When you are married, you end up enduring a lot of things for the sake of your spouse's pleasure. Now, before you cover the childrens' eyes and close this post because you don't want to know THAT much about the fat lady's private life, that's NOT what I'm talking about here. My goodness.
No, it's music. For the last ten years J has been blasting the oldies like a senior citizen whose hearing aid needs turning up. And I have suffered through many a concert where I am the youngest in the auditorium by multiple decades.
Well, Saturday, I began evening the score. I dragged him to Wynonna in Atlantic City, and I was so overwhelmed, joyful, and in love with her every throaty note that my lip quivered and tears ran down my cheeks.
It was a very good day. We had a decent drive, an excellent dinner that was more than a bit unexpected, and the best service ever from a waiter (Susan at East Bay Crab & Grill, you ROCK). The hotel room was free, enormous, and comfy, we had candy for the car and J seemed amused by my "pop a jelly bunny in his mouth and ask him to identify the flavor" game. I kept most of my gambling money (a whole $100) in my pocket and played on $20 for two hours and still came home with $57.50 over the $100.
He was happy because he got to see whores with tattoos. And because, on Sunday, we drove to Philly to taste-test cheesesteaks. Pat's and Geno's are on the same corner. Geno's wins by a mile--better meat, although less of it. Softer, fresher, bread. Comfier plastic tables that are not particularly friendly to those who eat a lot of cheesesteaks.
I sang Wynonna songs in my head the whole way home.