Theft, Crowns, Crow

 

          I’m sitting down. Absolute bliss after a day that began in the kitchen at 8:30 and didn’t end until 4:00, except for a small break, of which I’ll tell you more in a minute.

          Completed: Apple cake, Brussel sprouts prepped, vegetable tray, chocolate cake, chicken pot pie with much pot washing and counter clearing in between. (Never mind the dish-gathering and present-wrapping in there somewhere.)

 

   

       Monday morning, I hit the store early, hoping to miss the craziness. It wasn’t too bad – the aisles were passable, the stock hadn’t been fully decimated. I’m always amazed that my over-flowing cart is only focused on two dinners, major afternoon snacking, and two breakfasts.

          I did have a bit of a moment, though, when I turned back from contemplating fancy sorbets to find my cart full of hard-won items was gone. I looked up and down the aisle. Nothing. I started through the store at top speed, peering up more aisles, until I realized the frozen section is at the end of the store so most people go from there to the check-out. Sure enough, there he was in line, a skinny gray-haired guy in a plaid shirt and camo pants.

 

          After all my whining, my trip to the dentist while no fun, was a roaring success.

(And yes, my cold never arrived!)

 What had me really worried was the possibility of having the tooth pulled, with all the attendant stuff that would go with that – sitting around waiting for the site to heal, prep for an implant, putting in the implant, etc, etc.

          So I now have one more crown. I could have bought a new couch or a couple of new couches with the money spent on my mouth. 

            It seemed nothing short of miraculous, considering that he drilled out the entire side
of the tooth, as though he’d taken a melon-baller and scooped out an area you could fit a grape into. And to achieve that and then shove (and I mean shove) in the crown required so much yanking and pulling and stretching of my face, I was sure I’d be able to start a new film career as a female Joker.

 

          My break today from hour after hour on my feet was another trip to the grocery store.

          I’d sent My Guy to pick up the roast I’d ordered and then checked on Monday to verify it’d be ready. I gave him a slip of paper that said “cradled beef roast” on it.

          Sure enough, he came home proudly bearing the meat, and I took one look at it, and the label said “rib roast” with no mention of cradling.

          I did not want to wrestle with trying to carve around bones. What to do?

I found my shoes and motored off to the store, muttering “One job. He had ONE job.”

          Yes, you guessed it. The butcher looked at me pityingly and pointed out that the roast was tied with string to hold it to the ribs, and yes, it was cradled, thus the string.

          So I’ll be having a little crow on the side for Christmas dinner.