Happy Post-Valentine's Day to Me!
Blonde Moment and Dimples conspired against me yesterday. The result was Dimples on my doorstep at about 8:30 yesterday evening, bearing yellow roses for me and Strawberry Shortcake for the little groupie.
(He would want me to make sure you know they’re yellow roses with orange tips.)
I was pretty surprised to see him, considering that my hair looked like a giant frizzball. I tried frantically to smooth it down using every gel and crème and straightener I had in my house, but when I was done my hair just looked like a giant, greasy frizzball. “Give me some warning next time if you want me to have pretty hair!” I exclaimed.
That’s the reason this blog is so late this morning; we were whooping it up pretty late at the Olive Garden last night, and now I’m trying to wake up. That was the first time I’ve ever whooped it up at the Olive Garden. One conversation I can remember of the many we had:
Dimples crunched into a purple onion from the salad and remarked that his breath wasn’t going to smell very good later on.
“That’s okay,” I informed him. “You’re not going to get a good-night kiss anyway.”
“Hey! Look around at all these guys sitting around us,” he protested. “I bet they’ll all get more than a good-night kiss when they get home.”
Was that supposed to make me feel guilty? “Take another look around at these guys sitting around us,” I said. “Ain’t none of ‘em with me, and no matter what, you gotta feel sorry for them for that!”
If I remember correctly, I got a laugh and a high-five out of that. He is such a good sport about my oddball convictions.
When we got home Dimples made the mistake of bringing up the Kennedy assassination to my dad. That’s my dad’s favorite conspiracy theory; he lit up like leftover Christmas lights in a redneck’s yard in July and whipped out all the paperwork he’s ever collected in ten years of study and went over each page very meticulously. If Dimples wasn’t interested, he was at least a very enthusiastic faker.
(He’s also got my dad pretty much wrapped now.)
This morning, he was on the phone with Blonde Moment again, conspiring some more. “Did I do good? Did she have fun last night? Does she want to go out again?” The answers to all those questions are yes, but before I get a rash of e-mails wondering if we’ve now waltzed into the blissful world of coupledom, the answer is no. It takes more than one nice Valentine’s Day to crack this tough nut.
(Although a high-powered microscope might reveal a few hairline fractures.)
So happy post-Valentine’s day to me. After 23 years of getting Valentine's Day presents from no one but my mother, I think I deserved a nice one!
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