By Lorry Myers
I love a baby shower, especially this one. Balloons on the country drive and treat bags with caramel corn. There was blue icing on the cake along with bright blue napkins that reminded everyone that the celebrated baby would be a boy.
My daughter and I were going together and we cleaned up in our purposeful best. The weather had turned cold so I wore a sweater tunic with vines of white flowers growing and flowing on a pale gray background.
I was hoping to be warm, yet stylish enough to say I was cool.
The shower started with introductions followed by a game, which thankfully, did not involve diapers and melted candy bars. The hostess then invited everyone to the food line where the blue napkins were stacked neatly beside the plates. There were various dips and multiple crockpots followed by the artfully decorated cake.
All good reasons to love a baby shower.
I wasn’t the first to jump into the food line but I wasn’t the last either. When I got to the crockpots, I reached for the long, metal spoon in the meatballs and my arm hit the same kind of spoon sticking up out of the ‘lil smokies. That caused the spoon to flip through the air and slide down the front of my sweater, leaving a badge of shame behind. I looked down at myself, now dripping in thick, red sauce.
I didn’t want to cause any attention to my condition, so I grabbed a handful of napkins and slipped into the bathroom to try and repair the damage. I turned on the faucet, pulled my sweater taunt, and scrubbed away with wet blue napkins. The whole time I was rubbing the front of my sweater, my eyes darted about, trying to shield the fact that I was a red-hot mess.
For the complete column, see this week’s edition of the Centralia Fireside Guard