Apple Pie and a Classy Lady

There a few basic foods that will never under any circumstance make good travel snacks. My dad found this out the hard way when he gave bananas and strawberries to my brother and sister for an extended car trip when they were still young. "Fruit! That's nutrition!" He thought triumphantly.

It turns out that fruit squishes and is fun to stick between the seats of cars. WHO EVEN KNEW.

Well guess what? Apple pie has now officially joined the ranks of "Foods That Should Never Be Consumed in a Car When You Are Planning On Remaining in that Car for At Least 7 Hours."

I had to eat with my hands, there were no spoons or chopsticks. Don't even ask why I had apple pie in a car, because that was also coincidentally my fault. Being the classy woman I am, I was feeling overly ambitious in my ability to eat sticky, syrupy fruit while in a moving vehicle with no wet wipes or paper towels. Just me and the pie.

It turns out that pie crust is not quite as durable as a plate. It also turns out that apple filling loves to be everywhere but in your mouth. Have you ever spoon fed a baby? I really became one with my inner-baby.

Apple pie is something not to be eaten in the car unless you have extensive lady-like and classy demeanor like me.

Bleach and a Classy Lady

I'll set the scene for you: I had just returned to my apartment after what must've been a debonair evening seeing as I was wearing my favorite black shirt paired with black pants. (Black = ALWAYS CHIC ALWAYS.)

Because my mind functions in a way that disallows it to smoothly transition from one task to another, I decided to start cleaning the vanity of my apartment immediately upon arriving home. Let it be known that it was probably midnight, but that didn't stop me. The instant I walked into the apartment, I went from "beautiful blossoming social butterfly" mode to "CLEAN EVERYTHING SO HARD THAT MY BONES BLEED" mode.

Since I went into that instant "clean like a maniac" mode, I couldn't be bothered to switch from my nice clothes to something more junky. No, no, no. I made a b-line for the bathroom vanity and started scrubbing the mirror like a boss. I then sprayed something bleach-y and clean-smelling on the counter to soak while I continued to wipe the mirrors down.

I was leaning over the counter to clean when I made eye contact with myself in the mirror.

"Hey Arielle," I said. "That spray bottle said something about bleach, ehhh??"

"Why yes, yes it did."

"And you're wearing your favorite black shirt, ehhh??"

"Why yes, yes I am!"

"CHECK THE STATE OF YOURSELF RIGHT NOW ARIELLE."

It was too late of course. Where my shirt used to be evenly black, there were now rust-colored smears.

Under normal circumstances, I would have an initial moment of panic and eventually a moment of silence for the garment, but I was still in this funky cloud of cleaning and couldn't really comprehend what I had just done.

So I ended up just changing into a dingy t-shirt and scrubbing the black one with pomegranate-scented shampoo and letting it soak in the tub as if that would help.

I finished cleaning the bathroom and forgot about the shirt until 2 weeks later: today. I had to confront the shirt today.

But don't worry, a classy woman, like myself, always has some tricks up her sleeve to solve the accidental bleach spot and that trick is called permanent marker. That's right, I spent a small portion of my morning coloring the rusty spots black with a marker. CRISIS AVERTED!

The shirt is back to new. And don't worry, you can only tell that it was colored in if you look at it or glance at it or even passively see it through your peripherals.