You go to the bustling race track and, within an hour, bump into:
A woman about whom you wrote extensively for several stories two months ago.
The boyfriend of another woman about whom you wrote extensively for several stories.
Two people who work at the coffe shop you frequent each day.
Your realtor, the poor, patient man who spent all that time showing you houses with lots of natural light so that your serotonin levels wouldn't plummet after moving in. Only you don't recognize him because your 4-year-old is throwing a fit, something about how she wants a red drink like that lady over there -- at the bar -- has. Oh, the realtor also is Rick's softball coach. Trust me, I should have recognized him immediately.
Hubs' cousin Karen and her husband Derwood.
Some TV guy Hubs knows from various assignments.
Preface to today's most embarrassing moment: I've been to the track once, several years ago, pre-children.
Today's most embarrassing moment: As I carried a tired and whiny Tootie outside, hoping to distract her with hosres, she shrieked, "No, Mommy! No more races! I don't want to go to anymore races! Please don't make me watch more races!"
From the way people were staring it's clear they thought I was some gambling addict who hauls her poor children to the track every Saturday so that I can make them watch as I piss away their college education funds.
So not fair. If I were going to misspend the college money, I would put it toward a quiet room with lush white towels and a masseuse possessed with a sympathetic ear and strong hands.
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