We played euchre last night and I was dealt this hand. Look at it. Was there ever such a perfect hand dealt?

I picked up those cards and slowly fanned them out, and time seemed to stand still. The child sitting behind me whispered “Oh. My. Gosh” and I turned slightly and said “shhhhh.”

A perfect lay-down loner, in hearts. I could feel my “Old Maid-in-her-hand-full-house” dumb expression spreading over my face. (I never could bluff; everybody always knew if I did or did not have the good cards.)

I’d never been so excited about a hand of euchre.

And then, and then, and then. . . .

The enemy dealer, on my left, who may or may not have been my husband, picked up his cards and realized that he was a card short. Then he realized, oh, haha, he’d picked up the kitty instead of his hand, and the whole round was aborted and everyone threw in his cards except me because I was in shock.

I showed my hand and everyone was duly impressed. I got very little sympathy at not getting to use it, though. I needed sympathy, darn it! I still need it! I’m traumatized!

And then the enemy player to my right smiled and said, “You wouldn’t have gotten to do it anyway. I was going to tell the dealer to pick up the spade.”

That would, admittedly, have been even harder to handle.

OTHER THAN THAT, the evening was great. Thank you, dear friends, for coming over and for being such nice people even though you laughed at my hearts, and for just being your own lovely selves and sharing that with me for a few hours.