Sunday, October 07, 2012

Wrong Place at the Wrong Time

Every Wednesday night at six, Flash has marching band practice.  He returns home well-past nine, starving.  Leftovers don't last long in this house and I certainly know better than to think there will be anything to grab on a Thursday morning for my lunch unless it's hidden in the vegetable drawer.

This week, Flash came home and mush to his ravenous delight, discovered leftover pork chops in the fridge.  While the chops reheated in the microwave, Flash search for barbecue sauce.  There wasn't much left in the ogle, but enough for him to get by on for his fourth meal.  He tried to shake what little remained down to the top, but it was cold and thick and not easily persuaded to pour out so he did what any teenager, but no knowing adult would do, holding the bottle like a sword over his shoulder, he sliced it through the air, successfully moving the sauce from the bottom of the jar, but using so much force that he popped the lid off and barbecue sauce fling across the kitchen floor in a gashing arc.

Reading a book upstairs in bed, I heard the thwack and the tell-tale, "Oh crap!" from my child.

"Everything okay down there?" I asked with trepidation.

"Yes," he said unconvincingly.  "I just spilled barbecue sauce on the kitchen floor.  I will clean it up."

I heard water running and scrubbing, so I went back to reading my book.

Eli came bounding up the stairs for safety reasons, I suppose, but stopped at the top landing of the stairs.  I could hear excessive licking.  "Um, Flash?  Did Eli get into the barbecue sauce by chance?"

"I don't see how he could have, Mom.  Maybe he just stepped in a little," Flash assured me.

Eli came to lay in his usual spot by my bed.  As I lay cuddled up in warm blankets reading, I realized I could smell barbecue sauce quite well.  "I think Eli might have gotten into some," I tell Flash.

"If so, it can't be much," he responded.

I continued to read; the dog continued to lick; I continued to smell barbecue sauce.

I put my book down and peered over the edge of the bed at the dog.  Running down his spine, like an excessive dosage of Frontline, was a huge blob of barbecue sauce that he was desperately trying to reach.

Poor thing was a direct target of the assault, had it washed off by Flash before he could even lick it clean and then had to suffer a bath.

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