Since our April visit to St. Augustine, in addition to my usual good-natured (!!) heckling, I have been teasing W4D constantly about getting hit by trucks. He has starting pecking back, retaliating.
When we were in North Carolina earlier this month, we were chatting with a group of people at a brunch at an antiques shop. They were having a reception with a speaker on Florida collectibles and since we both walked in wearing tropical print, Hawaiian style shirts and flip flops, we were welcomed into the reception. After the program, the local collectors wanted to hear about our antiquing travels and where we had been, where we were headed, our adventures thus far. Everything was going just fine until someone asked W4D if we had found any memorable places to eat along the antique trail.
My husband grinned at me and launched into a dissertation on what he was certain was the best meal we had on the trip to date. He described in great detail, this huge hamburger, showing with his hands a space the size of a saucer, that we had north of Atlanta. "And the best part was it was on sale for only one dollar! It was the best hamburger I ever had," he said.
At this point, I was snorting and trying to edge my way out of the circle of conversation while he continued, "That was the best burger I ever tasted. Have y'all ever heard of a Whopper? They are made by a place called Burger King and they have them on sale for one dollar each this week only."
The ladies lunching on dainty tea sandwiches, Jordan almonds and pineapple crème cake (which I must add was the best I ever ate!) raised their eyebrows but recovered quickly and politely kept listening and nibbling their luncheon, trying to pretend they hadn't just met the biggest hick ever spawned from the great state of Florida. By this time, I had escaped about 15 feet away fom the gaggle and W4D caught my eye with a triumphant grin. I gave him The Look. ["You will pay for that one."] I also gave him hell when we got in the car and on our way but I smirked about it for the next two states.
So, The Lubricator has apparently discovered that he can get much enjoyment out of acting like a total dolt and embarrassing the holy hell out of his gentle wife.
This last weekend we were at the Wagon Wheel flea market in St. Petersburg, Florida. There was a canal out back of one of the open-sided buildings. My husband grinned at me and wagged his eyebrows.
"Excuse me," he said to an older lady vendor with skin like brown leather from too many years in the sun, "Is that body of water out there the ocean? We're just here visiting and we're looking for the real ocean."
"Honey, that ain't the ocean! Where the hayell are you from?"
I didn't wait to hear any more. I pretended I didn't know the man and darted across the aisle to examine a fascinating display of Ginzu knives and nun-chucks while I tried to keep from laughing out loud.