Lucy Ball goes to the wrong house on New Year’s Eve
Since childhood, I have had these experiences, which I call “Lucy Ball moments” and last night was one of them. It was cold, we were running late, and we had two parties to attend before the clock struck midnight. My husband had pulled up to a huge mansion of a house in Belvidere with cars parked everywhere. He suggested I get out so he could pull closer to the snow bank. Armed with a bottle of wine and a platter of brie cheese with cranberry chutney and toasted bread, I hustled toward the entrance when I noticed a young, very large brown dog pacing on the front stoop. He appeared harmless, so I cautiously passed him and rang the door bell. Just as I released the bell, I heard my husband shout from the street, “Wrong house!” Before I could move, a man opened the door. I apologized that I was at the wrong house and turned away to leave. He called out a happy new year and closed the door. At that moment, the dog started jumping on me. (I think he wanted the brie.) I turned my back to him, shrieking, as his paws hit the top of my shoulder blades with a staggering force. I screamed again, this time for my husband. At that moment, the door opened and a couple came running out, calling and chasing after the dog, who was jumping on me while I made my way down the slippery drive—cheese platter aloft—as quickly as I could.
Once I got to the right party, I shared my embarrassing story and learned about similar escapades: One was an elderly aunt who went into the wrong house, put gifts under the tree, and got a plate of food before noticing she was not with the right family. Another attended the wrong funeral and didn’t realize it until the eulogy. Perhaps you’ve had a Lucy Ball moment... It certainly seems an adventurous way to begin the New Year.