Monday, April 4, 2011
Date night last week was a home movie night.
(And dude. I know our dates lately haven't been very creative. It's the jar's fault, man. I'm sure we have a buncha funky ones coming up all in a row.)
Anyway. So I was in charge, and wanted to either buy or rent a new movie, because I'm tired of watching Ocean's Eleven. Wal-mart's five dollar bin was not inspiring me, Redbox is somewhat of an enigma, and I had pretty much resigned myself to a night of watching Brad Pitt eat nachos in shiny suits when I saw it.
And I remembered.
I remembered that My Man and I had been officially dating for two weeks - one week of which I spent in Idaho for Thanksgiving. We missed each other terribly. One week was a very long time to be apart. We burned.
The night of our reunion, my apartment was packed. We settled in on the couch in his apartment instead, when ... Jeff came in and started a Star Wars marathon.
(Do you read this blog Jeff? Jeff? Are you there?)
We were thoroughly annoyed. I mean, really, Jeff. It had been a WEEK.
So we promptly made out during the whole movie. Maybe all three. I can't remember.
No worries, Jeff. Your back was turned.
(Bytheway. Watching Star Wars after a ten year lapse? Brilliant. Leia is watching her planet get blown up, and barely manages to look perturbed. Still. I LOVE IT.)