I went out with The Boyfriend to grab dinner on Saturday night at one of my favorite walking-distance restaurants. We split fajitas and I ordered two grande margaritas because my throat hurt. Don't judge; it totally helps.
After dinner we walked home, congratulating ourselves on not giving into our alcoholic friends who were sending us text messages and asking us to come out and meet them. "We're so responsible! We're so grown-up! We can go to dinner and drink without being tempted to keep drinking! We're so mature!"
We walked right past a bar called Lakewood Tavern and both of us piped down on the self-congratulatory exclamations.
Not Lisa: "Ohhh! So that's where that place is! I've heard about it several times but haven't ever been."
Boyfriend: "Yeah, me neither. I've always wanted to check it out, though."
Not Lisa: "Yeah... me, too."
We kept walking, neither of us saying a word and neither wanting to be the first to break. I won.
Boyfriend: "You wanna get a drink?"
Not Lisa: "Yep."
We about-faced immediately and strode straight into the bar. It was there that we decided to have many a drink (not singular by any means, who were we kidding?) while we waited for the PhotoHunt computer to open up.
It didn't. And, as I am not a terribly patient person, I entertained myself with Jack-and-waters.
The Boyfriend has never considered himself a patient person, either. He entertained himself by employing his own, very special, very tailored form of torture on me (and drinking Coors Lights, the hick that he is).
Boyfriend (with a sly look in his eye): "You know, I know you say all the time that you don't want kids. But really, you know you'll want them someday."
Not Lisa: "Stop it. You're trying to get me all worked up and I'm not giving into it."
Boyfriend: "No, really. Just admit it. You love your little nephew-type-person. You would love to have one to call your own." (nephew-type-person is my best friend's 9-month-old and it's true - I do love him. ONLY HIM.)
Not Lisa: "Shut your face. Quit being crazy."
This cheeky little cat-and-mouse game continued for the next two hours, breaking only to talk about sports and whatever headline happened to be scrolling across the television at the bar.
Finally, the combination of tequila, bourbon and baby talk attacks blended together in my veins and brought my blood to a raging boil. I could take this harassment no longer.
Boyfriend: "Don't you think it would be so much fun to have tiny little versions of the two of us running around the house?"
Not Lisa: "Sure, but the first thing they'd get into is your porn."
Not Lisa: "You watch too much porn for us to have kids."
Boyfriend (whispering): "Could you please use your inside voice when you're talking about porn?"
Not Lisa: "Don't you whisper-yell at me. I am talking quietly. I'm sorry, I just don't feel comfortable having kids around someone who watches and owns as much porn as you do. One day, if we have kids, they're going to stumble across Mega Tits in the closet and have all kinds of questions. Or they'll come to me and say 'Mommy, when I grow up can I be a Hot Tight Teen?' They'll be watching Baby Einstein on the laptop and a pop-up will come across advertising 'Fuck dolls who like it in every hole!' I can't live like that. I don't think you want to live like that, either. Do you?"
He hasn't bothered me about the kid issue in days. Thanks, tequila and bourbon! I couldn't have done it without you guys. You two are the little liquors with the big, big hearts and I love you for it.