I used to think of myself as the ultimate multi-tasker. A handle on everything, and everything handled. And while I would love to say I am completely 100% in control of every aspect of my life, it would be a big fat lie.

When it comes to all things vehicles, there was no more important knowledge instilled from The Father. "Regular oil changes... keep an eye on the tire pressure. Always carry a set of jumper cables. Check your fluid levels. Are you listening to me? These things are vital to the life of your car." And I have always followed those principals to the T - that is until a few years ago when I seemed to have misplaced my internal mileage clock. Oh I am all about the oil changes, but were it not for The Sticker from the nice oil-changer man, I would never remember. And while some of you may be thinking, "Why doesn't The Husband handle that..." Well, he would. Were it not for my Holier-Than-Thou insistence on taking care of things myself. And - you know - it is 2007 and we don't do the traditional gender roll thing where men deal with cars while women scrub the toilets. The fact is - The Husband cleans a toilet like nobody's business, and I am fully capable of watching over The Car.

Or so I thought.

So - I noticed a low tire on The Car, and decided to stop in for a quick check at my local tire shop. And as the nice Tire Man went outside I busied myself with a couple of voice mails and notes in my calendar when he came back in with a funny look on his face. He typed a few things in to his computer and handed me a piece of paper. "I can't make you do anything. But I really can't in good conscience let you leave today without new tires. Did you know you had dry rot in the rear ones?"

I looked up from my calendar and didn't want to make eye contact - it was embarassing enough that he had to be overcome with the vinegar smell. (I will explain that later...) And now to find out I had been driving on rotting tires - I sighed deeply and dropped my head in shame. I knew the tires weren't great. But like that sour cream I found in the back my refrigerator last night, I just kept putting off the enevitable until the fermentation process had taken them beyond repair and recognition.

So what I thought would be a simple/possible tire patch turned into a $400 adventure, and very important life lesson.

Take it from me - when the sour cream goes bad, it's time to check your tires.

*The vinegar thing - I stopped by The Friend's house the other night and he insisted on giving me some of the trout he made for dinner. I declined - politely - but he insisted I take some home to try. So after the journey home The Car smelled like... trout. And in all my wisdom I filled a ramekin with vinegar and a little lemon, because that's what I do at home. I was just going to leave it in The Car for a little bit but then I must have gotten distracted by something shiny because I left it in there all night. So you can imagine my lovely surprise when I opened the door the next morning. It was like going face down in a pickle tub - only not that good. And not nearly as delicious...

I learned very early on in this game that hauling food via vehicle takes a great amount of patience and dilligence in avoiding the hazzards the road has to offer.

You know - not sure why I had to put, "via vehicle" - like I had any other options? As if I had to clarify that we stopped hauling our food via pack animal.

Anyway.

I learned the hard way - many, many times - that you just can't haul ass when you're hauling food. It will end badly.

So there I was sitting in the turn lane needing to take a left. And there was an oncoming car that was far enough away for me to turn only if I punched on the gas. And when I say punch it - I mean possible smoking tires kind of punching it. And had I punched on the gas I might have been hit in the back of the head with three dozen cupcakes. So, I waited - which even if I had not been in The Food Van, I would have waited. It was just that much of a margin call.

So the car goes by and just as I am about to turn some Ass Hat comes around behind me, cuts across the lane and takes the turn - giving me the Middle Finger Salute and hollering something in the process.

And I don't know why - but it hurt my feelings.

And I am not sure if it hurt my feelings because there I was doing my thing when he just blazes out of nowhere - impatient for no reason - and was mean to me. I didn't do anything to him.

Which gives me pause to believe that perhaps I am possibly upset about it because I didn't get do anything to him. If you are going to give me the Middle Finger Salute, at least give me the chance to do something to deserve it.

I mean - maybe that something could be like running you off the road and shoving three dozen cupcakes up your nose.

You know, something like that.

"I know it might be a lot to ask. But to keep with the overall costume theme for the party, would the two of you mind dressing up as a pinata when you deliver the food? You can say no, of course. But it would be so much fun!"

Oh, yeah. Because that is what I need.

A legitimate reason for someone to hit me with a big stick.

I've gotten a few e-mails informing me that my x-something-feeds aren't working.

God help me, I have no idea how that works or how to fix it. I am running solo with this website right now - and that's just dangerous.

Anyone familiar with this on the Moveable Type Platform?

Because I am so not familiar - to me a Feed is something you serve food at.

You see my quandry...

Busy night. Crazy, in fact. Many reservations - many not. But that's fine. It was a fantastic night.

Until about 8:00.

We had 8-top come in, and their timing was pretty bad. Not their fault. But a pre-emptive phone call would have helped.

Or, you know, a reservation.

Anyway tables were full, and most were either still dining or in the process of finishing up and convincing themselves they needed dessert.

So this group of 8 was told it will be at least 1/2 hour to 45 minutes. If they wanted to split up it would certainly be less. Their Group Leader - I will call her Brittle Betsey - replied... "What? On a Monday night at 8:00, are you kidding me?"

Yes. Yes we are kidding you. You caught us! You win the prize! It's a little game we like to play called Let's Make a Deal On Which Customer Is The First To Call Our Bluff On Wait Times.

"I know, I am sorry. It's been a crazy night for a Monday."

"Well that big group toward the back - I just saw their dinner plates being cleared. Certainly it won't be another 45 minutes for them."

"Well they are actually mulling desserts right now. And we rush no one."

Brittle Betsey folded her arms, rolled her eyes and went over to The Group to give them the down-low on the wait. No one seemed to mind, with one of them going so far as to say, "Well considering we didn't make a reservation, that's really not bad at all." I can't be certain, but I think his name tag said, "Hello my name is Chip, I am a member of MENSA."

Side Note: I was once being sarcastic (imagine) in mixed company and I jokingly said, "Oh yes, I am a card carrying member of MENSA". A lady in the room said, "Well since I am a woman I am a member of MENSA, too." She thought MENSA was... well.. menses.

You totally had to be there.

Anyway, where was I? Right, Chip. Smart one of the bunch. So the only person upset by all of this was Brittle Betsey. And do you know what she did about it? She made an excuse about using the restroom, but that woman went to that big table in the back and had the stainless steel balls to ask them how long they thought they would be.

SHE ASKED HOW LONG THEY THOUGHT THEY WOULD BE.

Fortunately the patrons were not offended by her rudeness - giving little thought to her - , nor were they worried about being in a hurry. They dismissed her as rude. They were celebrating a birthday and had no intentions of going anywhere.

I debated what to do. I mean, I have to admit that the idea of running at her full steam and screaming while waiving a spatula in the air was a vision that made me feel warm and fuzzy inside. But I went to her and said, "Excuse me, I would ask please that you not bother our seated guests."

"Oh come on. What's the big deal?"

I swear to you there is a small neon sign above our door that says 'Freaks Encouraged. Please come in.'

I know the look on my face said way more than I intended it to because Chip came over to get Betsey and tell her to sit down, apologizing to me all the way. But the damage was done. "I am sorry", I said. "It is probably best you find another place to dine. Our tables are full and we close at 9:00 tonight. I don't think we will be able to serve you."

Turning away customers is so not something I do, something I don't want to do. But oh my God I have to be honest to say I could feel my heartbeat at the tips of my fingers I was so mad. And I was so worried about making sure to keep my professionalism as not to offend anyone in the process of wanting to lunge at Betsey and take her to the ground.

I am really not prone to violence, though I do seem to express that desire a lot. So maybe I am. Maybe I need to bring this little issue up at the next MENSA meeting...

I knew when I got shocked upon exiting the vehicle that I was in for a wild ride in the store. I don't know what is is about me, but sometimes I am just electric. As in - shocking. As in - set off sparks in random places.

I would think that a cool trait were it not for all the damned pain.

I just had a few items to get - quick in, quick out - that's it. Heavy cream. Eggs. Fontina. Kosher Salt. Pickles. Bananas. Apples.

The metal handle on the dairy cooler nearly dropped me. And I even did a pre-emptive tapping of the handle to see if I would get shocked or not. When nothing happened I made the mistake of getting cocky and did a full-on hand grab of the handle and ZAP! I got shocked. It took my breath away for a minute, and I did a quick check to make sure nothing was smoking on my body. (Any excuse to say I have a smokin' bod and actually have it be true... *sigh*)

Anyway.

The eggs were pretty painless - thank God - and the Fontina made it into my cart with little fanfare. But the pickles - the pickles nearly cost me 12 jars and a call for Clean Up on Aisle 10. I reached out and tapped the shelf and all seemed fine and, you know, I grew another level of Stupid on my way from the Dairy Case because I flat out grabbed a jar of pickles and the shock was so strong that my hand jerked and I knocked the row of jars so hard that they started to tumble. I let out a small squeal (or large scream, I dunno) and the nice Stock Boy came running and helped me save what could have been a Pickle-tastrophe. Crazy thing is - in handing me the jar I intended for myself - he got shocked. His eyes got all big and bulgy and I said, "I know, right?"

He said it had been happening a lot in the store - they think it's something to do with the flooring. And that he had gotten shocked over by the carrots.

"Oh so it's bad in produce?" I asked.

"Yeah - Produce Guy nearly did a Full Gaynor by the potatoes. Did you need something from over there?"

"Apples and bananas..." I said while biting my lip.

"Ok, wait here."

And off he went to get what I needed. He came back around the corner and stood there with a little hesitation in his stance.

"Just throw them in the cart - I don't care. Save yourself."

But he laid them gently in the cart and put his hands up while be backed away. And in his backing away he tapped the Chex Mix display at the end of the aisle and sent a few boxes tumbling.

I looked at him and shrugged. "Sorry. It's me. I would offer to pick them up but you and I both know that would just end badly."

He sighed and nodded his head in agreement.

He's helped me before. Lots. He was there when I kind of sort of ruined a pyramid of oranges. And by 'kind of sort of' I mean knocked the top level to the ground. He was also there when I pushed the milk too hard in the case and sent two cartons over the back and onto the floor in the cooler. We have a history, he and I. I wish I could say it was a relationship built on trust and honesty - true friendship.

But I have a gut feeling he's just not that good as the rest of the staff at Rock, Paper, Scissors.

It may be time for me to invest in some of those reusable canvas grocery totes. I've considered it for some time, but have just never taken the time to really make it happen. I know me - and I know that I would constantly forget to keep them in my car. And God knows one more thing in my poor car would possibly send The Husband over the edge. While The Car is organized, I do have to admit that were I to be stranded for a month or better I would survive quite nicely on the items located in the trunk, under the seats... above the visor... in the glove box...and even wedged in between the front seats... a space I can't ever seem to get to when I am struggling with the vaccuum hose at The Car Wash. In my younger days the vehicle I drove was clean to the point of making my passengers uncomfortable. Now I am afraid the only thing making my passengers uncomfortable is sharing space with a myriad of MaGuyver-esque items.

So not proud.

But in my efforts to try and leave a smaller "Carbon Footrint" that seems to be all the rage these days I am taking small steps to be a more responsible citizen. I've stopped dumping motor oil down my sink, I take 15 minute showers instead of 30, and instead of throwing my empty bottles and cans out my window while driving down the freeway, I cram them into my garbage can instead. (I kid with great sarcasm, people. No letters, please.)

So the canvas totes have been on my mind. I hate those finger numbing plastic bags at The Grocery Store. And The Paper Bags, while great when doubled, leave a little to be desired when they are hauled up a long flight of stairs in the rain. I remember once, when I was a child, when the company the Father worked for then had just gone on strike causing major chaos. The Stress level he and the other members of management incurred was monstrous, and came home with him on many occasion. One such occasion was the day he and The Mother came back from the market and in an effort to help The Mother said to The Father, "Be careful with that bag. There are frozen items in there - be sure to carry it from the bottom.", only he did not listen, insisting the handles would be just fine. And they were until he was about 5 steps from the front door when everything fell from the bottom of that bag. In a flash - and out of sheer frustration - The Father took every single item and threw it into the street. The Mother was furious, The Children (myself included) were reduced to hand-over-mouth giggles. And The Father, by now regretful and sheepish, retrieved every item with his head hung low. I would like to tell you that I learned from that experience - and I did - only it wasn't a lesson in patience. It was a lesson, in my own much later fit of anger, to see how far a I could make a frozen chicken fly. (For the record - really far when your angry - and foolish - enough.)

So today's experience may be the one and final catalyst to buying those canvas bags. The nice girl at Trader Joe's was careful to double-bag my heavy items, but when you are impatient like me and insist on making one trip from the car, thereby carrying way too many bags, something is bound to give. And give it did. Both handles broke on one of my bags and a cascade of oranges, apples, bananas, limes and zuchini tumbled to it's reckless freedom.

So yes, it's time. The canvas will surely help me in my efforts to make a smaller 'Carbon Footprint'. And by 'Carbon Footprint' I mean the carbon that escapes my mouth when I swear.

In a recent meeting The Bride was discussing possible locations for her Big Day.

Her ultimate dream is to find a remote mountain meadow only reachable by horse. And this isn't a pipe dream. It's a very real dream she's put a lot of thought to, but then realized that having her grandparents packed in on an animal might not be in keeping with her love for them.

"Well and then there's the food issue", I said while chuckling.

"Oh we have pack horses", she replied, not chuckling.

I blinked a few times. And waited for her to crack a smile or give me a little nudge to say she was joking.

"We have four of them, actually. And we have pack boxes, too. I totally think that's something we could do."

More blinking.

"The food would not be my worry. You totally look like you could handle a horse."

I can handle a nice bottle of chianti, too. But that doesn't mean I want to ride it up a mountain.

"Well, anyway. It would never work for my grandparents. But maybe we can have a party that way, that would be fantastic! I will get back to you on that."

Time to change our phone number.