An official retraction for Indie Boy

So, if you have bothered reading my blog, you may have noticed a post last week (i.e. Running on Fumes from February 6) in which I accused Indie Boy of being a “Valentine Curmudgeon.” In my defense, he had told me that he was not a fan of Valentine’s Day and that I should not expect anything from him. However, as I got the joy of walking to the security desk by the front door at work to pick up a large bouquet of flowers (primarily purple, because that’s my favorite color) and then walking past roughly a million people on the way back to my desk, I suppose I have to take that back. (There’s nothing that bring office women flocking around your desk like a bunch of flowers, especially as some of them were apparently both unaware that I was seeing someone and rather surprised by that fact. Gee, thanks, that helps my self-esteem. Bitch. But I digress.) The flowers were very, very nice, and are currently displayed on my kitchen counter (as trying to put them on the dining room table resulted in an amassment of cats trying to play with them – bad kitties, bad!). I, in turn, made IB a guinea pig by trying out some new recipes for supper. The rib steak, while slightly charred around the edges, was pretty decent (although I did forget to turn on the fan over the oven and inadvertently set off the smoke alarm – oops), the dutch fried potatoes weren’t bad, but the chocolate gingerbread cake? Divine. I am totally making that again. Mmmmmm…. Afterward, we chastely sat around and discussed world events, and there were certainly no special outfits involved. Nope, none. After all, I am the very face of innocence.

ANYWAY, my point is, my prior comment was wrong. Very, very wrong. Indie Boy most certainly is not a Valentine Curmudgeon. However, he will continue to be bestowed with the title of Dancing Curmudgeon until I physically witness him shaking his booty in public. Which I don’t anticipate happening anytime in this millineum. And speaking of dancing…

The IB was also over here hanging out on Monday. I was in my CD room picking out music and he stuck his head into the Closet of Death (i.e. the closet which you can’t actually walk into because of the giant heap of magazines on the floor – I’ve been meaning to sort them for, oh, a year or so now. It’ll happen someday.). In this closet are shelves, one of which is taken up primarily by videos of things I taped off of TV. Also included on these shelf – and unfortunately stored on the part of the shelf closet to the door and therefore still accessible – were the videos of my old dance recitals. That’s right. Dance recitals. Let this sink in for a moment. Then picture Indie Boy gleefully selecting one of these videos and rushing to the other room to put it in the VCR. There’s nothing like embarrassment and mortification to bring a couple together. Seriously, if you had seen me watching this with him, you would have thought I was watching a horror flick – hand over eyes, occasionally peeking out and wincing. I can’t believe I actually thought I was a good enough dancer to do a solo performance. Which is, of course, what we watched. I am looking forward to the day that I find questionable material from the IB’s past and can even up the score a bit. And then post about it here.


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