However, this morning, my car, my down coat and my children now smell like they've been bathed in a 2010 Petite Sirah. Let me back up . . .
"Would you like a glass of wine?"
"Why yes, thank you!"
. . .and lovely conversation amongst myself and four other mom & writing friends ensued. We chatted, snacked, wrote and left.
The wine stopper had ONE.JOB.
So there I was, getting out of my car at midnight, dripping red all over the driveway and feeling the liquid against my skin. I momentarily panicked, thinking maybe I cut myself and couldn't feel it. In the movies no one ever knows they've been shot right away. They just keep talking. I hadn't heard any loud noises, so I was pretty sure I hadn't been shot and my car hadn't backfired. Especially while I was outside of the car with the keys in my hand. All this in a matter of seconds. And then, "Oh shit!" My down coat was covered in the Petite Sirah that refused to stay bottled, and I realized it had begun leaking while I drove home. I had barely had a few sips hours earlier, so I wasn't concerned about my driving. But try telling that to Officer Friendly at midnight with a mom car that wreaks of likely much needed indulgence. While that, no doubt, would have made this story far more interesting, it didn't happen.
What did happen is I dripped murder and injury looking blood red liquid all up the driveway, and front walk, and into the house. The 409 my husband had bought at my request the previous day had as of yet been unopened, despite my intention to have cleaned the tub after my kid pooped in it earlier. And on the floor. (See, I did need that indulgence.) I 409'd the entryway, the hall, the front door mat, the outside of the bottle and anything else in the vicinity that appeared to be a red splat. I even sprayed the cement out front. I dumped my jacket and any other darks in the laundry, and prayed that my 17 year old stepson would not overhear that he showered in a poop tub, and that no one would smell wine when they woke up the next day.
All seemed well until we got in the car to head for school this morning. My son climbed up into the car, and his shoes stepped right in - a stream of red wine that somehow remained on my car's running board.
How this is possible on a slanted driveway defies physics. But there it was, and it went into the car and to school with his shoe. This picture does not do it justice. Oh, and the wine on his shoe was nothing compared to the wine smell on my front passenger side floor mat. The place where I set the bottle, stopper in place, inside a shopping tote, nestled on top of my jacket, so it wouldn't spill on my two minute drive home.
This is what I get for not just leaving the bottle with my hostess. Like a civilized person. The lesson here is, Karma isn't just a bitch. She's a bitch who clearly prefers vodka.