"What did you do," I ask without looking up, "egg someone?"
"How'd you know?"
I drop a dish in the sink, surprised that I got it in one. "Spill."
"Well," hubby scratches the top of his head, "some teenage boys tossed soda cans over our fence and into the pool. So I waited a few minutes and then followed them in your car."
"My car?" I squeak. I don't want to be a teen target. I don't want egg yolks splattered on my windshield, or, or ... I slam my hands on my hips and narrow my eyes. "Rob damm it, I ..."
He cuts me off. "Don't worry, it's dark, and I tracked them from a side street and then lobbed a handful of eggs over the car as I passed them at an intersection."
I give a horrified choke of laughter. "And?"
Delighted, he grins back. "Bullseye. Hit one on the top of the head." I groan and he adds, "Don't worry, boys are oblivious."
Uh huh, maybe, but this is why Beamer says I'm on the bus to hell and Rob's driving.