Yesterday while driving, My Mister noted aloud that the side of the street was dotted with signs for a local Russian church offering Drive Thru Hot Dumplings.
And then he didn’t turn on his signal to immediately turn into that church driveway advertising Drive Thru Hot Dumplings.
I mean, Reader.
I stared at him incredulously, as he kept driving straight. As we got to the next stoplight, I advised him that his life was currently being held in the balance of the next decision he made.
Keep driving straight or turn the fuck around. What’s it going to be, Boy*? (sung to the tune of Meatloaf’s Dashboard Light).
My Mister: “You can’t really want to try those dumplings, DO YOU??”
As if he was going to try to shame me or something.
Um, it takes a waaaay bigger event than a request for Hot Dumplings to shame me. Come on. I stand on my deck naked. In the city. Pretending I’m invisible.
Trixie: “You can’t actually think you’re going to announce CHURCH MADE drive-thru HOT DUMPLINGS and that we’re NOT going to turn right into that lot and get some. What part of your brain thinks that’s an option? Do you even KNOW me??”
Reader. Who have I been in a relationship with for the past bazillion years?? How is this even a discussion we were having??
He made the right decision for his life and soon we were shoveling Hot Dumplings right into our dumpling-hole.
Listen to me now and hear me later, Reader.
These dumplings? If the $16 we spent went right into Putin’s pocket? Baby Jesus would forgive us. Because oh-my-garth, were these worth it.
And this is how we spent part of our weekend at church. Because we are holy and reverent. And tithed right to Russia or something, in the name of dumplings. Amen.