So let me tell you about my evening.

I leave work at 6:15, exhausted and drained.  I remember halfway home that I need to stop at the grocery store because I have almost no food in the apartment and can't even make a lunch for the next day unless I go.

So I begrudgingly start making my way through Safeway with a square plastic basket, quickly and efficiently making my way through the store, aisle by aisle, grabbing only the necessities and a few extras at a good price.  Patting myself on the back for my price-savvy, I decide to splurge for the night and buy a frozen Digiorno pizza.  I'm tired and don't feel like actually cooking dinner.

I get home and clean up the apartment while I the pizza cooks.  I even hang the big picture above the couch I've been procrastinating dealing with.

Pizza timer goes off.  I run over to the oven, mouth already watering, and grab the pizza out of the oven.  Here's where it gets interesting.

Since Digiorno cooks without a pizza tray, you put it right on the rack.  I grab this rack directly out of the oven as always.  I've got a cookie tray waiting on the stove to take the hot pizza for cutting.

I decide that since the tray has a lip on one end (the end furthest from me) I might as well try something different and try sliding it off the end closest to me, which doesn't have a lip and I reason will therefore be easier.

I'm wrong.

The pizza slides off the tray.  Too far.  In slow motion it flips and falls - face down - on the open oven door.

Expletives fly.

After cleaning up the mess (as best one can clean melted cheese, pepperoni, and peppers off of a hot oven door) I finally decide that I'm craving pizza enough to drive back to the store and buy a second Digiorno.  It's been that bad of a Tuesday.

I get stuck behind every slow person in the universe on the way over.  Finally getting to the store, I get strange looks from Queen Anne preppies who think it's a cardinal sin to show up at Safeway in sweats and a sweatshirt.

I get in the express 15-items-or-less line, rejoicing that there's only one man in front of me.

Unfortunately, not only has this man bought the full 15-item limit, he is, to my utter and abject horror, the only person left in the universe who actually writes checks at the grocery store.  I am dead serious.  The man pulls out his checkbook and, in the slowest, most excruciating speed I've EVER seen in my life, writes a check for $14.07.

I get back home and put the pizza in the oven, sitting down on the couch with my now-reclaimed glass of Pinot Noir, resolving to blog immediately.

At which point I realize I have put the pizza in the oven without a cookie tray.  Again.