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So this was my day yesterday.

First, I woke up late. How late? Very late. More specifically: I woke at exact moment that I was supposed to be dropping Sam off at school.

Lots of running around ensued, whilst throwing clothes on Sam, shoveling food into his lunchbox, and forcing my sick husband out of bed and into the car, because I didn’t want to do the school run in my pajamas with zit cream on my face.

My life is so glamorous.

And matters didn’t improve from there. Despite my own burgeoning sinus infection, I dropped George off at the doctor’s office, and then did a blitz of errands that were all a week overdue. One of my stops was the liquor store, where I picked up a bottle of scotch as a Christmas present for George’s boss. The bottles were tossed in the back of my minivan, where I presumed they’d be safe for the drive home.

I presumed wrong.

En route to the school pick-up, I took a too-sharp corner. Bottles rolled, knocked into one another and then crash. There was the distinct sound of glass breaking . . . and then the even more distinct smell of expensive scotch filled the car.

“Gah!” I shrieked, rolling down the windows.

“That didn’t sound good,” George said, sniffling. He was so stuffed up, he couldn’t smell the Scotch fumes. They were so overpowering, I had to roll down my window and stick my head out.

“Ohmigod! This is bad! Very, very bad!”

George seemed unperturbed. “It’s too bad the bottle broke, but there’s not much point in getting upset about it,” he said, shrugging.

“Not much point in getting upset?” I repeated. “We are about to pick Sam up from school. In a car that smells like a distillery.”

“So?”

“So the teacher brings Sam out to my car! She's going to smell this! At best, she's going to think I’m a drunk. At worst, she's going to report me to Child Protective Services,” I gabbled.

“At least they’ll think you’re an expensive drunk,” George said. “That was a good bottle of scotch.”

“You think this is funny?”

“Actually, yeah, it is a little funny,” he said.

“You,” I said darkly, “have a very screwed up sense of humor.”

I don’t know if Sam's teacher bought the whole broken-gift-bottle story. And my minivan still reeks of scotch. I keep spritzing Febreze around, in a feeble attempt to absorb the odor, but it doesn’t seem to be working.

Let’s just hope I don’t get pulled over by the police anytime soon. I'd get a DUI just on the smell wafting from my minivan.

Posted 14 December 2006 at 09:13 AM