Today has been one of those days. A “stick me in the eye with a hot poker because could anything else go wrong? Really? I mean, honestly?” sort of day. You know the ones.

It’s rained ALL day long, flooding myriad streets and, apparently, even stalling cars. Who knew puddles had such power? We witnessed one such flooded engine just a few minutes ago. It was a Ford Taurus, hazard lights blinking, stuck in what looked to be a good foot and a half of standing water, just past a major intersection on one of the city’s busiest arterials.

I’m as big a fan of rain as any other, but rivaling Seattle for daily precipitation is not my idea of a good time. We are supposed to be DRY over here. ARID and DRY and full of snow. OK? Ok, then.

(I just wished for snow; I think someone might have slipped me a Crazy pill.)

Beyond the monsoon that was Today, I also attempted to book airfare for Chris, so he can go visit his mother, two brothers, and niece, back in Alabama, both of us recently discovering that his mother has a heart condition that could put her surgery-bound if proper medications and appropriate daily precautions are not heeded. Needless to say, he needs to get back just to spend time, and while we have both wanted to go for months, the finances and the schedules just haven’t allowed for it. I’m excited for him to go, while simultaneously bummed I will be flying (nowhere, and so) solo for ten days. I miss his family, too. (The copious amounts of sweet tea and seventy-degree weather would also make for an alluring bonus.) We are blessed to have not a single pesky (soon to be) in-law situation. Save for the fact that our respective pairs of parents live on opposite sides of the country, that is.

But, back to the airfare booking. It was mostly disastrous. And by “disastrous” I basically mean “somehow I booked the wrong (return) dates, and when I realized that two! hours later, I was not so much helped to alleviate the situation of my booking blooper (or possibly, and rather, an online glitch; I honestly have no idea which it was, although I am more inclined to think it my own mistake), as much as I was helped to see that:

1. I am quite flight-booking-inept.
2. I booked the wrong return dates. (Um, yes. I KNOW. That is precisely why I picked up my phone and dialed “customer service.”)
3. The airline and their booking partners in crime already have my credit card information, and the money, and thus, are quite content with my discontent, being that the only way they offered to help was to make me pay another hundred dollars (of course. I should have seen THAT coming.) to switch the date, ONE day later, on the same exact schedule, on the same exact airline, for the same exact price.
4. We, at the customer service desk, are here to tell you what you already know. And to silently laugh (and outwardly laugh once, too) at the fact that you are dumb, and not smart, and well, stuck. Because, hey, credit card number.

So, long story short, I am letting Chris book all of his own flights from this day forward until the end of online booking, which will be never, so I think I’m pretty well covered, amen. (I could herein admit to crying after said unresolvable booking fiasco, unless you put your money where your mouth is, lady, but that would just make me look like an emotional wimp. And hey, I totally am today. But that’s just our little secret.)

As if my lack of persuasion/help me, I’m ridiculous/airline customer service skillz weren’t impressive enough, I had to go (double or nothing) and suggest a restaurant we should visit, because, you know, I’m doing so well already today.

“I’ve heard good things. It’s supposed to be great,” I heard myself say cheerily as we pulled into the parking lot.

Thirty minutes later and there we were, compulsively draining our respective sodas and touting them as the best tasting dinner items we had ordered, and looking for a way to fling ourselves magically back into the car, or possibly, through the fish tank, or out the window, or something. We were desperate. Desperate for sweet and sour chicken that tasted, well, sweet and sour, and desperate for a way to politely tell our waitress that we had experienced more taste from a Nyquil liqui-gel.

Booking flights and Chinese restaurant-choosing. Two jobs that will now be added to Chris’ ever-growing list of “That Which Kerri Shall Not Touch Upon Pain Of Said Things Crumbling To (Tasteless) Ash Before Our Very Eyes.”