Erica Lucke Dean

"Making the world a better place, one book at a time."

what happened to throwing snowballs?

Today was the neighborhood ladies Christmas party—an annual event fraught with delectable treats, lavish desserts, and an ornament gift exchange that pits everyone against each other in a game to “steal” the best gift.  It’s always a load of fun.  I couldn’t wait to go!

Of course I waited until the last minute to shop for my ornament, and to make the treat to share. 

Waiting until the last minute sounds like a good idea on paper…well, to me anyway…but it is not a good idea.  Especially when you are supposed to be making a dish for the group.  

My dish was a spectacular creation.  It was a chocolate and peanut butter brownie mountain, drizzled with hot fudge.  I was asked for the recipe many times tonight, but unfortunately, I do not know how it was made.  I bought it from the bakery. 

Even my ornament was a hit.  I bought a sparkly cow/angel complete with wings and cloven hooves.  It was stolen at least once (the definition of popular at this event.) I even managed to walk away with a very nice ornament myself (stolen from my next door neighbor.)

But I almost didn’t make it to this wonderful holiday event.  It was almost a wash…so to speak.

As my husband was driving home this evening, something splattered against the windshield of the car he was driving.  The same car I was going to drive to the end of the neighborhood (I had a large brownie mountain and a wrapped ornament, so walking was out of the question.) That something appeared to be a water balloon filled with some sort of sticky slime.  Mike was afraid the goop could be corrosive and so he was determined to wash all traces of it from the car before I could drive away. 

This is where you need to accept the fact that I could not drive any of our other vehicles.  I had to force myself to accept this fact as well, now it’s your turn. 

Mike rinsed the car thoroughly and when he was through, I loaded my things into the passenger side and proceeded to the driver’s side door.  This is precisely when Mike decided to rinse the car again.  I was in mid-stoop, just lowering myself into the car, when the icy spray from the hose hit the roof and rained down on me from above.  My hair was wet…my back was wet…my front was wet…and I was as mad as a wet cat.

I expected a little remorse.  A half-hearted apology at least.  Instead I got a grouchy look.  I stomped back into the house to towel myself off.  I contemplated changing my clothes, but I had spent too much time picking out my festive holiday outfit to change.  So I stomped back to the car and buckled myself into the driver’s seat and waited for Mike to be satisfied with the cleaning.  It didn’t take long and I was on my way…in a wet silk blouse. 

Mike did finally apologize…three hours later.  But as I always say, better late than never! 

I’m sure it was a bit unnerving to get hit by a stray balloon of potentially toxic goo as he was driving down a dark road at night.  And I’m sure it was hard to see out of the windshield when the wipers did little more than smear the slime around, almost completely obscuring the view. 

I decided I would cut him a little slack.  After all…I did dry.  And I did have fun.  And Tuesday is his birthday.  It’s not like I could be mad at him on the day before his birthday.  Right?

Until the next time…I will be making my husband birthday breakfast (for lunch.)

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