one weak week

It's been an odd week for this chick, so I'll start there because it's always nice to start at the beginning. 

Monday was normal.  The hubs was sick, but everything in Kerry world was fine otherwise.

Tuesday sucked.  The munchkins and I were on the way home from the club and I got into my first car accident.  I rear-ended a woman, pretty much knocking her bumper off.  Go me.  Before I go on, everyone was fine — no need to worry or start a telethon for donations or anything.  The middle child asked if I would get a ticket, followed with the question "will we go to jail?"  So far (fingers crossed) I can say I've never spent time behind bars, but I told her we'd go to jail if we didn't behave.  The police show up and I hand over my license, registration, and expired insurance card — of course my card expired on my birthday and I hadn't put the new one in my car yet.  Awesome.  Then deputy Megan shows up, jumps out of her car asking if I want her to take the kids or if there's anything she can do — I was expecting her to say she was once a traffic cop, because as those close to her know, Megan has had every job on the planet.  By the way, I'm not exaggerating here — Megs has done everything from designing kitchens to taking newborn photos in the hospital — I never know what's next.  We will be sitting in a restaurant or something and I'll wonder aloud if the paella is any good and she will bust out with "you know, when I was Castro's personal food taster, I had great paella."  And I'm all "I didn't realize that was a job or that you'd even been to Cuba."

So, I told Megan everything was under control and she left.  I got a citation and the middle child asks if it was a ticket.  I said yes and the four year-old goes "yea!"  as if it were a prize.  Once I get home, Frugal Beth calls and tells me her mother saw me after the accident standing on the median.  Later, on Facebook another friend tells me she saw me too.  I felt like a minor celebrity.  By that night my neck and head hurt and I've been popping Motrin since.   Oh, the pic is of the car I hit, notice the bumper.  And I didn't know they still make Lancers.

Wednesday night we took the kids to see Thomas Live in New Orleans.  Driving across the Causeway, the hubs asked where I'd like to go for dinner and he suggested Chevy Chase's place.  My hubs is a very bright man.  He can do all kinds of math, knows the ins and outs of complicated computer programs, and is great at what he does.  He's not so good with names.  Make that horrible with names.  I informed him that Chevy's Tex-Mex restaurant is not Chevy Chase's place.  It is not an understatement to say he was shocked.  His reply "but it's called Chevy's…" made me question his brilliance.  I went into analogy mode –because my hubs is the king of analogies — and told him that the toilet paper brand Scott's doesn't make it automatically his.  I think he understood, but I'm still not sure.  No doubt I could not endure that conversation if it were not for medication.  This blog should be sponsored by anti-depression/anxiety meds, I'm telling you. 

We ate dinner at Chevy's (not Chevy Chase's place) and went to see the show.  Once we found our seats, I started reading the tattoos of the woman sitting in front of Andrew.  The back of her neck said Sarah.  Her hand read Ms. Pink in swirly letters and there were different sized stars going up her arm.  She turned her head to talk to the woman sitting to her left and to reveal more stars coming from below the bra area (she was wearing a very low-cut top) and going up her neck to behind her ear.  Another family shows up on their row and informs Sarah that her family is in their seats.  Color me surprised because Sarah seemed like the type who knows her way around an arena.  The show began and ten minutes in a 50something lady is asking me to move my purse from her seat and I obliged, then she says they've paid good money to be there and want to sit down.  Huh?  Are we gonna have a throw down?  I moved my purse, grams.  Grams, Gramps, and a kid sit and don't stop talking the entire time because apparently they felt the show needed to be narrated.  Intermission.  Grams tells her hubs, who is named "Dammit George" to get them drinks.  He asks what type of beverage, she replies "Dammit George, I said Cokes!"  He walks away, returns with said Cokes.  Grams says "Dammit George, I thought I told you to get cotton candy."  He walks away, then turns around, maybe 15 feet away and yells "red or blue?"  In my head, I'm thinking that it's pink and not red, but I'm not going to interject.  Grams yells "Dammit George, get the blue!"  I start to wonder if he was Dammit George as a child or if he got the pet name once he married Ms. Congeniality.  

Thursday was a day spent on the computer from morning 'til way past sundown.  There was a bit of work to be done on the ScrapFest! website, just cleaning up a couple of things that most people woudn't even notice — then I decided to make a favicon (that's the little picture you see next to a website in your address bar and in your bookmarks or favorites).  I made a pink scalloped circle with a blue fleur de lis inside, uploaded it, and put it on all the pages of the site.  When I got to the FAQs page I saw an empty page.  Somehow there was no saved version of the FAQs page, so I remade the whole thing — it was time consuming.  I fully intended to write a post Thursday night, but instead had work to do.  Gosh, I sound like a real grown up.  Ugh.

So, this has been an odd week, complete with my first ever car accident.  I know, hard to believe I haven't caused more accidents, right?  That's what I thought. 

With ScrapFest! looming I'll be quite busy for the next several weeks, but since practically all my work is either in Photoshop or the Interwebs, I'm hoping to post more since I'll be on the computer anyway.  The hubs thinks I'm on this thing a lot now — he hasn't seen anything yet.  I hope he likes the new nickname I'm giving him, "Dammit Scott!"