Guys, he just invited them along on our mini spring break trip. We’re stuck in the middle of a crazy midwest winter, so we’ve been discussing a long weekend somewhere warm and new and easily accessible given our central location in St. Louis (think: Dallas, New Orleans, Phoenix, Santa Fe…)
But we are both beach people, and it only took one mention of palm trees and warm sands for us to agree we’d love a beach trip if we could swing one. This led to me suggesting places like the Dominican Republic or Puerto Rico, and him to look into Bermuda–a locale where he made many a happy childhood memory.
A quick Google search showed reasonable prices–too reasonable. He HAD to call his parents to find out if the places they’d splurge on might have gone downhill. One conversation with his father later, and I’m pretty sure we’re all going to do a long weekend in Bermuda in March to take advantage of the great off-season pricing.
To reiterate: my husband just invited his parents on our romantic getaway. Fortunately for him (and my sanity) I think it’s absolutely adorable that he and his dad are such good buddies they discussed a whole fun adventure before remembering that their wives might want to tag along.
This is a note I found in my phone (because I like to keep a record of some of the–usually cute, sometimes funny–things that happen in my marriage) and I know it’s short and kind of pointless, but it’s January and life is hard this time year meaning my brain doesn’t always work the way I want it to SO this is all you get.
Charlie and I went on a dusky stroll and a bug landed on my hand. Rather than swat it and smear bug guts everywhere, I tried to daintily flick it away. My flick EXPLODED the bug so there were guts all over the back of my hand and each time I tried to flick them off, they stuck to my fingers. So both hands were contaminated, then OF COURSE my eye started to itch so I made Charlie take me home.
Of all the “sexy” foods and dishes out there, I understand chocolate-covered strawberries the least. I do not understand how one can look remotely sexy eating a chocolate-covered strawberry — unless she does it in one bite, I suppose, but have you seen the size of some of these strawberries? I’m pretty sure choking to death on dessert fruit is the least sexy way to end a date night.
Don’t get me wrong, I understand the flavor combination. Burst of fruity-sweetness, wrapped in a hint of bitter warmth. I get that aspect.
It’s just every time I bite into a chocolate-covered strawberry (because, as we’ve established, I’m not “sexy” enough to go with the one-bite game plan), the chocolate shatters and juice spills over my fingers and down my chin. The bits of chocolate that were so hard seconds ago are now quick-melting into my favorite shirt and — somehow — caking under my fingernails. To reduce casualties, I messily shove the remainder of the dripping, melting mess into my mouth, desperately holding the — extremely fragile — stem so I don’t accidentally ingest the green part which I’m sure is fine but this-is-a-sexy-dessert-not-a-salad-damn-it.
And then, of course, I’m stuck holding the half-chewed remains in my sticky fingers. In that moment, I don’t know which is the more important find: a trashcan or a paper towel. Or maybe my husband, who has since removed himself from the situation claiming he doesn’t even really like strawberries anyway.
I’ll usually end up peeling off the chocolate and dumping the now-mushy strawberries (priorities). It would be better all around if we just kept our fruit and chocolate separate.