UPDATE: Dan just called me and said, "What were you doing at the Big M?" Me: "When?" Dan: "When you had to exchange some meat." Seriously? SERIOUSLY?? Apparently, one of his co-workers was on a test-drive and stopped in at the store because he saw the Douche in the parking lot and witnessed the whole ordeal.
It happened again.
I went to the little local grocery store (the Big M) and just happened, for the umpteenth time, to make a complete jackass out of myself.
I may have even surpassed The Great Ring Tone Incident of earlier this summer. (You can read all about my previous shame here... I can't even beGIN to tell you how much I wish this hadn't happened: http://deathbycupcakes01.blogspot.com/2011/07/story-of-my-life-in-spades.html)
So, I decided to make crock pot chicken fajitas for dinner. Since the only ingredient I actually had in my house was the crock pot, this forced me to run to the store (which, since moving here, has been my least favorite thing to do, because every time I walk through the doors of the Big M I enter an alternate universe where I'm always the biggest asshole in the room. I hate that).
Also? (This has nothing to do with anything, other than that it's another reason I hate leaving the house right now) Dan has been driving my car lately because he has to drive an hour each way to coach Pee Wee football after work and my little HHR gets good mileage, which forces ME to drive the Blue Douche-Mobile, (so called because it's a pimped out blue truck with *choke* *shudder* *cringe* ghost flames on the hood). He has fancy lights on the back, a specialized hood, and did something to the intake (no, I don't know what that is... I'm just repeating what I've been told) so that it's ridiculously loud. (My husband went through his second teen-hood recently. This is how it evolved. I almost think an affair with a bimbo might have been a little more acceptable. And probably cheaper. And less permanent. And I wouldn't have had to drive her when he borrowed my car.) Basically, it screams, "Look at me! I'm an asshole!"
So yeah... there was that.
My desire for chicken fajitas eventually outweighed my hatred of the Big M and the Douche-Mobile, so I girded up my loins and did what needed to be done.
Everything went smoothly, for once. I was feeling mighty cocky when I exited the market and climbed back into the truck, most likely making every teen-age boy in the parking lot green with envy. ("Dude... look at her rad truck!" "Dude! Bitchen, right?" "Killer!" )
*Authors note: The teen-age boys in my head all live in California, circa 1980-ish. (In case there was some confusion as to why they sounded like they were from Ridgemont High.)
When I got home, I hauled my purchases up the stairs, got out the crock pot, and started throwing together the ingredients for dinner. When I grabbed the two packages of chicken that I'd bought, I just happened to look at the wrapping as I was grabbing the knife to slice it open (I hate touching meat with my hands... I use a nifty knife-fork combo for meat retrieval to avoid physical contact at all costs). And that's when I saw, on the packing lable: Cod Fillets.
*sound of brakes squealing*
I looked at the other package...
Are you FREAKING kidding me?
How in the HELL did I think that two packages of cod fillets were chicken breasts?
I have to go back to the store...
Oh GOD, the HUMANITY!
I stood there for a minute staring at $12.00 of meat, wondering if there was any way that I could make Dan believe it was chicken. If I'd thought for one second that Dan would eat a fajita made with fish, I would have done it, even though I hate fish. I would have eaten that damn, miserable cod for a week to avoid doing what I knew I needed to do: Go back to the Big M and confess to the miserable old bitch at the check out that I had, indeed, fulfilled all of her previous assumptions of me and was, also indeed, a complete moron.
I finally forced myself to do the inevitable. I put on a cap and dark sunglasses (not that there is one single person in this town, or even this whole county, that knows me, but it made me feel a little better), got back into the Douche, drove back to the market, slunk back inside, approached the cashier, explained my idiocy, suffered through her look of incredulous disbelief which turned into a smirk of superiority (because I'm pretty sure she'd never mistaken fish for chicken breast), which led to the manager being summoned (because "we don't usually do exchanges on meat"), which eventually resulted in me walking out of the store with two packages of chicken breast and no dignity.
I am now licking my wounds and contemplating my next move.