Happy Hill Vodka, the plastic bottle. That's what was staring back at me when I opened up our recycling bin this morning. I charge upstairs to wake up daughter #1 (there's nothing like playing Jack Webb to your kids' Sleepy the Dwarf) to let her know that I've re-recycled evidence of her contraband. While the nasty chihuahua-mix (NC-M) that she's keeping for the holidays growls at me (he knows the truth!), she emphatically mumbles that it's not hers.
I say that I'll talk with mom to see if it's hers (I don't know if we've ever owned a bottle of vodka, especially Happy Hill, the plastic bottle) and leave for work, contentedly knowing that NC-M won't let her go back to sleep.
My wife will tell anyone (everyone) that #1 and I regularly battle for the last word in our father-daughter wars. And I for sure was going to have the last swig of this bottle battle (too much, huh?).
I finally reach my wife by phone and tell her what I've found. She remembers that she found the bottle in middle of the street last week (before #1 came home) and put it in recycling.
Most other fathers would sheepishly apologize to their daughters and make up by buying them a new car or at least loaning them a credit card.
I called #1 and said, 'Mom found your bottle in the street.'
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