Momnesia

'Bout 99 Cents Short of a Dollar

AUGUSTA, GA. - Scott and I had a date Friday night.

Obviously, you did not hear me, or there would be confetti raining down upon my head and cripples would be lining up for miles outside my door wanting me to lay my miracle-making hands upon their ailments.

My husband and I had a date, a real date, with just me and him and nowhere we had to make an appearance and without a scheduled agenda or dress code. We exchanged words that didn't rhyme and sang songs - don't ask - not written by a cast of characters wearing matching shirts (or shirts of the same style that do not match because they are all different but still very bright colors, thank you so very much, Australia.)

But it is a good thing that he is my husband and not some poor, unsuspecting man who asked me out because after...
1) hitting 30, which was officially 15 years of torturous dating, I turned into a Minuteman-version of the Dating Game on guys, waving the flag of the United Personalities of Stacey with all of them screaming, "Love her or leave her!" and;
2) after squeezing a watermelon-headed baby out of a - well, significantly smaller... uh, hey, shut up! Stop thinking about my hoo-ha! But let's just say the experience put things in perspective...
... I have apparently forgotten the Rules.

I am beginning to think that I was raised by wolves but adopted by a kindly, aging, childless farming couple who kept me in the barn but tragically died early, gentle deaths leaving me a ward of the state, which found me another adoptive family very quickly, and all while I was still quite young but not in time to teach me social skills. Witness.

Stopped at the 13th and Telfair streetlight.
We're coming from the Hill and going to The Boll Weevil. I'm driving. Scott's window is open.
(thinking): I bet I can hit the sidewalk with my gum.
Scott: blah blah blah blah blah
Totally. I can totally hit that sidewalk with my gum.
Scott: And then I said blah blah blah blah.
His head is in my way. Can I make it past his head?
Scott: blah blah blah blah
Do I want to make it past his head?
Scott: blah blah blah -
"Hey, move back," I order.
He obeys: "What are you-"
(huck!) Damn. Not quite.
Luckily, Scott collapsed in laughter and grabbed my hand.
"See?!" he guffawed. "That's why you're my best friend!"

We make it to The Boll Weevil without me doing anything else utterly disgusting. They've painted the exterior of the building, and they're working on the exteriors of all of the buildings on that block. Looks nice, even if I'm not sure about the color choices. Mustard always reminds me of a candlestick in the library, and that's a messy way to die, but at least a nice place to do it. As I cut into the bread, I chop into my left thumb. Hard. Deep. There is blood on the table.

"Are you okay?" Scott asks.
"yyyeeeeesssss," I grimace. Hey! A candle.
"I want to light my straw wrapper!" I exclaim. And then I do it.
Oh shit!
"What are you doing?!" he demands, and, dude, I have no idea. The shiny lighty thing distracted me! I blow on the paper and manage to put it out. A cloud of fine grey ash shrouds our table and settles in my water glass.
"You want to just get an appetizer and go?" he asks, looking at his bleeding, ash-covered bride.

That would probably be safest.

Disclaimer: No alcohol was involved in the making of this story. That came later.