The day started with small alterations of a typical Saturday, but we still "made hay while the sun shined". A trip to the grocery store was a priority. We are on the linger longer committee after church and Sunday we would put out a root beer spread for 75 socially, hungry (maybe or maybe not in that order) single adults. So, 4 giant vanilla ice cream tubs and 12 two liter root beers later, we were off to load them into the church refrigerator/freezer. We're not dumb. Cooling them there was the best plan for an easier Sunday morning.
We carted each bag inside, carefully placing them on the kitchen counter. Randy opened the refrigerator door and bent down to retrieve each bottle as I handed it to him from on high . . . until that one bottle.
Slipping out of my hands, and with a terrified expression on my face, I knew its fate - and mine. Hitting the floor, a spastic root beer bomb exploded from a crack in its 89 cent plastic! Like a bad dream, I keep replaying the bottle spinning 80 miles an hour, spray painting root beer in every direction from the floor to the ceiling. It would have been hopeless to try and stop it. I turned my back away and hid my eyes. The damage was already done. . . .
When Randy peeked out from behind the protection of the door, it was like we could hear crickets chirping, against what seconds before had been a battle zone. The cheap plastic bottle lay spent and lifeless on the floor and was done for, except for about 1/4 of its flat contents. We were afraid to move. Now what.
Without speaking, Randy slowly stood and reached for (luckily, not my neck) the paper towel machine. I tiptoed to the maintenance closet and retrieved a mop. The overhaul began. The refrigerator was standing in a root beer puddle. We rolled every splattered rack of trays out and began dissecting the remains, knowing it would be a miracle if we could clean every last splat. Spots everywhere? That's putting it mildly. You don't understand.
The mop came in most handy. Over every inch of the uneven floor (hence, the fridge puddle) 10 times . . . oh, and of course across the ceiling a few times, since those spots were literally in and before our eyes. Brown ones. After a while we weren't even surprised to see spots under our arm pits. Lets just say that after an hour, that kitchen has never looked better. It was in need of an overhaul anyway. Urban Stewart would have been proud. We both knew the halls would smell like root beer for weeks, but that was OK. It could have smelled like something worse. We walked out with a clear conscience and no sounds of sticky shoes.
We came home and took a nap; right in our now dry, but previously root beer soaked clothes.
We carried on a few more Saturday priorities around the house. And at bed time, putting a comb through my hair was impossible. It had turned to hard sticky candy. I felt like Barbies' plastic haired Ken.
Saturday is a special day. It's the day we get ready for Sunday . . . If you only knew.
