img_0033.jpgThe past few days have been a mix of something new and something sick. Saturday was, of course, the anniversary of the day we rushed to the courthouse on Charlie’s two-day leave from South Carolina when he was in the Navy.

He got home from work this past Friday night/Saturday morning early enough to get plenty of sleep before we headed to the Trader’s Point Creamery for brunch and interviews. Charlie wasn’t feeling all that hot, so we didn’t dilly-dally. We ate the nine dollar breakfast (orange juice was extra, they forgot my biscuit, but the chef was really nice and talkative) and went to the heated barn to look at the goods.

Of course, being February, there wasn’t much to be sold but the place was still completely packed. We got a dozen eggs, a bottle of peach mead, some blueberry tea, Charlie got some burgers, and I managed to talk with someone who has their own organic farm in Danville, an area I’ve actually heard of. Most of the people I spoke with had farms in towns I couldn’t find on a map of Indiana. I’d asked where they were located and they’d say, “Do you know where [weird city name] is? It’s about 45 minutes north of there.” Kelly gave me their web address and I emailed them today about getting together with some questions I have for the article I’m writing.

That night we went to Mama Carolla’s for the first time. The wait was one hour, and we didn’t even get there until after 8pm. We made the mistake of taking our time getting ready and toasted our seven years with (part of) a bottle of wine. I should have known better, though, since it was Valentine’s Day weekend. We waited about 45 minutes, squished together on a couple of small chairs in the bar area. I nursed the strongest cosmo I’ve ever had and we made fun of the heavily made-up women carrying matching gigantic bags and wearing ridiculously expensive trench coats.

The food was great, though, as promised, and neither of us wanted to go someplace else to sit and wait just as long. The dressing on the caesar salad makes my mouth water whenever I think about it, and the cheesey garlic bread was delicious. Charlie had some sort of disgusting fishy pasta (I think it had shrimp, calamari, clams, scallops, and something else. I do not like seafood), and I had a rigatoni with spinach, pine nuts, olives, and a garlic sauce.

I gave Charlie a framed print of a photo I took while he was getting his back piece started. It’s a pretty cool image. He gave me a gift certificate to a frame shop to have some other prints done up so I can show them later in the year. He admitted to calling Scott for advice. Thanks, Scott!

We both crashed out when we got home, the food and booze going to straight to our respective heads. Not very romantical, I know. Sunday morning Charlie was not feeling up to par, and today he was even worse. I had to run out and get cat litter, cat food, and some other crap for the house and he called, wheezing and moaning about needing some cough drops and Day-Quil. While I was at Target Jay called. I remembered the rally downtown. Oh, no. When I got home it was already almost one. Sigh.

I know a significant contributor to his perma-cold is the environment he works in. As a nonsmoker he’s exposed to second-hand smoke every night for hours. He can’t really go back and sit in the office the whole time he’s there since, as a manager, he’s required to fill in for the door guy, as security, whatever. I know he’s sick when he says he doesn’t want to go the gym, and I don’t think he’s gone in a week. I regret missing the rally at the statehouse, since I think it’s important for us to show how stupid this proposed amendment is, especially considering the fact that we were allowed to get married. I don’t think of myself as the kind of person who would get hitched, but I did, and no one had an issue with me doing it. This is the second one I’ve missed.

Thanks, Charlie! You sick jerk.


One thought on “Romanticalness

  1. Our third anniversary is next week and I know it’s not super romantic, but we have a sitter and I’m thrilled at the mere prospect of dinner and a movie. I don’t even care what we see, as long as it’s in a real theater and not the couch where I’m more likely to fall asleep than whisper sweet nothings in his ear!

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