At the end of the day I received an email from DR telling me he’d be running late because of the monstrous subway problem downtown. I stupidly volunteered to make dinner knowing I’d probably go buy a pizza anyway. He suggested fish with rice and corn… Ok, I can do that…

So I got home, changed in my comfy home clothes and started dinner… half way through it I realized we don’t have any more corn here…

Dinner is ruined…

So I spot his running shoes by the door, put them on, grab my keys and run downstairs to go to the convenient store. Once outside, I feel somewhat of a breeze.. I look down, and horrors of horrors, I’m wearing sweat pants in public… By then I’m almost inside the convenient store, so I decide to swallow my pride and go for it…

I find what I need quickly under the ever-so-bright fluorescent lights and run back to the cashier. There’s an older lady in front of me who’s poor English is clashing with the owner’s poor English… I’m about to just tell her to get the fucking DuMaurier cigarettes and move on… they’re all the same aren’t they? But no, they go on and on about different brand and she wants something different this time, blah blah blah… And then the line up behind me grows, and I’m totally feeling all the dirty stares because I’m wearing these stupid sweatpants… I quickly scan the little crowd to make sure I don’t know anyone… it’s all good.

It’s finally my turn, I quickly give her the money and she gives me my change… NO I DON’T WANT A BAG…

Ok, it’s done, I can run home…

I leave the store and walk quickly towards our front door when the landlord comes out and says he needs to talk to me… AAAARRRGH… we start talking and then he quickly realized I was the wrong tenant, he needed to talk to the guy upstairs… so I leave and make it to the door, but the key is jammed now, it won’t turn, there’s about a dozen people waiting for the streetcar all discussing my sweatpants I’m sure, I turn around and the damn streetcar just arrives, it’s full jammed pack with commuters, they’re all looking at me… I know it… they’re all saying: OPEN YOUR FUCKING DOOR SWEATPANT FREAK, GET INSIDE!!!!

And then the key works and I rush in and go finish the fucking dinner that my husband better love…

This entry was posted on Wednesday, November 18th, 2009 at 18:55 and is filed under Yup - I hate it. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.