Chris and I went to Atlanta last weekend. I had a couple of Vault parties in The Big City, and he tagged along to make it a date weekend.
Friday night, we went out to eat at Taverna Plaka with Chris’ former roommate and Roommate’s Girlfriend.
If you’ve been hanging around here for a while, the name “Taverna Plaka” should conjure up images of Greek belly dancers, us dancing with belly dancers, and maybe even Chris and his blinky-tied uncle dancing on a table with belly dancers.
But despite our many past adventures, we somehow forgot how loud it could get, and went with the intention of catching up with an old friend and getting to know his girlfriend.
Hard to do when you can’t hear each other yell an inch away from your face.
We’d only met Roommate’s Girlfriend (R.G.) once before (and it was very briefly), so we were on our best behavior. We were polite, we were complimentary of Roommate, and we tried to actually hear every word R.G. said, despite the Greek Dance Music vibrating off of the ceiling and napkins being thrown all over us.
When our drinks arrived at the table, Roommate mentioned that it was a good thing that R.G. ordered water, because she was the most notorious drink-spiller in the entire world.
Chris and I smiled knowingly at each other.
I piped up, as Chris simultaneously tried to shush me.
“Oh NO! I hope you don’t spill a drink tonight!! Spilled drinks are Chris’ ONE pet peeve in the entire world!!”
Chris got embarrassed.
“Now, now, don’t tell her that. She’ll think I’m a terrible person!!”
But you see, it’s true. It doesn’t matter if a drink spill occurs three rooms away from him and was perpetrated by an innocent one year old or by his thirty year old wife, he WILL notice and he WILL huff and puff and get all bent out of shape.
I, too, was once a drink spiller. But because of his extreme issue with this particular character flaw, I have learned to NEVER spill.
The kids, however, are still learning. Which causes us to regularly have conversations about our differing philosophies regarding reactions to accidents.
I explained all of this to her.
Chris, albeit ashamed, couldn’t deny the truth. We all have our weaknesses, after all.
R.G. was amused, and a little glad she’d picked the right man for her situation.
She and Roommate told us the story of how she spilled an entire gigantic-Mexican-Restaurant-cup in his lap on their first date, and then toward the end of the very same meal, spilled an entire gigantic-Mexican-Restaurant-cup into her own plate. And how this trend had been a constant in their relationship henceforth.
Chris was amused, and a little glad he’d picked the right woman for his situation.
The music kicked up and our conversation died down.
And then, as we sat waiting for the opportunity to continue our conversation, it happened.
For the first time in thirteen years.
There aren’t enough superlatives in the English language to adequately describe it, but it was magical.
Chris reached for his Diet Coke, and his aim was a little off.
His FULL Diet Coke.
He knocked it with his hand, and every last drop ran for gleeful freedom in my direction.
My mouth hung open in shock as the world as I knew it spun off it’s axis.
The freed drink seeped from my bra to the tips of my socks, and quite literally puddled in my lap. An impressive number of especially aggressive drops made it all the way to the other side of my chair and showered my purse, with a particular concentration on my iPhone.
I quickly watched Chris’ face, waiting for him to implode and disappear off the face of the earth.
He was sitting there, gasping for breath, having a complete internal existential crisis as he watched the laws of physics as he understood them completely betray him.
“But…I barely touched it!! I didn’t even feel it!! How did that happen?!?!?!”
I began to laugh. Hysterically. Evilly. Gloatingly.
I gasped between waves of laughter.
“You can…never…ever…ever…EVER…get mad…at…another spilled drink….ever again!!”
He somehow managed to come back to earth and unwrapped all of our silverware in attempts to use the 0% absorbent pieces of useless cloth to soak up his mess.
I handed him my iPhone.
“You fix that. I’ll work on the rest.”
I blotted and laughed. I picked up my purse, watched Coke pour out of it, and laughed. I felt down to the bottom of my now-carbonated boots and laughed.
Roommate and R.G. looked on, confused.
“So…I take it this has never happened before?”
My eyes shone with the victory that can only be found in a long-fought battle. “I have been waiting for this moment for THIRTEEN YEARS. And it is glorious.”
Roommate and R.G. now both think that we’re a little batty, especially since I continued to break out in spontaneous whooping laughter for the remainder of the evening.
Chris is beginning his process of acceptance of the world as it now is, which is crushing to his soul.
And I, still slightly damp and a bit sticky, am shouting “TAVERNA!” at the top of my lungs the minute anyone spills anything. FOR THE REST OF HIS LIFE.