I am chicken.
Well, I made chicken, yes.
Specifically this dinner, 34. Herb Broiled Chicken. But I am chicken, as well.
It was about this time last year I was dating Mr. Buckeye. Do you remember Mr. Buckeye? He was the meatball guy. From that BH&G Cooking for Two, there was the Double Up and Divide section, so I made 48 meatballs, which were then meted out in 4 different dinners: Meatballs Stroganoff, Oven Meatballs in Barbecue Sauce, Meatballs in Sauerbraten Sauce, and Spaghetti and Meatballs.
Sadly, we will never know how the spaghetti and meatballs were. This is why…
Things were going swimmingly with Mr. Buckeye–we’d see each other about twice a week. We’d go out to dinner, watch Ohio State games and NFL games together, shoot guns (yes, shoot guns). He would make me breakfast. I both dropped him off and picked him up at the airport. The airport pick up is a big thing, amiright? I even watched NASCAR with him. NASCAR!
We saw a lot of each other. It was fun. Easy. And he was really easy on the eyes. Like, super-easy on the eyes (think young, hot, Alec Baldwin). I am not kidding you, kittens. The little bitch was a looker.
So I thought: OMG, I kinda have a boyfriend! And then: Do I have a boyfriend? It sure seems like I have a boyfriend.
The night before Thanksgiving (we were going to a Thanksgiving dinner together), I prepped root vegetables to be roasted the next day and he baked an apple pie (how cute is that? He even wore an apron).
After doing all the baking and prepping, we sat on the couch and drank scotch. He showed me on his phone a picture of something or other (probably his dog) and the phone scrolled down to a text conversation between him and his mother. I caught the words: Her name is Crystal. She’s a waitress, but I see real potential there.
Me (like an idiot): Are you trying to get this girl a job?
Him (talking to me like the idiot that I am): No, babe, I’m dating her.
Exsqueezeme? Baking powder?
What the ever-loving fuck?