As much as it seems like the world is against me on occasion, sometimes life does go right for me.
On Thursday, Kurt came home in a rotten mood. It was nothing I had, or rather, nothing I had done directly. While he was busy at work that afternoon, the base cops came by and noticed that the registration on the little car had expired. So they scraped off the base stickers on the little car.
Without stickers, Kurt can’t go to work. He would have to drive the minivan instead, and then I wouldn’t be able to get on base to do my grocery shopping or take Grace to swim lessons. And if that weren’t bad enough, it wasn’t like the registration expired last week. It expired in November of 2009.
Oops. So Kurt’s bad mood was sort of my fault. I’m pretty sure I saw the re-registration come through the mail, but I must have totally dropped the ball on it. I never did bring it up to Kurt, and I sure didn’t apply for new stickers through the mail, which I could have done.
That night I realized that we’d gotten both our vehicles registered in Rhode Island at the same time, and sure enough, when Kurt checked, the minivan’s registration had run out in November of 2009 as well. We were liable to have the stickers scraped on the van too, and we could very well get a ticket just driving around town with either vehicle. Eek!
My stress was increased when I visited the DMV website. Sure, I could apply for new stickers online — but it would take two weeks. Two weeks! I couldn’t wait two weeks; I can’t have Kurt taking the van to work, not with Grace needing to get to swim lessons, and we would be at high risk of having the stickers for the van scraped as well. I looked further, and I noticed one little blurb that scared the pants off me. It said that re-registrations would not be accepted at DMV, that applications would be directed to a dropbox to be processed within that same two weeks.
Then I noticed one more thing, that registrations that expired September through December could not be processed online, and that they would be treated as re-registrations. That was good in a way, in that we could go to DMV, but then I worried that we didn’t have all the information that we needed. I was hoping that they had retained all our information in the computer, like the copy of the title that the lien holder had faxed to them when we were registered the first time. I didn’t want to think about trying to get a hold about that again.
But for all that worry and stress, everything was smooth sailing come Friday morning. Kurt came home from work after getting the H1N1 vaccine (he had no choice — the Navy says to get the vaccine, and he has to comply) and hied himself off to the DMV, taking Gracie with him for company. He was gone probably two hours, and that includes registering both vehicles, getting new stickers for the little car at the Pass & ID office, and grabbing a few necessities at the commissary.
I couldn’t believe it was so easy!
Of course, if I had gone, there would have been some sort of snag, but let’s just not go there.
Today I had my own stroke of good luck. While planning this week’s menu, I decided I needed to put that lemon and balsamic chicken I made last week on the list, which meant I needed chicken. Last week I had Kurt pick up a roaster chicken that I cut up into pieces my own self, so I knew it was likely that I’d have to do it again. It was Sunday, after all, and the commissary never has much selection in the poultry department on Sundays.
What shocked me was how little selection there really was. Usually I can pick between Perdue and Tyson, and there’s always at least bone-in thighs and boneless breasts in each brand. Today there was only Tyson, and not only that, there was only boneless skinless breasts, plus two packages of bone-in breasts. That was it!
I absolutely had to get chicken today if I planned on making it tomorrow, as the commissary is closed on Mondays. What to do?
The woman who runs the meat department at the commissary is a true chatty Cathy. She wants to talk to anyone and everyone, and she loves to expound on all sorts of subjects. She insists she’s a PhD in philosophy and that she’s a chef trained at the Cordon Bleu in Paris, but I am not so sure about that. Regardless of whether her credentials are solid, she is willing to do her job, and to do it well. I enjoy talking to her. Today I asked her where all her chicken was, and of course, the truck hadn’t arrived when it should have. (How those companies keep the commissary’s contract, I’ll never know. They refuse to show up more often than they deliver goods. If it were a civilian company instead of a military commissary, they’d find themselves out of a job.)
But then she leaned towards me conspiratorially, and told me of these six-pound bags of chicken parts that they had been delivered by mistake. She said she could give me a good price on them, and would I be interested? I’m assuming they are pieces that are to be repackaged by the local grocery store under their label, but the commissary doesn’t sell poultry that way. They only sell pre-packaged poultry.
I said, sure, as long as they’re edible pieces, with no necks or anything like that. She assured me it was all regular pieces, and came back out with this big plastic pack of chicken parts. On it was a price tag that read — $2. Two dollars! For six pounds of chicken! I took two bags, and now I have almost more chicken than I know what to do with. I plan on freezing at least half of it so I can have chicken the next time the commissary’s run out. Again.
So yeah. I’d have to say that at the moment, everything’s coming up roses. Or poultry, I guess. And that’s a good thing.