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When the Groucho's Deli waitress brought my moose sandwich to me I took one look at it and knew I had screwed up.
It was roast beef. I haven't eaten red meat since 1980.
That's 38 years. XXXVIII in Roman Numerals.
See? I may be old but I still remember my Roman Numerals.
(Except L. Is that 50 or 500?)
I looked at the menu and quickly discovered my error.
"I messed up," I announced to Dave. "There are 2 kinds of moose sandwiches and I ordered the wrong color. This is the Brown Moose."
So I went to the counter and told Groucho Girl about my mistake and that I should have ordered the Pink Moose. I had my moose within minutes.
I was halfway through my Pink Moose when Dave said, "That looks like ham. Maybe you should have ordered the White Moose."
I stopped chewing. I didn't know whether to swallow the pink moose in my mouth or spit it on the plate. The pink glob went down my throat like a bowling ball.
I looked down at the plate. OMG. I had eaten half of a damn ham sandwich.
My stomach suddenly hurt. And Groucho Girl was headed my way.
"Don't tell her," I whispered to Dave.
But Dave was having too much fun with my moose mess.
"She ordered the wrong moose," he told Groucho Girl. "Again."
"I forgot my reading glasses," I said, as I slipped my reading glasses into my purse.
Dave and Groucho Girl enjoyed a laugh. At my expense. She offered to make me a White Moose, but I told her I was no longer hungry.
After all, I had just eaten half of a cute, little, piggy sandwich.
I hoped that I wasn't going to get ill.
And I didn't.
Big sigh.
It has been 38 years since I have eaten roast beef.
And III days since I last ate ham.
Which looks a hell of a lot better than 3.
Why did I even ask?
It's not like Dave is one of the Property Brothers.
He's NEVER had opinions of my home decorating projects. The only reason he knows I'm redoing the powder room is that he tripped on the ladder.
"Why is there a ladder in the bathroom?" he asked.
I had to remind him that I was stripping the wallpaper.
"Oh."
And I could have totally predicted his answer anyhow, when I attempted to show him the canvas art print I was thinking of buying for the "new" powder room.
"You don't need a picture in the bathroom."
Actually, it reminded me of my late Dad. After visiting my sister's new home he told me how impressed he was with it. "You know, Loulie, she's got a picture hanging in her can!" He chuckled, shook his head and said, "Imagine that. A picture in the can."
I looked at Dave and flatly told him that I was absolutely hanging a picture in the can bathroom.
He grumbled, "What a waste of money."
I wonder what he would have said had he actually looked at the picture that I attempted to show him.
I think I'm going to go ahead and get it.
He'll never notice it, anyhow.
Here's the deal with retirement. I'm around Dave. A lot.
Truth be told, that is the one thing I was a wee bit worried about.
Yes, we've been married for um... let's see... 2017-1985=32 years.
OMG! That's almost 1/3 of a century!
But I've never been around him so many hours at at time.
The first few weeks of retirement went fine. We coexisted quite well.
That is, until 4:36 PM on Monday, November 6, 2017.
I decided to work on a jigsaw puzzle. And I turned on the Hamilton soundtrack. Because I LOVE THAT MUSIC.
Dave was upstairs on the computer.
Admittedly, I had cranked up the volume. And I was singing along.
"What is that????," my irritable, uncultured husband bellowed from upstairs.
"Hamilton," I declared. Although, honestly.... Who does not recognize that amazing music?
"That is horrendous. It hurts my ears. Turn it off, please."
Now.... you can insult my clothing. And my haircut. And certainly, my cooking. But you have crossed the line when you insult Hamilton.
We engaged in a passionate argument about the merits of Hamilton vs. his taste in music. Which is not good.
I even pulled my trump card.
"When we were dating you told me you liked plays." (I remind him of this ever few years when he complains about me dragging him to a play.)
After a few minutes I got tired of arguing so we made up. I agreed that I would use head phones when I listen to Hamilton in the house.
But I've got news for him.
I will certainly listen to Hamilton with my head phones on.
But if he thought Hamilton was bad, wait until he hears me singing along.
I was just about done packing when I heard Dave shouting.
"What the heck is this?" he bellowed from the kitchen.
"What the heck is what?" I responded helpfully.
I was double checking my list in the bedroom. Toothpaste. Check. Toothbrush. Check.
"This," he repeated, at an even louder decibel. Which I thought impossible.
"I don't know," I said. Deodorant. Check. Corkscrew. Check.
"What the hell????" he said.
Which, in my opinion, did not require an answer. Puzzle book. Check.
Dave entered the bedroom, holing up his golf shirt. It had a big white X on it.
I recognized that big white X.
"What is this?" he repeated.
"An X," I said, stating the obvious. Then, taking an aggressive stance, "Did you put your golf shirt on top of my Bills shirt?"
"I put it on the kitchen counter," he said.
"And apparently, right on top of my Bills shirt!!!!!" I ran into the kitchen to assess the damage. My Bills shirt was relatively intact.
Thank God.
I explained to Dave that the X came from white fabric paint. I had crossed out the "Rex" on my End the Hex Rex Bills shirt with white fabric paint, since Rex Ryan was no longer the Buffalo Bills coach.
It made perfect sense.
But Dave thought it was MY fault that he put his golf shirt atop my Bills shirt.
We had a healthy debate in terms of who was more irresponsible: me for putting my Bills shirt with wet fabric paint on top of the kitchen counter to dry, or him for putting his golf shirt on top of the Bills shirt with the wet fabric paint.
I hadn't planned on taking my Bills shirt to Arizona because the paint was too wet. Which was no longer the case.
Bills shirt. Check.
