He's Oliver, I'm Stan

Sometimes love hurts. And I'm not talking about it in the sense of that Nazareth song.

Some nights I work until 6, and other nights I work until 8. Either way, Nordic Boy is home way before I am. He usually picks up whatever we are having for dinner and has that going by the time I walk in the door. So my coming-home-ritual goes something like this. I park my car on the street, walk up my sidewalk and up my stairs, open my front door to the fragrance of something cooking in my house. I drop my bag on the floor, take my coat off and yell out "I'm back, baby!" in my best George Costanza voice. Nordic Boy will then drop whatever he is doing and run out of the kitchen at full speed, wrap me in a
gut-busting hug, and cover my noggin in smooches. I'm sorry about this lovey-dovey description, ya'll. Feel free to gag all you want. I'm just keeping it real. That's just how we roll at my house.

So, if you put the gag-worthy-ness of this scene aside, you have to admit that sounds pretty good, right? Not a bad way to return home after a long day of librarianing. Except here's what happened last night. Same parking, same walking up to the door, same delicious dinner smells wafting up, same "I'm back, baby!" Then, let's slow down to slow motion. As I step over to the dining table, where the day's mail sits, Nordic Boy comes TEARING out of the kitchen. I look up, all smiles. He runs towards me, at full speed as usual, arms outstretched. As he puts the breaks on about a yard away from me, he realizes his socked feet have no traction on our wood floors. There are no brakes! You know how that Dave Matthews song talks about crashing into you, all romantic-like? Crashing into someone is not romantic, people. And...there it comes...very fast...CRASH. He manages to complete the hug, which turns into a tackle with the force of a six-foot-Nordic-storm, and we are both KNOCKED FLAT onto our dining table. You remember how Mary Catherine Gallagher used to crash into tables? It was like that. Except it was both of us. Our dining table, god bless Ikea, held up. But just barely.

After assessing if I was ok, and laughing our heads off for a few minutes, we got ourselves together and went in to the kitchen. Homemade burritos. Delicious. As I loaded up my plate, Nordic Boy got the sour cream out of the fridge. He popped open the container and put a spoon in it. Just as I turned around to go get the sour cream myself, he started to hand it to me. Physics conspired against us once AGAIN, and we crash arms. Sour cream flies out of the container and sprays itself all over the front of my shirt, in big globs. We had one of those slap-stick-movie moments, where we just froze. Me, with my mouth open, looking in shock at the sour cream slowly dripping down my shirt. Him, mouth open, now-empty sour cream container still held out toward me in his hand. Pause. "Oh. My. God!" is all I manage to say. Then, of course, we start to laugh and rub our arms where the crash impact took place.

After I put on a different shirt and we eat dinner, Nordic Boy sits on the couch with a magazine while I clean up the dishes. When I'm done, I come over to him with a blanket and my laptop. "Here," he says,scooching over to make room, "sit next to me." "I don't know," I joke, as I settle in next to him, "you've been kind of dangerous tonight." "Oh really?" he starts, letting go of his magazine and swinging his arm up to put it around me. Except. It doesn't go around me. I swear to GOD, where is this boy's depth perception? Because the back of his arm? Hits me ACROSS THE FACE. "YOWW!" I put my hands up to my face like Marcia Brady did after getting clocked with the football. "Oh my god, did I seriously just do that?" is Nordic Boy's response. As soon as our eyes meet, the laughing starts up again. I elect to stay next to him on the couch. At my own risk,
I know.

Love hurts.

Kiss the rings, I'm out.
Librarian Girl