FlashBack Friday
(As Beno pointed out, I have a problem with knowing what day it is.)

I remember going over to Donovan's house while we were both still in high school. He had invited me to have dinner with him, and after he had twisted my arm a little I had grudgingly accepted.

So there we were, playing some billiards, throwing some darts, eating some pistachios and talking about how Ryan Smith would always leave the shells everywhere.

Donovan's mother called us to dinner, and everyone went to sit down. I excused myself since I had to use the guest restroom.

I had been about to wash my hands when I balked. Sitting there in these ornate little soap dishes, were a myriad of little brightly-colored soaps. And they weren't just colorful either, they were shaped like seashells, and flowers, and all manners of wondrous things. Sort of like these, but even more dazzling.

Clearly, these soaps were too nice to be used for mere hand-washing. The most daunting evidence was that the soaps appeared to have never been used at all.

I looked around a bit, but was unable to find anything I could wash with without feeling like I was desecrating it.

I knew there was some actual liquid hand-soap by the kitchen sink. It was in a nice little bottle, but I planned on being careful with it. I exited the bathroom and headed towards the kitchen.

As I stepped out, I heard Donovan's mother comment under her breath, "He didn't wash his hands."

I was mortified. I realized she must have had no qualms about using the soap in there.

I know she hadn't meant for me to hear it, so I acted as if I hadn't. I managed to hide my chagrin and kept a steady composure as walked into the kitchen and washed my hands in the sink.

Loudly.

With a lot of soap.

I returned to the table, sat down, and began to eat. My mind was racing. I knew that I could make jovial remark about how I thought the soaps in the guest bathroom looked too nice to use. But I had to do it right as I sat down, as the window of time to make such a comment is small. I couldn't very well mention it at dessert, could I?

"Pass the pie, please. You know, those are some beautiful soaps you have in that bathroom of yours."

In the space of a few moments, I had fiercely debated in my head whether to admit that I was a fool when it came to pretty soap.

In the end, I decided I would rather look like a slovenly high-schooler than a fool. (Not that those two titles are in any way mutually exclusive.) I had kept my mouth shut, except when I had opened it to shovel in more pie.

That was my answer to everything back then: More pie.

Barring the soap incident, dinner was great.

We'll have to do it again sometime.