Yesterday was one of those days that I didn’t really do anything except run around in circles, a one-woman April fool. I circled my circles.
I don’t recall how we came to have a lampless guest bedroom, but with some of the grandsons arriving tomorrow, that needed to be remedied. They’re big-time readers. I started with the return of the too-small lamp I’d bought earlier in the week, but my hope of finding another at the same store was dashed when lamp likability and price tag likability didn’t mesh. It took two more stores before I found another possibility. Its price tag is still dangling, in case I change my mind.
Plants were next on my list and I had no problem finding them at Home Depot. When I opened the car trunk to load them, however, I found the old pots I’d planned to take to Lowe’s for recycling. That’s where I’d planned to go for the plants. Sigh.
I circled over to Lowe’s for the pot drop.
Because we’re having the kitchen jazzed up here at the beach-house-not-on-the-beach, we’ve been without some basics like stove, oven, sink, dishwasher, microwave, cabinet doors, sink, countertops, and drawer fronts for a week now. There has been no cooking, except for the evening I cut a frozen pizza into quarters and baked it in the toaster oven.
Not that I recommend that.
After the supermarket foray for juice and bananas but before the pet store stop, I realized that I hadn’t come up with anything for lunch. Perhaps it would be a good time for our we-only-do-this-once-a-year barbecue and slaw meal? I called Dearly Beloved, who thought it sounded like a capital idea as long as (a) he didn’t have to go out for it and (b) it wasn’t on bread. He’s sandwiched out.
I drove to the favorite place in town for eastern NC barbecue, a completely different animal from western NC barbecue. (Okay… technically, it IS the same animal, but a different method of preparation.) This place once fed Martha Stewart. It wouldn’t feed us, however. Closed on Sunday.
I drove west to another barbecue restaurant we’ve seen but never tried. Closed on Sunday.
Now I was on a mission, hellbent to find barbecue. I’d heard of a third place, so groceries, lamp, and plants got to ride east with me to find this one, which turned out to be in the next town.
Forget lunch. Now it would be lunch and supper. Lupper. I found the place after only one wrong turn into the driveway where a giant lighted sign bore the name of the restaurant. Nope–it was about 50 feet farther down the highway, hidden from view by the damn sign.
I went inside and gave my order to a young woman at the counter. She had a blond ponytail, a French manicure, and an eastern NC drawl as authentic as I hoped the barbecue would be.
She started to circle my order number on the receipt, but stopped her pen in midair and gasped.
“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” she said, her face deepening into a frown.
“What? Did it charge me too much?”
“No, but this number shouldn’t be here. This is not good. This order number is so wrong.”
I looked around. There was no one else in the place except for a couple eating at a back table. Why did I even need an order number? When it comes out of the kitchen, it’s mine!
“It’s okay,” I reassured her, having no idea what she was talking about.
Reluctantly, she circled the number and handed me the receipt. It wasn’t exactly a lottery winner.
6 6 6.
“Are you SURE?” she asked me. ” I can probably ring it up again and get a different number.”
I assured her it was fine. She looked unconvinced.
I told her that I felt pretty beastly anyhow.
When the food was ready, instead of simply handing me the bag, the young woman came from behind the counter to usher me out the door.
“You have a nice day, Honey,” she said, patting me on the shoulder in benediction. When she handed me the hush puppy-scented sack, I was pretty sure I could read her mind.
I was receiving The Last Lupper.