and with the ow

 

I woke up at my mother’s house yesterday morning and did not immediately find oatmeal.

I almost had a panic attack.

Fortunately, after walking her dogs I was able to head home to my kitchen where the oats run free and brave and sometimes even seem to be reproducing and are frequently made into muesli. This particular version was the same yogurt/oats/water mixture as Thursday, topped with sliced almonds, honey, and a segmented orange and its residual juice.

 

Well fortified, I went for a run (half marathon in three weeks, yo) and then proceeded to go to the doctor so they could make me want to cry.

There’s really no good way to explain why I was there without oversharing – let’s just establish that it was nothing gross and wasn’t something that a man would ever have to deal with. And it hurt a lot.

Next week is midterms, so after I got home Crockett fried me an egg for lunch while I studied.

Yesterday was first Friday, and due to the aftermath of my doctor torture I didn’t really feel like walking around in Denver. We went to the Empire (it’s ok, you can go ahead and be shocked) and I had wine (I know, again with the surprises).

Crockett had an old fashioned (is the thing where I pretend you’re shocked getting old? Yeah?) and I really did think I was focusing on it, but apparently I was focusing on the gorgeous copper bar instead.

The last time we were at the Empire, Crockett gently suggested that perhaps, once or twice, we could share something instead of me having a calamari salad and protecting it from his intruding fork like I’m a mama wolf and my calamari is my adorable wolf pups.

That I’m going to eat.

Yeah, that simile got gross fast. Sorry about that.

I¬†acquiesced and we ordered a tuna burger and a calamari salad. The tuna burger shown here did have a bite taken out of it. It’s done medium – they’ll do medium rare but I have tuna issues so Crockett kindly let me determine the cooking temperature. They serve it with wasabi¬†aioli, and that was damn delicious.

Also, please note the plate of calamari salad in the background.

That there is proof that I did share.

I kept some for myself, though, too.

Obviously.

Afterwards we hit a couple of Louisville galleries (there are actually four, I think) and were not moved to be patrons.

Happens.

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