Soooo … as you know, I’ve been running a lot lately. A lot. And I’ve been writing about my running a lot because – well, that’s what’s taking up my time. But one of my loyal readers (Jeff) was kind enough to point out to me that I was blogging “an awful lot” about running … and that maybe I might want to blog about something else, oh, every once in a while.
Then I headed into a client deadline and I barely had time to run, much less blog, this past week. Then Carmen was nice enough to call me out on it tonight – yay, not only is she reading but she’s missing me when I’m not talking!
So, this post is for Carmen, my dear friend of more than 15 years. I won’t tell you about all the big moments those 15 years have covered, about the weddings and the babies (hers) and the hugs and the tears and the time she brought me a pair of panties in a clear plastic bag to high school (don’t ask. I won’t tell.)
I’ll tell you about the time she and I decided to make brownies. This may not sound like the most exciting story on the planet, but we were hanging out at her parents’ house – her mom was out of town and her dad was upstairs working, and so we broke out the brownie recipe and started combining ingredients. I’m not sure which one of us misread the 1/4 tsp. salt for 1/4 cup of salt, but we both knew something was wrong when we decided to taste the delicious chocolatey batter and it tasted like ocean water.
We were about 14 then and still scared of “getting in trouble.” (Yeah, we were a little bit goody/goody, like the time we missed the Pink Floyd laser show because Susan said we could tell our parents we were staying at her house and we’d stay out all night instead with the 18-year-old boys. We weren’t quite there yet.) Carmen said we had to hide the evidence or her dad would be angry at us for being so wasteful. So off we went, into the night, in search of neighbors’ trash cans on the curb we could toss our mess into (I believe we’d dumped it into a grocery bag by this point, after baking it first just to make sure they wouldn’t turn out.)
We didn’t find a trash can but we did see the lights belonging to a Toyota Previa coming down the hill toward Carmen’s house. “It’s my mom!” I warned, so we broke into a run, through the woods, back to Carmen’s before her dad and my mom realized we were missing. I’m pretty sure that brownie mix got dropped in the front yard on the way back, only to be discovered by her dogs later (who were being watched by her dad. No dogs were harmed by our chocolate disaster, or else this story would not have been amusing in the least.) Her dad was very bewildered as to how a bag of brownies ended up in their front yard … (oh, and turns out it wasn’t even my mom. It was some other mom with a Toyota Previa.)
Carmen, your oldest isn’t too much younger than we were back then …