No, not me. I’m talking about our first caterer visit – or non-visit, as it were.
After being pretty pumped about getting an appointment to do a tasting during one of the only available times between the work-school-work insanity that is my life, we had one of our biggest disappointments yet in the planning process.
Both Monsieur P and I had to make arrangements to leave work early in order to make it to the appointment, which was supposed to start at 5. At 5:02 (with such a jam-packed schedule, I often am a few minutes behind), I was yanking on the caterer’s doors, to no avail. They were locked. I poked around and the place appeared to be empty, which I didn’t think really made sense, as their normal hours were supposed to be until 6pm, though they operate mainly through appointments, of course.
I went back to my car, pulled up the email on my phone to make sure I had the right day and time, and I did. I called the number in the email and left a voicemail something like this: “Hi, this is Miss Parisian… I’m here, but no one else seems to be… I don’t know what happeneddddd…” with mounting annoyance at the end because the longer I waited, the more angry I got!
By this point, the mister had shown up, completely confused. He had gotten caught up at work coming back from a trip and had to drop off a fleet vehicle, so he was running a little later than I was. He could tell from the look on my face that something wasn’t right, or maybe he could see the steam coming out of my ears. He asked me what was wrong, and I pretty much exploded.