I'm wiped out. Long day at work, picking the kids up, rushing about. Next week I'm off to London for work (which should be cool if the volcano doesn't decide to send a new flight-canceling plume out.) My calendar is full, packed to be honest. And now people are scheduling meetings over my lunch. I'm just hoping when I get on that flight on Saturday I'm not seated next to someone who feels I am their new best friend. Or a child. Yeah, I can be a snob like that even when I have two of my own. Bitchy, right?
Anyhow, I got home and started to make dinner. Then I stopped. I couldn't do it. I needed to order take out. Let someone else bring a hot, delicious dinner right to my door. I'm lucky to live in a neighborhood with a range of delivery options, and tonight the lure of navratan korma was too strong to resist. I ordered and within an half hour our regular delivery guy was standing at my door with a brown paper sack.
When I stepped out to pay the man, the dogs tried to force their way out with me.
"Sorry," I said, "These dogs want to come out too."
He smiled. "They always have. I remember when I delivered to the side entrance," he said, talking about the entrance we used when we were still renting out the upper floor of the house living just in the lower floor.
"Yep," I agreed. "Now we get the front door."
"You still seem to have a lot of projects going on around here. You still have a lot to do. I'd bet 5 more years."
Great. Thanks. I'm just going to go eat my dinner now, and cry.
And yes, I tipped him. I mean he did just bring me dinner.
Pasta ala Fridge
3 years ago