The Miserable Bucket aka Miss V Rides Again aka We Are Eggs

       Recently, I was given the opportunity to check off one of the many items on my bucket list. Without going into very much detail, this opportunity came via my daughter who invited me to join her choir which was planning to do a production of one of my all-time favorite musicals, Les Miserables. Long story short, I did, and I have been very much enjoying it. Enter Miss V. Yep, Miss V rides again. Miss V is also a member of the choir. Last night, auditions were being held for various solos in the upcoming production. Those of us who were not auditioning (myself and Miss V included among them), were just standing around chatting, waiting for the audition process to be over and choir practice to begin.
I'm not really certain how the conversation began, but at some point, a question was directed at Miss V.
     UP (Unknown Person): "Did you already audition?"
     Miss V: "No. I'm not auditioning."
     UP: "Why not?"
     Helpful Mother (aka Me): "But, you have a beautiful voice."
     Miss V: "Oh, I can sing. I just don't have a soloist type of voice."
     Helpful Mother: "I know what you mean. That's me."
     Miss V: "Yeah, I have a choir voice. I'm good at blending. I'm like-"
     Suddenly, she seemed to be at a loss for words, as if she weren't quite sure how to describe what she meant.
     And I knew. I knew that I completely understood where she was coming from, and being the ever helpful mother that I am, I quickly jumped in to save her, throwing her the life preserver I was so certain she was searching for. Giving her the gift of my wisdom. And my strangely offbeat analogy.
     Helpful Mother: "We're eggs."
     Dead silence reigned. Followed by a burst of laughter. Thanks Miss V. Appreciate the support.
     Miss V: "That sooo has to go on your blog."
     Uh huh. So here I am putting it on my blog.
     Helpful Mother: "No, what I mean is, we're like eggs. We're good at making puddings, and cakes, and cookies. But, on our own, we're kind of bland. We need ketchup or Tabasco sauce, or something."
     Miss V: "A little salt and pepper to give us flavor. 'Cause we are so bland."
     Yep. We're bland. Sorry Miss V, didn't mean to call you bland.
     But she got even.
     Minutes later, she was playing with my hair, which, for once, wasn't all bound up in a pony tail.
     Miss V: "Your hair is so soft."
     Helpful Mother: "Thank-"
     Miss V: "And I love the gray. It's makes you look so distinguished."
     Re-enter dead silence, followed by more laughter.
     My Daughter: "Oh, that's great, Miss V! That's just like saying, 'I love those wrinkles. They make you look so experienced.' "
     Miss V: "No, no! That's not what I meant!"
     It's okay Miss V. You are an egg. You are bland. I am an egg. A gray, wrinkled, shriveled up, bland, bland egg. Good thing I'm working on fulfilling that bucket list. That damn bucket's getting closer and closer by the minute. I will now have nightmares of giant buckets chasing me with eggbeaters and screaming with little French accents, "Non! Non! You must be een the omelette!! Een the omelette!!!"