Today I was having a pretty good day. My husband even cleaned the bathroom. The one I'd been avoiding all week after having cleaned the other two. I read for awhile this afternoon. I laid on the couch. I decided it'd be nice to take the kids to a movie.
Wrong.
First because our one and only theatre in town is a crap shoot when it comes to attendance, service and so on, I bought our tickets on-line. I attempted to do this about an hour before the movie was scheduled to begin. Then I tried to print off our ticket-thing. I spent the next half an hour fighting with my printer and becoming increasingly bitchy. Finally emailed the ticket confirmation elsewhere to print it off. Which meant a detour on the way to the movies and we were running out of time. And because of the historically slow moving staff and business of this solitary source of entertainment here in the 'Jaw, I was panicking. My husband was not. This is generally the course of affairs in our world.
Long story short, we made it on time. I shooed Ryan and the kids into the theatre to get our seats and I got in line for food. This is where the rage overtook me, momentarily at least. The couple in front of me had two little girls with them. Everyone was deciding what they wanted to get. Turns out their little girls wanted frozen yogurt. Okay. However despite the five plus minutes they had at least spent in line, this frozen yogurt business appeared to be all too much. It was their turn to order and the efficient (for real) worker was attempting to take their order and asked twice what size of yogurts they wanted. This led stunned mommy to walk over the yogurt to peruse the flavours. Umm, dumb ass, she just needs to know the size so she can punch it into the till so you can pay and then she'll get you THE FUCKING YOGURT. Finally the efficient worker says, politely, although I could hear the frustration there, "I just need to know what size". Stunned mommy: "Oh, small". She said this with an air of obviousness. It was then I literally considered homicide with my bare hands.
All's well that end's well though. I made it into the theatre just in time to see the end of the very last preview (which kind of sucks because I love previews). Got everyone all settled and began watching 'Despicable Me'. Decided early on I liked this movie. Then genetics got me.
What do genetics have to do with any of this? My Grandma is a serial choker. Like for the love of God and all that's holy there's nary a meal that passes without her choking, coughing and sputtering and continuing to eat and talk through it all. It appears that I have inherited this most attractive trait. One tiny little sliver of a popcorn kernel apparently went somewhere it shouldn't and out of the theatre I went. I refuse to hack up a lung right there in front of everyone. So it was in a bathroom stall that I coughed and carried on until I felt it was safe to return. Eyes watering, nose running, throat ravaged. Which is why after the movie, when we went for supper, I choked. Again. On my burger. This is an outdoor eating establishment so I had to go sit in our vehicle so as not to disgust the other patrons. So annoying. And gross. And embarrassing.
I'm not sure if I've mentioned it before but I've genetically been beaten with the wrong end of the stick. Members of my immediate and extended family are musically inclined, to say the least. They are artists; and excellent ones at that. They can see without the aid of corrective lenses.
Me? I am blind as a bat. I suffer from seasonal allergies, which to my knowledge, no one else in my family does. I love music but am about as 'inclined' as Cameron Diaz's character in 'My Best Friend's Wedding'. I like to doodle but am by no means an artist. I choke, unnecessarily, a lot.
But, I always know what I want when I get to the front of the line at the theater and order in an organized, efficient, and timely manner.
So there.
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