My Dear Husband and I had a date on Saturday night. A hot date. A five hour no kids date.
We went to the fair. We rode a crazy ride called the Fireball. (We were the only grown ups in line- surrounded by a sea of teen age girls in tiny short shorts.) I was terrified.
We held hands in line, smooched on the Ferris Wheel and ate ice cream cones.
It is definitely going on the list of the best dates ever.
Then we came home.
That was when things took a turn for the worse. We should have just rented a car and headed off to Mexico. . . .
We went to sleep, like all “old couples” do after a night of teen age fair rides and fatty food. As we were drifting off, we heard the sound of someone opening our bedroom door. Miss 5 appeared with a sad voice and a strange look on her face.
It was too late when we realized . . . . she was going to barf. IN. OUR. BED. ON US!
And she did, too. IN. OUR. BED. ON US!
It seems there was a price to pay for our night on the town. You would think it would’ve been one of us who got sick after all of our spinning and whirling on the rides. But oh, no, this was actually so much. . . . grosser.
