Egged! Argh!

Late last night, I was rudely awakened out of a sound sleep by the noise of battering ram proportions. Bang! Bang! Bang! Even Maxx Attaxx jumped from the spot near my feet and ran to the front door.

By the time I got to the front landing, my daughter and her friend (who should just move in, she’s here all the time anyway) were already at the open door, surveying the damage.

We were egged.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have cared much, but this was a bad thing. We had just had our house repainted, and they finished yesterday.

Obviously, it had to be a “friend” of my daughter’s. My acquaintances wouldn’t waste the eggs or their time by doing something this sophomoric.

My husband, the dear Mr. Demonic, was in the throes of a death sleep. He didn’t even wake up. He has plenty of employees who are mad at him, but it’s doubtful any one of them would come to the house to egg it.

It appears that Ms. MiniD’s car was also hit.

The two girls cleaned up the car and the front door before going to bed.

Ms. MiniD thinks she knows who it was. (It was NOT her ex-boyfriend. That’s good, because it would make working with him on Monday rather interesting in a tense way.) It was a “friend” of hers whose mother owes me $350 for the plane ticket I bought for her back in March, when we checked out colleges over on the Left Coast. The “friend” was caught with dope, so the mother nixed the trip, thus leaving me holding a rather expensive bag with someone else’s name on it. I also think this “friend” is the one who absconded with some money, my mother-in-law’s ashes, and some other things lying around the house.

“What’s wrong with that girl? I don’t want her in my house.” I warned Ms. MiniD this morning.

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Ms. MiniD snapped. She was late for work and cranky. She didn’t like scraping yolk off her car.

Is there a moral to this story? Maybe. I can’t find it.