pot.
I found the lemons and the candy, but the vinegar was giving me some problems. I hate vinegar. I absolutely CANNOT stand the smell of it. I have been reading some spring cleaning tips, though, and vinegar seems to work pretty darn well on EVERYTHING. Lemons, too. So, I decided to overcome my prejudice of the foul liquid and try it out, even if it means shoving scented cotton balls up my nose. (I hope it doesn't come to that.)
Because of my prejudice against vinegar, I had no idea where to find it in a grocery store. I had only ever seen it used for cleaning, so I hit the laundry aisle first, followed immediately by the cleaners and mops. No luck. I thought I remembered Mom keeping some next to the vegetable oil, so I checked the baking aisle, as well.
I had noticed, when I first put my sandals on, that they seemed to poof a little under the arch of my foot when I stepped down. I didn't pay it much mind. As I was wandering aimlessly up and down the aisles at the grocery store looking for vinegar, I noticed that the little poof made a farting sound, every step I took.
So, I walked up the laundry aisle - fart...fart...fart - down the cleaning aisle - fart...fart...fart - and up the baking aisle - fart...fart...fart........fart. I walked past a middle aged man - fart...fart...fart - he looked askance at me. I veered down another aisle - fart...fa- and tried to tiptoe surreptitiously past a couple, hoping it didn't look like I was tiptoeing. They looked at my funny, so I tiptoed faster, accidentally sandal-farting here and there along the way, hoping they didn't see the four huge cans of beans in my basket.
I was getting pretty frustrated over the vinegar and the sandal-farts. I wanted to ask a worker for help, but every time I spied one, he or she was walking away from me and I felt too awkward sandal-fart-running over. Good God, what if they got louder? Finally, as I was standing, clueless, between the bakery aisle and the seafood counter, a really cute worker walked in my general direction. I flagged him down and asked if the store carried vinegar.
He looked at me like I was nuts. Of course, they carry vinegar, and he walked two aisles over to the ketchup and barbecue sauce section, while I awkwardly tip-toed on the sides of my feet behind him, hoping to God above that my shoes wouldn't fart in his presence. Ketchup, barbecue, vinegar...who knew? I learn something new every day.
I snagged the smallest and cheapest bottle of Spartan vinegar I could find, tossed it in my basket and took off for the cash register. Fart...fart...fart...tiptoeing past people...fart...fart...fart all the way into line, where I grabbed my Reese's.
I paid, then sandal-farted my way back to my car. As soon as I got home, I kicked them off and swore them to the next yard sale.
Sorry, Mom.
Unrelated, but look at this!