So the other night, The Hubs and me (yes, I know that's bad grammar--I'm a rebel like that) went out to eat. We tend to have interesting experiences when we dine out; sometimes it's like Dining With Farm Animals. But, hey, at least that keeps it interesting.
Anyhoodle, the other night we were eating at a local eatery, and we were doing our requisite chewing and what-not, minding our own biz--a.k.a. people-watching the other restaurant patrons, when all of a sudden the Hubs somehow managed to drop his fork on the floor. No bigs. I mean, it's not like the restaurant doesn't have thousands of other forks around. So as I begin looking around to find our waitress, I spy out of the corner of my good eye, the Hubs, picking up his fork off the floor. No bigs. I mean, he's just being polite and picking up the fork so that the waitress doesn't have to, or so some small child doesn't get impaled by the bacteria-covered, pronged object that is begging to be stepped on at any moment.
Then, in the blink of that good eye, it all started to get fuzzy, and time began to move in slow motion, as I watched in horror as the Hubs had fork in hand and was moving it toward the food on his plate. That's right, people, he was going to EAT with it. Apparently I live with a farm animal too!
So, after regaining my ability to speak, in the most restrained, disgusted voice I could muster during the slow-motion shock and horror of it all, I yelled firmly commanded that he, "Put the fork down, mister."
And he was like, "What?"
And I was like,
And then he smiled and was all like,
And really, what could I say at that point?
Yes ladies, that sexy beast is my hubby.
Jealous?
