What did I do?
What did I do?
WHAT DID I DO????
I just don't get it. I do something nice and I get poopied on (hey, I'm still trying here). Apparently in much the same manner as Dave has been lately. Yes, I do find it odd that it is happening to both of us at the same time. Things work like that for us. Just ask him. It's scary.
Last night, I spent three hours working on a Web site for Katie's cousin who is opening her own yoga studio in Chicago. I put together a pretty nice splash page as a stand-in until I get the rest of the site done. I'm really quite impressed with how it has turned out. Katie likes it, too.
Her cousin, however, has no knowledge whatsoever about how things work on the Web in terms of design, hosting, etc. The very fact that I got her to register a domain and hosting services on GoDaddy using her credit card amazes me. However, she's now in Massachusetts for some big yoga convention and doesn't have the time to call in to GoDaddy to figure out how to FTP files to their hosting server. I've been searching their site and it's not exactly the most intuitive site in the world to use.
So I talk to her dad (Katie's uncle) and get all the pertinent information so I can call in to GoDaddy and get what tips I need. Her name is one that could, in some circles, double as a guy's name, so why not? I get her full name, birthday, address, phone-in ID#, home phone, cell phone, and her mother's maiden name. Everything you could possibly need for an ID check.
I call GoDaddy's non-toll-free customer service number and sit on hold for nearly 10 minutes. When a rep finally picks up the phone, what does he ask for? The last four digits of the credit card used to reserve the URL.
Oh WTF??? (that's not a quarter, is it?)
Then I decided, because Katie was "asked" to work late, that I would make dinner for her. This was actually my second night in a row making dinner. I'm getting good.
So I'm standing at the oven taking a well-deserved break for my Webly duties, making some chicken with mozzarella and red sauce and steamed cauliflour on the side. Not a big deal meal, really. But I figure it's better than Katie having to cook when she gets home.
With the chicken sizzling in one pan, the cauliflour steaming in a pot, and the pasta sauce simmering in another, I make one wrong move. Just one. But that's all it took. Suddenly, the spatula that I've been using to flip the chicken, which just so happens to be covered in cooking oil and seasoned bread crumbs, goes spinning in the air and flops against my slacks. No, I hadn't changed yet from my work clothes. I didn't think anything like this would happen.
I shrugged it off and ran for the laundry room to grab the Tide Pen and blot out the rather large stained area right by my crotch.
A few minutes later, my pants are drying out quite nicely and the meal's nearly done when, it would seem, I make the same disastrous maneuver, again sending the spatula in orbit and striking my pants IN EXACTLY THE SAME FRAKKIN' SPOT IT DID BEFORE!!
Why???
Did I do something wrong by cooking for Katie??? I didn't hear her complaining about it so why are the Gods???
Can someone clue me in here???
But I would like to mention one good thing... Tide Pens? Heaven sent.
