Ok so this blonde moment definately takes the cake.

Remember how I was expecting to have books waiting patiently on my doorstep this morning? My book? Among the Mariposas, ready to sell for tomorrow's reception?

Well that was the best laid plan, anyway. I get home, nothing, nada, ziltch. So I send a guilt inducing email to editor, about how my amateur poetic self is sooo crushed to be bookless at upcoming wine and cheese reception (McAllen chamber of commerce! if you're interested in stoppin by!). So she feels bad when she reads said email, and calls me apologizing, angry, upset, confused. It was supposed to be there! Stupid USPS GUARANTEED IT!

So she opens up email history, just to verify everything. What's your address? 4612 C Street.... ok ok... wait a minute... she sent it to 4216 c street! I automatically assume editor is at fault, not perfect poeta.

But.... alas it was my fault. My nimble fingers sure do type fast, but their accuracy isn't the best.

I'm so freakin' dyslexic!! Ughhh!! Angry at myself right now, for not being more careful. So will my books be here in time? Probably not. My guess is that they're somewhere out in the desert right now... roaming about freely... not in my house, not being sold at upcoming reception.... not making me look good...

boohooo.... :"( I'm going to look sooo stupid tomorrow when I explain what happened. I think I'll blame it on someone else. Yes, that'll work nicely... heh heh heh...