Paella

I got lucky this weekend!

Some hot babe flew in from the states and decided to spend a few days with me before she jetted back off to Asia. I had meticulously planned my three days with her, trying to maximize every minute of our time together.

Unfortunately, the first day was lost to jet lag…hey, I said she was hot, not young. But we made up for it on Saturday and Sunday, acting like a couple of hormonally overcharged teenagers who's parents are out of town for a few days.

It was a great weekend by all accounts. But it is kind of funny to compare notes between us. I think that I've been as clear as I can in expressing what my favorite part of the weekend was. Remember, my parents (and Beth's) read this blog. I'm a guy. We're easy to figure out, right?

With Beth, it's not always so easy. We were out walking the dog in the park on Sunday evening and ran into a good friend of ours. During the course of our conversation, this friend asked Beth what the best part of her weekend home was. I expected her to get a little red in the face and maybe let out a girlish giggle or two of embarrassment. But instead, Beth looked our friend right in the eye and without hesitation answered: “The Paella”.

Ok. It’s true. I make a mean Paella. But c’mon. You’d have thought she could have at least acknowledged the innuendo and maybe thrown my ego a little scrap of recognition. Well, I guess that I’ll just have to try harder next time.