I haven’t seen much of my wife lately. A couple of busy weeks at work, including a weekend at the office, and quality time is hard to come by. But last night we got lucky. I was home at 8, we had a new movie from Netflix and, the best part, she’d made a huge pot of chicken soup.
“What movie did we get?” I asked, searching the refrigerator for beer.
“Machete,” she responded.
“That gratuitous sex and violence movie? Awesome. But we’re gonna need some beer,” I said, reaching for my jacket.
A quick trip to Grand Slam and we were set. Park the car, grab the goods and our spur-of-the moment date night could begin. Unfortunately, there was an unexpected twist. On my way up the cement stairway that leads to our cement box, the handle on my delicious box of Boulevard Pilsner split open in my hand. In less than three seconds, the 12-pack had made its way down the stairs like a slinky—leaving a combination of glass and foam in its path.
We lost three beers in the accident. I tried to clean up the mess as best I could. You’d think after all our years in Chicago and all the car-less trips to the grocery store, I could handle a 12-pack of beer. But clearly my utter lack of coordination will be a lifelong affliction.
Happy Friday, friends. Use both handles and try to keep your beer off the stairway.