It's a dramedy, Part 1

Sunday night on our way home from my Mom's, I snapped.

Audrey and Ben both, at the same time:  "Mooom..."  (insert request)

Mr W barely raised an eyebrow as I started, hand motions like a stewardess and all, "Okay, listen.  Get all your requests in now, because I am quickly approaching the last "MOO-OOOM" of the day.  After this happens, I won't hear you anymore, got it?  No.  More.  "MOO-OOM".  Do we understand each other?" 

Ten thousand "Moo-ooom"s a day is plenty, don't you think?

I jumped out of the van in the driveway, noticing the amount of dirt, watermarks, etc. and smirking a little about it, on Mr W's car.  His cop car.  The marked vehicle he has been bringing home.  It's a long story, but he is supposed to have a take-home car.   He got this marked one last week.  Oh, yeah, it's subtle, having a marked black and white in your driveway.  As subtle as painting a target on your roof.  

Far be it for me to steal his thunder, though.   He was really happy about having a car again, so I just buried my trepidations and looked on the bright side.  Afterall, he's a big boy, and he is fully aware of what the implications and complications having a cop car in your driveway can entail.  So I consoled myself with the thought that maybe the sight of it in our driveway would be a good thing.  Maybe it would make our neighbors feel safer.  The stars would align.  It would be thirty degrees cooler...sorry.  I'm a wee delirious in this heat.

Of course, I should have known better. 

Sometime after we got home late Sunday night, and Monday morning, the cop car got egged.

It makes you feel all warm in fuzzy inside, doesn't it?

Mr W washed the car and it's no longer at our house.  As he told me that he could still get a whiff of eau de huevo on his hands yesterday afternoon, all I could do was smile consolingly. 

There's no way I'd pat his hand.