Last night Otto and I went out to run some errands, and found ourselves stopping at a restaurant across town for some cheap Mexican food. Now, generally the advantage of Mexican food for dinner when the kids aren’t around is that we can take our time and have a margarita, but we had a bunch of things to do and opted to stick with a quick meal topped off with diet Coke. Because we are FANCY.
We talked about things we need to pack for our upcoming camping trip, and how the food was not nearly as good there as at our local place, and wondering how the kids are doing. And when we finished eating, I forgot that the booth we were sitting in was somewhat raised on a little step. I went to stand up—placing one foot into thin air (whoops! no floor!)—and promptly slipped off the ledge and nearly busted my ass. Somehow I managed to scrape one calf down the corner of the booth, and Otto was teasing me (“Did you have a drink while I wasn’t looking?”) until I showed him the back of my leg, where an impressive bruise was already blooming. He was nicer to me, after that.
But late last night he told me that once we get up to New York, he’s totally planning to tell my parents I got drunk and fell down. And I said that’s fine, I’ll just tell them that’s what he always tells people after he kicks me.
(I know. We’re so sappy it makes you feel a little sick.)