Over the weekend I attended a shower with Harry - the bride registered at Macy's and the groom at Sears (power tools!). The entire event was catered by my seventh grade teachers which made me nervous to no end. Should I have looked down and noticed that I was, in fact, wearing acid wash jeans with surfer boy patches - I would not be surprised that my worst nightmare was coming true.
The groom's mom, my seventh grade math teacher, frightened me so bad in my youth that I worried she would turn me inside out for not knowing what 7 x 6 equaled. Her friend, the health teacher warped me for life after proclaiming, during the dreaded "SEX ED" lesson, that the "anus was where gay men have sexual intercourse" and then slapping the diagram of the psuedo-endowed sketch. Another in attendance was my science teacher, a subject I only excelled at when copying vocabulary words straight from the back of the book. She made me dissect a frog. 'Nuff said. And finally, my homeroom teacher - whom I adored and who, upon seeing me, had no clue who I was. I made such an impression on her in my youth, that I was nonexistent in her memory.
I visited with them and reminisced over the old school and old teachers and old memories and, for some reason, I felt the need to continually compliment them on the food they had provided for the shindig.
"I LOVED the big hot dogs!" I'd exclaim.
"Those BIG hot dogs were great!" I'd squeal.
"I'm gonna have to get me some of those BIG OL' hot dogs," at this point - the phrase "big hot dog" should've been stricken from my word usage. I should not be allowed to use that combination of words ever again. But I did.
Repeatedly. It got so bad that Harry would visibly flinch when they would fall out of my mouth and land, dead, on the heated pavement beneath our feet.
I blame the heat for my lack of charm - it was 90 degrees and sweltering and we were hanging out in a garage - eating big hot dogs and talking to retired teachers and police officers.
And now, as I groggily type away, I wonder about my dear hubby, thousands of feet in the air in a big tube hurling towards Texas - hope he's okay, hope he's happy, hope he's missing me, hope he'll bring me back something Texas-y - like a big cowboy hat or a flat of land with an oil well on it...