Every spring and every fall, the Pentecostal Holiness Church in Falcon (the little town I work in) has a barbecue chicken plate fundraiser. They have artfully perfected the preparation of the yardbird. On each plate, they put a half of a chicken, barbecued of course, some nice green beans, potatoes, a roll, and dessert. A delicious bargain at $6. Each time they have the fundraiser, I buy more and more plates for friends, neighbors, and family members because as far as I am concerned, good food for a good cause is a good thing.
Last week, I pre-ordered 4 plates. I’m spending the weekend with my parents and so I know that the grocery offering will be appreciated. This morning, I talked to some friends about the dinner and by 5:00, when I headed home from work, I had called and increased my order to 12 plates.
My lovely friend Barbara (wave to the crowd, B!) was meeting me at my house to cut my hair at 5:30 and so I was in a rush when I left work. I ran into the kitchen at the church to grab my 12 plates. They were ready. I handed them a check. They handed me the bags. I smiled at the pastor’s wife, waved at the Sunday school secretary, grabbed my three bags full of chicken, and ran out the door. I came home, set the bags on the counter, and went out onto the back porch for Barbara to cut my hair. Life was good.
A few minutes after 6, my friends and I came into the kitchen to divvy up the plates. I began opening bags and when all of the bags were unloaded, I only had 9 plates. Stop. Rewind. Scroll up and check my order. I ordered 12. I paid for 12. I received 9. *SIGH*
Did I mention that I live 18.5 miles from Falcon?
I called the church and told them of the mistake. They asked if I’d like to come pick up the 3 stragglers. Did I mention that I live 18.5 miles from Falcon? I told the pastor’s wife, “No, thanks. I’ll just get a refund for those 3 on Monday.” The sweet lady, bless her pea-pickin’ heart, had already grabbed a deacon, shoved 3 plates in his hands and told him my exit number. (I live two miles off of I-95.)
On my way up to the Waffle House to meet the deacon who was delivering the chicken, I called my Dad and said, “Daddy, how bad do you really want this chicken?” I told him what had happened. He laughed for a moment and then got serious. “You’d better bring me my chicken! I’ve been lookin’ forward to that chicken!” Now, happily, his four chicken plates are in my icebox. But I’m so disgusted with chicken that I’m seriously thinking about having cereal for supper…
On a more serious note, this week, I’m driving my Mom’s stylish PT Cruiser. Why? Because my car’s in the shop. About 2,000 miles ago, my service engine light came on. The car didn’t seem to be doing anything odd, so I ignored the little red light. Monday, however, we put Little Goldie into the car hospital. Today–before the great chicken mixup–I got the diagnosis on my car.
Are you ready for this?
For the 2nd time in less than 6 months, squirrels (those dirty little rats!) gnawed through my fuel line. Squirrels! Gnawed through my fuel line! *insert furious scream here* Not only that, but the mechanic says that within 12 months, I should expect major engine repairs. *SIGH*
What a day! Cheerios anyone?