Yesterday evening, our neighbor stopped by to drop off these little gifts. A "thank-you" gift for picking up their newspapers and mail while they were away.
When the rang the doorbell, I immediately thought it was Wesley's friends soliciting him to play since no one else ever really comes to our door and it was too late for the Mormons (who we welcome ~ Chris LOVES to have them visit).
Nevertheless, I was annoyed; it was 8pm.
Wesley was sitting upside down on the couch with this legs swinging off the back. I had told him several times to "sit correctly" (like a hag mother would).
I was mostly concerned, however, because there was a full glass of wine on the side table.
You see where I am going with this?
The doorbell rings.
Wes flies up to a seated position, legs flailing and kicks over the glass of red wine. The wine soaks my Iphone, digital camera and the white carpet below.
Mary Ann screams, "Wesley!!!!!!!! Ohhhhhh EMMMM, GEEEEEEE! Get a towel! Get a towel," I yell.
Red wine drips.
I don't handle spills well. I know that in life they are soooooo not a big deal, but I can't help it. I come unglued.
"Chris! Help me get this damn Otterbox off the phone," I screech as I claw at the contraption that is supposed to keep my phone safe.
The problem is that my phone is never DROPPED, it is always SPILLED on.
And I can never get it apart when I need to. I claw at the phone cover hurling curses at it, remembering that my husband's sermon today was on swearing and not really caring.
"And you tell Wes that HE IS NOT GOING OUTSIDE TO PLAY!"
I look around, Wes is no where to be seen.
"Wesley! Wesley! Get a towel!"
It was at this point where I heard a WOMAN'S voice outside.
And THEN I saw it was our neighbor.
And THEN... I saw she was bearing gifts.
And then, I realize I am completely exposed for the bitch I really am.
I hang my head, face burning, and walk to the door. I also realize that I have stains down my shirt from the salsa I was just eating and since I've gained some weight I look particularly fats. I'm a dirty fatty. A dirty fatty beeyotch.
And there was our angelic neighbor (of whom, depending upon who you speak to, could be sainted upon death) standing on our front step, presenting candy and bath fizzies.
Maggie, who isn't friendly to anyone these days, ran over to her amidst the screaming and just looked into her face. Our neighbor spoke to her calming soothing voice and stroked her hair.
Which was amazing because Maggie had cried most of the day. Her ears are bothering her again and she has croup for the millionth time.
I decided to be more conscious of keeping the bitch in check. The phone is still working. Wes did a good job at scrubbing the wine out of the carpet.
And I'll just have to remember to see who is at the door BEFORE I come unglued.
One neighbor knows...I can't let the rest of the neighborhood be privy to my dirty secret. They all think I'm a pretty nice person...which, of course, I mostly am not.