Nice Mellow Sunday Night

            Nice mellow Sunday night.  Watched a movie.  Liz is kicked back in bed reading a magazine.  Finally shut the air off and opened the windows.  We have a treeline right outside our window, so the nightlife is always a little rowdy with the critters.  A little Elton in the background.

            It was my idea, actually.  In all the time Liz and I have been together, she has chosen the music we listen to on something like five occasions.  And not because I insist.  She is just perfectly content with letting me handle that business.  One less thing she has to oversee. 

            So, just for the hey of it, I asked her to put in her Elton John cd.  Something different.  I was regretting the move during the first couple songs.  And I told her so.  She started singing along.  I told her, “Oh, that’s better.  Thanks for that, hun.” 

            But it picked up after the first couple songs.  Leveled out.  Good stuff.

            Took us about three years to have this time.  To establish this as part of our routine.  Taking an hour or so at the end of the day to hang out in the bedroom, just the two of us, talking. 

            We’re kind of like an old married couple in a handful of ways.  So far, just the good ones. 

            I was playing football and my team started suckin’ it up all of a sudden and I was cussing up a colorul storm, I admit, and calling them rude, presumptuous names, and offering commentary on the game for anyone interested.  After awhile of this, I told Liz, “It’s good to have someone to talk to.”

            I don’t normally talk to my computer.  Usually if I’m sitting at the desk playing football, it’s the middle of the night and she’s asleep.  So I don’t get to school her on the world of Tecmo Super Bowl. 

The last time I talked to her about football it was the middle of the night and I scored a touchdown after a hard-fought battle down the field.  I threw my hands in the air and forgot she was laying there asleep and I sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a big ol’ rumbling, “Woo-hooooooo!” 

She leapt out of bed, sort of.  She caught air.  Flopped around like a beached carp, flung her head my way and asked, “What in jimminy rickets?!” (one of our little pet phrases, so to speak) 

I pointed at the monitor and said, “Look, hun.  I scored!” 

She didn’t talk to me the rest of the night and when she finally opened up the next day, it wasn’t altogether friendly.  Evidently, my woo-hooing gave her a scare.  Well, I get excited about my football.  Sorry.