My Saturday night date, the one that I wanted to be really dreamy? Because he's going to Boston next weekend and I wanted him to think of me nonstop until he gets back here? That date? Wasn't dreamy.

My picnic was so nice, too, y'all. I had peppery roast beef on a super-fresh baguette, red and green grapes, a buttery French triple-cream cheese, a wedge of gouda, garlic-herb soft cheese, strawberries, crackers, pate, dark chocolate, and a really nice cabernet.

Sadly, it was just too chilly at the lakefront for the kind of summery just-the-two-of-us lazing-napping-reading-eating-chatting we had in mind. We scrapped the lakefront idea in favor of a movie, specifically "Thir_teen," which was so very definitely NOT in any way romantic or dreamy. We both wanted to see it, though, so off we went. Afterward, we had dinner and ice cream. In the middle of the ice cream, which we ate while sitting on a stoop, The Irishman began to suffer from a very sore lower back. He really was in a lot of pain, poor guy. End of evening!

I spoke with him this morning and he was in a great deal of pain. He about to dose himself with ibuprofen, apply a heat pack, and wait for the doctor to return his call. As the woman he's been dating for a few weeks, all I could do was say something like, "Oooooooh, I'm sorry. Do you need anything? Can I do anything?" Not very useful.

I ate some of the picnic goodies with J and my mother this afternoon. Ah well.

Last night before we fled the windy lakefront, we saw a man walking in the park with his son, who looked to be about two years old. They were walking along, deep in conversation. The Irishman broke into a huge grin and said, "I love to see dads out with their sons, listening to them. Does J's dad do that with him? He should." My throat felt a little tight, but I'm not sure I can even say why.

{ prev & next }