We went to dinner together.  I’d been good all day and wasn’t going to ruin it on a restaurant dinner.  I’d not eaten anything remotely carbohydrate looking so far, and the food that did make it to my mouth was appropriately healthy.  I wasn’t going to ruin my gastronomically successful day with one meal, even if it was on a date.

My Captain had not eaten anything but peanut m & ms all day.  Seriously. When I asked him if he had eaten anything today, he said, “Yes.  M&M’s.”  As if that answer was at all normal or socially accepted.

Have I mentioned he can wear the same jeans he wore in high school?

She came to take our orders.  My Captain ordered a cream and butter laden pasta dish, and I an Asian Salad…replete with cabbage and carrots and other crunchy, yet in all otherways unsatisfying, vegetables.

Oh, and grilled chicken.  Not breaded.  Not fried.  Plain. Old. Grilled.

It was very sad.

But I did it!  I had committed my order to her and felt superior to my fatter self of yesterday.

We waited.  I drank as much iced tea as I could to pre-load my belly.  And then it came.

This mountain.  MOUNTAIN. of Cabbage.  Napa Cabbage is what they called it.  That family sized serving bowl had to be carrying at least one entire head of cabbage.

I poured out the meager little plastic cup of salad dressing…the kind that has that horrendous “Oh, I’m sweet like sugar except that I have this nasty aftertaste” dressing.  I stirred it violently, attempting to get SOME of that dressing on every piece of tasteless crunch I could.

And then, I dug in.

I won’t lie to you.  It took me a while.  There was a lot of chewing, by necessity.  There was no physical way to wolf this salad down.  There was no way to get the suffering over quickly.  I had to endure every last bland, unsatisfying bit of it.

It was hell.  HELL, I tell you!

I couldn’t take it another moment! So, after we paid the check and got up, I demanded to be taken to the bakery nearby for a chocolate eclair.

What?   I’m only human.

That eclair was The Bomb.

My Captain has the most beautifully expressive eyes.  Simultaneoulsy brown and gold, as burnt bronze, it’s easy to get lost in their warmth.

But when he aims them on something in particular, focusing intently, I swear they turn hard and eagle-sharp.  So eloquent are they, often he doesn’t need to speak to convey his meaning.  Even the brows above them are powerfully eloquent. Thick and even, they can speak volumes if he just lifts one or raises them both.  And God help you if he furrows them.

Thankfully we don’t have a lot of furrowing going on around here.

What we do have an inordinate amount of, is Rolling.  There is way, way too much rolling of they eyes going on at this house.  And it’s usually aimed at yours truly.   Believe me, My Captain’s rolling of the eyes communicates impatience, or disdain, or humor way ,way more effectively than any words could hope to.  Most of the time, it’s humor.

Thankfully.

But not always.

Unfortunately.

Yesterday My Captain and his father, Jay, were down in My Captain’s basement/patio project, lovingly known as “The Mud Pit,” when they called me down to discuss posts.  Now, understand, I am usually not invited into these discussions because apparently I add too much confusion, but in this case, there was a decision that I had to make, as ‘The Woman of the House.’  They weren’t looking for input about dimension or material or structural logistics.  No Sirree.  They wanted simply to know if I wanted the posts that would hold the roof to the walk out to be ‘turned,’ or straight planked, or square.   That’s my forte, apparently.  That’s what I can bring to the table.  I’m the designer.  The stylist.

Me.  The one wearing a ‘Mr. Bubbles’ T-shirt.

I put on my most knowledgeable face, and said with strength and confidence, “Of course we’ll go with the ‘Churned’ posts.”

That was when the first rolling of the eyes occurred.

He grinned, “You’re not making butter.  They’re “Turned,” not “Churned.”

Without missing a beat, I replied condescendingly, “That’s how we say it in Ohio.”

Then came the second rolling of the eyes.

He chuckled, “Yes, when making butter.”

“Look, just make ’em ‘churned’.  I know what I’m talking about.”  And I walked away like I had better things to do with my time.

Then I went inside and immediately looked up “churned.”

Apparently I don’t know what I’m talking about.  But damned if I’m going to tell him.  He’ll have to look it up as well if he wants to prove I’m wrong.    I don’t want that to happen, so I’ll just keep him distracted and busy enough that he won’t have time.  And with any luck, he’ll forget about it and I’ll be able to remain a know-it-all in the “churned” department.

Aw, who am I kidding?  He’s such a stickler for details, he probably looked it up on his phone the minute I turned my back.

And I bet he rolled his eyes when he did.

My Captain took me to see the movie ‘The Avengers’ tonight.  It was wonderful, of course.  The music, the story, the technology to make it so real…all of it immensely entertaining.

Oddly, it was none of those things that made the movie worth the price of the $10.00 ticket.

What made it worth that obscene cost (for when I grew up you could go see movies for a dollar,) was the eye-opener it gave me.

We were leaving the theater.  There was a girl across the street from me in a wheelchair.  I had just watched a story about heroes and self-sacrifice, and honor and magnanimity.  And I was limping to our car on my bad knee.

The knee I’ve been whining about ad nauseam.  The knee I’ve been feeling sorry for myself about so verbosely.  The knee I’ve been complaining about and making excuses for and looking for sympathy with.

And there was that little girl moving so purposefully down the sidewalk in what looked like a very permanent wheel chair.

And I had just come out of a movie about heroes.

And I felt very stupid.

And whiny.

And sorry for her.

There is this scene where Captain America, unimpressed with Stark, aka Ironman, asks Stark, “Big man in a suit of armour.  Take that suit away and what are you?

And Stark replies, “A Genius. Billionaire. Playboy. Philanthropist.”

And Thor laughed.

I loved that scene.

But I came out of the movie asking myself the same question.

And I don’t want the answer to be, “A self-absorbed whiner.”

So I’m done bitching about my knee.

But I wish I had a really cool red iron suit, too.