Goose came home from a birthday party with her pants in a plastic bag. I pulled them out and there was a big, pink stain. She’d spilled her drink. I asked her what she was drinking, and she said Sprite. Um, last time I looked Sprite is not pink. I asked if it was some kind of flavored Sprite, and she said no, just plain Sprite. How does plain Sprite leave a pink stain? It was a mystery.
A disturbing mystery, apparently, because I dreamt about it. And then in the middle of the night, I woke up with a start with the thought, “The napkin!” Obviously, she must have tried to mop up the spill on her pants with a brightly colored napkin, perhaps of the pink or purple or even red variety. Is there a more likely place to find a brightly colored napkin than a child’s birthday party? Well, is there?!
The next morning I tried to confirm my suspicions, asking Goose if she had, indeed, tried to clean up the spill on her pants with a napkin. She said yes. I asked what color napkin. She said Hannah Montana. *Eye roll* *Sigh* Yes, the Hannah Montana napkin was pink. Mystery solved! I know, my powers of deduction are mind-blowing.
(Oh, and just in case you were concerned, she did not return from the party pantsless—she had borrowed a pair from the birthday girl.)
A group of friends is strolling through Target.
Friend #1 is putting some items in the cart.
Friend #2 says innocently, “Oh, I loves me a good Oh.”
Friend #3 says thoughtfully, “I don’t think that I’ve ever had an ‘Oh’.”
A few moments of silence and then Friends #1-3 laugh heartily.
(It’s OK. We, I mean, this group of friends, was in the cereal aisle.)
Yesterday at church, BigHugs reached into the sacrament tray, picked up a piece of bread, and then put it back and started to select another piece. This is typical, and I always either pick up the piece she has set down and take it myself or hand it to her, reminding her that you have to eat the one you touch. (I don’t even want to think about how many parents aren’t paying attention to their children’s sacrament selection habits. Partaking of the sacrament is an act of faith in more than one respect.) This time, I picked up her discarded piece and handed it to her, then I reached into the tray and put my fingers on something. It looked like bread, but it did not feel like bread. It was hard. Like a kitchen sponge that has completely dried up hard. But once you’ve touched a piece, there is no going back.
I thought about just palming the piece and then selecting another perhaps less petrified one, but I felt like the sacrament passer person (I would say deacon because in our church the deacons, who are of the ages of 12-13, are typically the sacrament passer persons, but yesterday there were not enough deacons so they had adults filling in) was keeping a very watchful eye on me. BigHugs’ attempt to discard her first selected piece had likely put him on alert. So I steeled myself and stuck that piece of unbreadly bread into my very own mouth.
I was not prepared for the horror that was unleashed in my person. Not only was it hard, but it tasted… wrong. Very, very wrong. Like dragged out of the dumpster from beneath the rat droppings and dead body wrong. Shudder, shudder, shudder. There are not enough tic tacs in the world to remedy that kind of taste budual assault. SHUDDER.
Later that night, as I was relating the story to Chuck, he said, “At least it was blessed.” Sorry, still shuddering.
How was your weekend?