SO - some of you have had the pleasure of meeting my husband, Dave; maybe at his shop, online, or when he's just generally growled at you. He's a hard guy to forget, given his bald head, head-to-toe tattoos, thick New York accent, and general looks of disdain. He's fantastic and I absolutely adore him.
In addition to being extremely handsome, my husband is a very, very smart man - he's a human calculator, very well read, politically inclined, a basic encyclopedia of punk rock, hardcore, and reggae, and with a credit score of about 1,000. I - on the other hand - am a comparative train wreck; despite my obvious charms, I have no sense of time, can only add if I ask Dave the answer, and have a credit score lower than a piece of toast. He's a hard guy to compete with. And he has this damn quick wit that allows him to burn you at will.
Every Sunday when the weather is nice, I lose my husband to his motorcycle and his riding buddies - but with the weather as nice as it is, you have to let the boys play outside. And as a side note - no, I do NOT ride. I rode Dave's bike once, on my 30th birthday, and I screamed like a little girl. It was NOT happening for me. I don't think we got over 30 mph, and we were going too fast in my book. Never again - though I would like a swanky helmet so I could at least look the part. Plus there is a possibility that I might need the helmet just in general for every day use.
This past Sunday, I lost the husband around 11:00 am. Off he went, leaving me to my marathon of various episodes of 'Snapped'. He returned several hours later, and I asked him how his ride was and where they went.
"We went up to one of the bike shops that was having an anniversary party, then we went up through the mountains and stuff," he said.
"Where in the mountains did you go?", I asked.
"We drove around some super curvy roads, and ended up in Dallo-NEG-ah."
Hmmm . . . as someone who has lived in this state for 31 years and has spent many a childhood vacation in the mountains, I was kind of surprised that I hadn't heard of this place.
"Where did you go?"
"Dallo-NEG-ah."
Then it hit me . . .
"Do you mean Dahlonega, David?"
He got quiet for a second, turned his back to me and said, "Shut up."
Holy shit on a stick - this was IT. THE TIME. The ONE TIME a year that my husband 'the brain' says something stupid and I actually catch him. It was like finding a unicorn. No no, not just a unicorn, but a solid gold unicorn that poops ice cream.
I sat there for a second to marinade in the glory of the moment.
"Really, David? Really? What was the name of the town again? Dallo-NEG-ah? How long have you lived here? 14 years?"
"Shut up - I said it how its spelled, so I said IT RIGHT."
"I believe the founding fathers of this great state would disagree."
"Whatever. Shut up and eat."
This statement rings with a bit of irony because Dave had made chicken parm dinner - something he has to do because after several instances of raw poultry making it onto our dinner table, I'm no longer allowed to cook chicken without a written consent from the FDA. Insert helmet *here*. But that's OK - I ate my prohibited chicken parm with the pride of a winning prize fighter.
It was like Christmas morning where you get a stocking full of Halloween candy and a birthday cake all at the same time.
Now while I will most likely beat this moment like a very dead horse for months to come, it will come back to bite me in the ass as soon as I make a grammatical error of my own, unintentionally set dinner on fire, run over something (someone) in my Jeep, leave the gate open and let the dogs go screaming around the neighborhood - but today, just for today, I WON.
And I would like to think the good people of Dallo-NEG-ah for their support.
FABULOUS! Our days to follow will be much brighter with an insight to Mandy Jeans's daily encounters with those who are so priviledged.
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