Nina Loves Mud

"Here, this is for you". He dropped something on the table as he walked by.

It was a small, folded,cardboard container from Bojangle's, exactly the size and shape of a fried pie.

I opened it to find it was indeed, one of those unhealthy but oh-so-good delicacies. He had bought me a fried pie. He had thought of me. Even in the midst of all the other things he has to remember, like technical telephone and DSL stuff, the two dozen medications his elderly father takes, the names, ages, and practice nights of 85 kids who play Upward basketball, that the bathroom sink needs fixing, and the Next Great American Band comes on Friday nights at 8:00, he had THOUGHT of me.

"Ooooh, thank you". I couldn't believe he had thought of me. The pie was cold, but Bojangle's IS on the other side of town, so that was perfectly understandable.

I sniffed it and smelled only grease and pie crust. "What kind is it?", I asked.

"Guess", he said.

"Is it......" I drew in my breath. Could it be he had not only thought of me, but REMEMBERED my favorite kind of pie?? I was falling in love all over again. I was actually so giddy I bounced up and down . He had REMEMBERED an obscure fact about me.

"......is it cherry?"

"Nope".

"Oh." I stopped bouncing.
Well ok. He didn't remember my favorite kind. Still, the important thing was, he had THOUGHT of me. Anyway, most fast food pies are............

"Apple?" That was fine too. Apple is my second favorite. Standing up, I was on my way to the microwave to heat up my fried apple pie when he said, sounding quite proud of himself,

"Sweet potato!"

I stopped in my tracks and turned around.

"SWEET potato?"

"Yep, this guy at work gave it to me. He had bought two of 'em at lunch todayand only ate one. You like sweet potatoes don't you?"

There was the sound of a gigantic bubble bursting.

My man had brought me a sweet potato pie. A cold, leftover, hand-me-down, purchased-several-hours ago-and -bounced-around-in-some-guy's-utility-truck-all-day sweet potato pie.

Yeah, he really loves me.

In reality, I think it's hysterical. It's so classically "Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus", that you can't help but love it.

He had given me a gift. To him, the manner in which he procured the gift, and ideed the gift itself, was irrelevant. What mattered was that he had GIVEN me something.

I, however, saw the gift and immediately came to my own conclusions. My idea of romance ran away with my imagination, and I put him up there on the same pedestal as the leading romantic guys in movies and TV, that always remember little things about their ladies, and always make steady eye contact when they're women speak to them, even when the football game's on TV and UT's playing Florida, and never do anything boorish like belch, or make bathroom humor jokes, or bring home cold, sweet potato pies. And I did all that in my head in the 3.5 seconds from when he said "Here, this is for you" to when he said, "Sweet potato!".

My unrealistic expectations were hardly fair to him. Still there was some good that could come from it.

"My name's Mud on your blog now, isn't it?", he asked.

Oh , you know it Baby.