1. I got a massage.
2. I purchased myself a nice little jug of Irish Creme.
C. I proceeded to knock back a couple of mugs of chocolate fudge flavored gourmet coffee that contained shots of said Irish Creme.
4. I panicked and crapped.
My Saturday. November 23, 2013.
Start off with some good ol’fashioned groping and end it with a bang. That’s me.
I was unexplainably excited because I had nothing to do Saturday. Nothing. It was a day for me. Keith was working and Cayla would sleep until she got hungry or had to poop. The day was mine.
A day to do a whole buttload of nothing with.
The best part was…I couldn’t wash clothes. The washing machine just flipped me off the night before and Keith wasn’t going to fight with it again. That washer and I aren’t lovers of each other and I won out.
In other words, Momma was getting a new washing machine.
Keith gets home from work around 4:30. Showers, changes clothes, and off to the local Home Depot-ish place we go.
My entire day changed on that 3.4 mile drive. In the blink of an eye…my whole world kinda got real crumbly-ish.
5:24 p.m – Saturday, November 23, 2013
This is pretty much verbatim:
(Kinda. Some parts anyway.)
Keith: Hey…I got a reminder on my phone calendar about us going to see that musical, Chicago, tonight. Is that really tonight?
Me: Hell to the no. I got an email from the performance hall thanking me for my purchase of the tickets and how they “looked forward to seeing me at the hall tonight.” Puh-leeze. They need to get their shit rolling in the right direction. The musical isn’t until NEXT Saturday night, November 23rd…the weekend after Thanksgiving. I told you that when I got the tickets 4 months ago.
Keith: I know. I thought that was odd. Why’d you set it up on my phone calendar for tonight then?
Me: Probably so you’d have this exact conversation with me so I’d remember it was next weekend. That reminder was actually a reminder for you to remind me about it being next Saturday. I’m smart like that. I know you think I’m a buffoon at times….but I’m smarter than you think.
Keith: I don’t think you’re a buffoon.
Me: Sure you do. And I don’t care. And I’m not getting one of those fancy-ass washers either. All I want is a water temperature setting changer, a load size changer, and that’s it. I don’t need it to do anything else. Unless we find one that mops, vacuums and scratches my back at night, I don’t need fancy crap.
Keith: That’s cool. Whatever you want is good with me.
5:32 pm – Saturday, November 23, 2013
Me: Park there. It’s close. And hang on…I need to get my…what the hell is this? OH. MY. GOD. OH. MY. GOD. OH. MY. GOD.
Keith: What?? What is it.
Me: IT’S THE TICKETS FOR THE SHOW TONIGHT THE FRIGGIN SHOW IS TONIGHT THAT REMINDER ON YOUR PHONE WAS TO REMIND US THE SHOW IS TONIGHT AND THE EMAIL FROM THE PERFORMANCE HALL WAS TO REMIND ME THE SHOW IS TONIGHT AND I’M SUCH A DAMN BUFFOON AND MY HAIR…OH MY GOD…MY HAIR! THE SHOW STARTS IN 2 HOURS! I PAID MORE THAN MY CAR NOTE FOR THESE TICKETS AND LOOK MY HAIR OH MY GOD MY HAIR AND WE CAN’T MISS IT!
Keith: Are you kidding me?? This ain’t funny…don’t start your fake-out crap with me now…are you being serious??
Me: LOOK AT ME DO I LOOK LIKE I’M IN FAKE-OUT CRAP MODE?? LOOK AT MY HAIR I ONLY HAVE 2 HOURS TO LOOK LIKE I HAVE SOME CLASS AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT I’M GOING TO WEAR. I DON’T EVEN KNOW IF I HAVE PANTIES BECAUSE I COULDN’T WASH TODAY!
Keith: I thought you said it was the weekend after Thanksgiving?? You told me it was Saturday, November 23rd.
Me: TODAY IS SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 23RD!!
Keith: Just come on, let’s get this damn machine bought. We’ll make it…just stop farting with your hair and get out of the truck!!
5:47 pm – Saturday, November 23, 2013
For the 3rd time, I have raised my left arm to forehead level and aggressively tapped the top of my left wrist with my right pointer finger (as if I’m wearing some sort of time-telling mechanism) for Keith to get a friggin move on and get the machine bought. While arching my eyebrows as high as my forehead skin will allow while jutting my eyes out.
The Home Depot-ish people look at me as if I should be on a leash. But I don’t give one rats ass. Not one.
Keith just squints and shakes his head at his buffoon-ified wife.
Eventually, the washer gets loaded in the truck and we’re headed back home.
6:13 pm - Saturday, November 23, 2013
We pull in the driveway and I’m opening my door before the truck even slows up.
Keith: You just go get ready and I’ll have the machine hooked up in a few minutes. All I have to do is change and we can go. I’ve already showered.
Me: I just hope I have panties. What am I gonna do if I don’t have panties??
Keith: Baby…just go get ready, please.
I run into the house.
I don’t even run when I say I’m going running for exercise. But now, I run.
I barked something out at Cayla as I almost knocked her over in the hallway about how she has to find something to eat on her own because her daddy and I have tickets to a play I forgot about and I think there’s some leftover stew in the fridge but I don’t know if I have any panties and my hair looks like crap and to just eat whatever she wants even if it’s Oreos.
I fluff out the massaged-up-crappy hair, freshen up the face, slap on some lipstick, hit the pits with deodorant, and scream “THANK YOU, JESUS!” as I find I have panties waiting on me in my drawer.
Me: HURRY UP…WE’RE GOING TO BE LATE AND I DO HAVE PANTIES!
He changes, looks hot, and we get in the car.
(Momma texted on the way.)
(Could I possibly be a bigger, lifeless douche than this??)
(Damn. Somebody run to Walmart and get me a personality.)
7:02 pm - Saturday, November 23, 2013
Keith: I’m starving. I gotta get something to eat.
Me: Go through McDonalds. I’m not going into the performance hall after the lights are down and tripping down the stairs. Our seats are on like row 6. I’ll look like a buffoon in front of YOU…but not in front of total strangers. No way.
We arrive in plenty of time, take our seats and the show starts.
It was as perfect as I imagined it would be.
Now, let me give a small amount of back story.
Keith is a perfected dater. Any date he plans is perfection. Beautiful restaurant. Exquisite wine. Romantic atmosphere. Heavenly meal. I usually get all sappy afterwards because I have never imagined being treated to such greatness.
It is always perfectly choreographed and sometimes with flowers waiting me for at our table when we arrive. He opens my door, pulls out my chair and makes me feel as if I’m the only woman he’s ever laid eyes on. He’s a perfect gentleman.
I begged him to let ME plan our next date. I wanted to treat him as perfectly perfect on a date as he treats me on a date. I wanted to show him how nice it is to be catered to and doted upon.
THIS was our next date.
(Read that last line again.)
Just in case you didn’t read that last line again: THIS WAS OUR NEXT DATE.
And what did I do?
I forgot about it. I fed him McDonalds. I rushed him. I screamed about panties. I sounded like a lifeless douche over text about the date to my mom. I didn’t even buy him a glass of wine.
But as usual, he was a perfect gentleman. He took over the date and made this loused up beginning a perfect ending.
He thanked me for one of the best nights of his life on our drive home.
I told him I’d make it up to him and I want a do-over for our next date.
He politely declined.
Keith: This was great, but from now on…let’s just leave the date planning to me, ok?
He patted me on my knee.
But I will always be better at mopping the floor, cutting tomatoes and making up the bed.
And don’t you think for one minute, I’ll let him forget that, either.