My volcano runneth over

“What were you thinking?” Hubs mouthed at me as the E-man exclaimed over his last birthday present: a Star Wars volcano.

“Are you kidding? He loves it!” I said later, as we picked up the wrapping paper.

I smiled smugly.

Hubs just shook his head.

Pretty cool, no?

That night, my spouse conducted the first suggested experiment involving our new volcano. As lava spilled down the sides, the children shrieked gleefully.

“See? I told you it was a great idea,” I said.

Hubs just shook his head.

The next night, little E-man wanted to try to next experiment listed in the instruction booklet.

Hubs groaned.

“I’ll do it,” I declared. “Come on, kids.”

Within five minutes, I’d spilled baking powder all over our antique diner-style kitchen table. Then vinegar.

Undeterred, I plunged a dropper into a bottle of red food coloring.

“Oh, s**t!” I shrieked, as dye poured over the edge of the bottle, coating both of my hands.

Hubs raced over, saw the red pool spreading on the table and announced, “I’m taking this one over.”

As I scrubbed — to no avail — in the bathroom, I heard more cussing.

Hubs, it turned out, had spilled the yellow food coloring.

I held out my stained hands and did a Lady Macbeth impersonation.

He wasn’t amused.

Thus entailed a half-hour of scrubbing: the table, the kitchen floor and our hands. The table and floor cleaned up fine. I can’t say the same for our hands.

I found some success using Hubs’ facial exfoliating scrub. He tried Comet.

Despite all our efforts, we both went to work the next day with bizarrely colored hands.

“At least yours are red!” Hubs wailed. “All this yellow makes the red on mine look pink!”

Further adding to his indignity was the fact that after the “volcano incident” (as we now call it), I had put the volcano, which was leaking lava, in the shower.

So when Hubs emerged from the stall, his feet were spotted.

This morning, as he left with the kids, he turned around and thrust out a booted foot.

“Know what that is?” he asked, pointing to a yellowish-brownish splotch.

“Dog poop?”

“Lava.”

And as the door swung shut, I heard his parting words: “I told you it was a bad idea.”

4 thoughts on “My volcano runneth over

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