I have a best friend named Ariel. She was my first gal pal at two and my Maid of Honor at 23. Ariel has been the Shawn Spencer to my Burton Guster from preschool to present day. We have gotten ourselves into a jam on more than one occasion, one of which: The Smoothie Debacle.
My mom wasn’t home (most good stories start this way) and we had a hankering for smoothies. The problem was we had a fairly limited concept of what a smoothie actually included. So we scrummaged the kitchen and confidently combined every logical ingredient we could think of. Grapes, peanut butter, sugar, milk, eggs–you know, normal smoothie stuff. We stirred it all up with pride and put it in the microwave so it could cook to perfection.
Now you may be thinking, “Hmmm, I’ve never tried that recipe before.” Well, neither had we and while we both may have been in the gifted program at school, we were only nine or so, and on top of that, I don’t know that either of us had actually ever tasted a smoothie.
And before you start to push back on the microwave idea, hear us out. We had to get all the ingredients melted down into that smooth texture smoothies are known for. Plus, everyone knows it’s dangerous to eat eggs raw. This wasn’t Amateur Hour.
After an exciting number of minutes, the time came to retrieve our masterpiece. Unfortunately, in the transfer from the microwave to the counter, some of the boiling hot concoction sloshed onto me, causing me to whip my arm back in pain.
I’m guessing you realize it’s not called The Smoothie Debacle because it ended well. The large and dangerously full bowl wildly fell to the ground, splashing our glorious and copious amount of smoothie all over the counter tops, the cabinet doors, the kitchen floor, under the stove and fridge, any surface imaginable, etc. It was everywhere.
Ariel and I stared wide eyed at each other. She says I was almost crying because I was so scared of getting in trouble (which doesn’t sound anything like me–I’ve never once cared about what people in authority think of me–but we’ll take her word for it). She was consumed with guilt as she had been the one, after being inspired by an article in an American Girl magazine (we both got the American Girl magazine as the consolation prize for neither of our parents be willing to fork the money out for a doll itself), to suggest our smoothie adventure.
Obviously we had to get this cleaned up before my mom got home–or worse, my dad. The kitchen was a whirlwind of scrawny, little arms attempting to soak up thick, slimy smoothie with thin paper towels from cabinets and unintentionally spreading the mess further under the fridge with a Swiffer. We had barely begun when we were heard the ominous sound of one of my parents coming up the basement steps from the garage.
We froze in sheer panic. There was no way we could get this mess cleaned up before they reached the top of the stairs. I was convinced it was dad. Unable to move, we braced ourselves for our last precious moments on earth.
…Okay, so here’s the thing: the real ending to this story is anticlimactic (but, if you insist, you can keep scrolling to read it).
However, if you’d like to make me laugh with your own alternative ending, I would honestly love that so much.
And, no, there’s no analogy about life or mental health here, though I’m sure I could find one because I’m good at that crap. I really just started thinking about that memory today and wanted to record it for history’s sake and to make you hopefully smile.
The real snooze ending?
We remained frozen until my mom, praise the Lord it was my mom, made it into the kitchen with her arms full of groceries, after which our apologies and reasonable explanations and promises to clean everything up spilled out faster than our smoothie had hit the linoleum.
To our surprise, we were met with the decent balance of annoyance and grace my parents have mastered.
We cleaned up the mess and kept to our well-behaved selves the rest of the day.
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