on being recognized

Saturday night I made Mr. RB the happiest man alive by donning an apron and making lasagna and my now infamous dirty blonde brownies, both from scratch. Bow down, mere mortals, for I am a goddess of domesticity! I chop, I sautee, I bake! And I only got grease stains on two shirts in the process!

I guess I figure the victory is that it wasn't more than that, really. It's the little things.

My Tigers were playing Saturday night, and we'd been watching the game while the lasagna was in the oven. When dinner was ready, though, I made a move for the dining room table to try and pretend like I am a couth person who is capable of not watching a basketball game and enjoying some adult conversation about world issues or grey poupon or something, and is not just nodding and smiling while secretly wondering which asshat is missing free throws at that exact moment.

But as I made that move for the table, Mr. Risky Business said, "Don't you want to finish watching the game?" I stopped short. "We can sit at the table to eat," I said. And then, something incredible happened. "Let's finish watching the game, I'm into it now," he said.

It took every ounce of willpower I had not to throw my plate of lasagna in the air and just rip his clothes off RIGHT THERE. Watch the game while stuffing my face? That's what you want me to do? Twist my arm.

And I don't remember if it was before or after lasagna, but at some point I found myself explaining how NCAA conference tournament berths work, which I thought was the most hysterically cute thing that has ever happened, ever. EVER.

After the game and dinner, we went to see one of our favorite bands, a local trio called Star and Micey. Mr. RB happens to be enough of a celebrity that the guys in the band know him by name, so I got to meet the lead singer. After the show RB asked if I wanted to chat with them, tell them what I thought, and I just shook my head. I have yet to giggle nervously in front of a musician, and I was not about to start Saturday night. Hopefully next time I see them play I will have my shit together a little more and will be able to string together a simple declarative sentence like, "I'm glad you played (insert song title here)," or even "I really love your album," instead of forming words in my head and knowing that they would come out of my mouth as girl babble and hot giggly mess.

So we made our get-away after the set, I got a piggy back ride across Marshall Avenue and we decided to stop by Mollie Fontaine's for a drink. It's this really kitsch bar that's an old Victorian home that I'd been wanting to check out, and sure enough it pretty much feels like you walked into someone's house party when you step into the front foyer. Moments after we walked in, before we'd even gotten a drink, we ran into a few acquaintances of mine. As I was hugging one of them hello, he quickly whispered a question that made me think maybe my dreams of being a cult blogging hero are not necessarily that far off.

"Is that," he asked, "Mr. Risky Business?"


cheers,
elizabeth