a risky business marathon

Hold on to your hats, kids, because this thing is about to go into overdrive. Last weekend was Mr.-Risky-Business-Palooza.

Since he doesn't work too far from me, we met up for lunch on Thursday and we had plans to see a band on Friday night. But that didn't exactly happen. After about two hours at the bar when nothing seemed to be materializing -- though I had learned some very interesting facts about Kim and Taryn while hovering over the toilet so as not to catch the crabs -- we decided it was time for a spontaneous change of plans. I would describe this bar as sort of like your grandmother's living room, but Mr. Risky Business described it as like your grandmother's living room, if your grandmother's deadbeat son put her in a home and never pays the bills. But it's a loveable sort of crackhouse, seriously.

So we headed down to South Main to meet up with some of my friends from high school. Lindsey was there, with some of the usual suspects that may have been name dropped here before -- Elizabeth and Kelly -- and a few faces I hadn't seen in years. Possibly since graduation almost seven years ago. It was a lot of fun, only I think with every beer I drank, my conversational skills with Mr. Risky Business were reduced to "You smell really good" and "Sorry, I get a little handsy when I drink." What? He did, and I do.

Fast forward to Saturday night. Stef and I had the first meeting of our two-person book club. Don't make fun, we're extremely deep and intellectual. After our dinner we met up with Mr. RB at Tracks for a few beers, because Stef actually knows Mr. RB from way back. It was a good time -- I played a bunch of choice tracks on the juke box, Stef and I sang Al Green (SO necessary) and we played many rousing rounds of "I didn't know your boyfriend was going to be here!" I was going to explain the game, but after writing and re-writing the description of how it works about three times and being unable to make myself NOT sound like an inhuman she-beast, I decided not to. Use your imagination.

So Sunday night, I get home from yoga, all hot and sweaty and jacked up on endorphins, and he mentions he's thinking of grabbing a cup of coffee at Republic. I join him, and two and a half hours later I finally look at my phone and realize it's past my old lady bedtime. We walk out to the parking lot, and he walks me to my car. And it's cold, and he has his arm around me. And I'm wondering if he's going to kiss me, because we hadn't kissed goodbye the night before and naturally this wondering is making me Nervous Nancy, the local crackhead in Awkwardtown, and next thing you know I'm trying to casually open my car door and throw my purse in, only that doesn't really work out and my index finger gets crushed in the door as it slams.

The real victory here is that I did not swear at all as I was screeching and schfitzing and generally freaking out, even though it had pretty much already turned purple and black before I could even take a look at it, and typically I would cuss a blue streak at much, much smaller offenses. Luckily, after that, he did kiss me.

What smashed finger?


cheers,
elizabeth