Sunday, February 19, 2012

A New Dawn

Screw that blood sucking vampire bullshit.

I don't give two craps about that.

Nope, we're trying something entirely new today. Not so ladylike women and, well, probably no (straight) gentlemen: blogging under the influence.

While my blood type is not all together Pinot Grigio (yet), the fast path is certainly leading me in that direction.

Last weekend, Chris and I embarked on a Friday night date. Both the date part and the Friday night part in that sentence are completely abnormal and semi-uncomfortable to us two. We generally prefer our Friday nights quiet, lazy, and at home eating leftovers or bowls of cereal. Why? Because life is hard and we are frequently too traumatized by the daily grind come Friday night to bother putting on lipstick or deoderant for one another. Chris usually falls asleep watching whatever-the-hell golf tournament is airing sometime before 9pm and I generally stomp to bed, watch Diners Drive Ins and Dives and tucker out around 10:30pm.

I love nothing more than my Saturday morning workout. 8:30am, minimum of two hours, followed up by sunglasses, a coffee shop, and wearing disgustingly gross Lululemon workout gear while doing errands until at least 1pm. Stretchy black clothes, soaked so heavily in sweat that the moisture reignites the scent of my beloved Tide Sport.

Thank God I shop Co-Ops where that sort of appalling personal hygiene is tolerated if not embraced.

Anyway, we fancied ourselves up and hustled our asses to a cocktail-attire kind of restaurant that serves things with pretentious condiments like truffle-infused herb butter. Which tastes like dirty bits of grass scraped from the blade of my Craftsman, but it's what you do when you have been together long enough to merit Commonlaw Spouse status and yet, you're too old (and boring, frankly) to do something outrageous like wear high heels when it's cold outside only to trudge through downtown drinking silly blue cocktails and slamming shots of tequila out of test tubes.


Twas nice. After pitching an embarrassingly enormous hissy fit the weekend before about Chris' lack of initiative or participation in domestic endevours, he went so far as to make the reservations and even take off his Tiger Woods golf hat for the ocassion.


He wears a baseball hat to have sex.

OKAY, I KNOW. Overshare! GAH!

But it's like when I want a Snickers bar but instead I eat 32 baby carrots, five graham crackers, a vat of hummus and then eat the Snickers bar anyway, "often" is not going to cut it when explaining just how regularly Chris wears a baseball hat.

He gets naked but leaves a hat on when we have relations.


Moving on.

He was EN FUEGO. And that, suburban readers and equally White bloggers, is Spanish for he looked smoking fucking hot.

We ordered a bottle of red wine. Which I am not sure we have ever done on a dinner date. We giggled and held hands across the table and I worried that there was dirty grass butter in my teeth while sheepishly smiling and cooing in his general direction. We ate slowly and without unnecessary banter over taking out the trash or how annoying his coworkers are. After being presented the wine list for a second time, I opted out in favor of coffee at the meal's conclusion.

It was the most glorious mug of brown water I have ever enjoyed. The bill sat on the table unchecked (and unpaid: DO YOU WANT YOUR 20% OR NOT, SERVER JASON).  I shoved a fistfull of peppermints in my purse as I tried to be coy and swoop past the coat check gal en rout to the car. You know, so she didn't know I was BOMBED out of my mind. You're not supposed to do that in adult places that serve Port and Scotch for dessert. We sip and enjoy, not guzzle and give hand jobs in the bathroom.

WHICH, for the official record, did not happen. No, sir.

But we did love each other more by night's end. Not because we didn't love each other going into it, but because Mr. Sauvignon sometimes reminds us to forget the bullshit that we let roadblock the free-flow of love from person to person after a sort of long time together.

And I love that. I love love and I love FEELING IN LOVE. It took a cabernet flavored reminder to wriggle the lever and let the purity of that feeling wash over the other insignificant nonsense.

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