Irony

Today was our weekly coffee date at Starbucks.

I had been looking forward to this time with S all week, sitting down across the table with him, breathing in the aroma from my now $4.25 decaf, grande, non-fat Carmel macciato and fighting over halves of their delicious old fashioned donut. We've been doing this for a couple years now, usually Thursday mornings are our special day. We'd show up when they opened, at 5:20 am back when I was commuting into the city, and sit there until the sun came up. Nowadays, I'll wait until Baby S wakes up and pray that he can contain himself while we sip our coffee.

Anyways, this morning I fed the baby, clothed the baby, wiped curdled spit up from off: myself, the bedspread, the changing pad, Baby S's outfit #1, Baby S's outfit #2, and then at last we were on our way. I decided to walk over because it was a beautiful morning, with the hope that I'd pre-burn off some donut calories.

We finally arrive at the local Starbucks, S comes walking up at long last and says to me, "Did you bring money?"

Hmm. Did I bring money. NO, I did NOT bring money, I'm married to a BANKER who wears a suit every day and works at the money tree where money comes from. It's not my job to think about those things, right? I worry about wiping spit up off of various surfaces. As it turns out, his wallet was back at the house.

Sigh. He shuffled his shiny banker-shoes back to the bank and returned with a $20 bill. That's my buddy.