Luckily, Owen's birth had brought us home and Al had only to make a couple phone calls and was back to work building houses within two weeks of our landing at Children's.
While I tended to Owen's needs, Al was commuting far, against testy summer traffic, working outside in the summer heat, working hard without complaint. His job was physically demanding and his life emotionally draining.
By the end of the week, there wasn't much left of poor Al.
On a Friday afternoon, after working his ass off all week, he went to the bank to cash his paycheck. It was Friday, so there was a long line.
Al was very tired.
He stood and waited. A long time.
He was so tired.
His turn was up.
The teller called him over. She was very young. And very cute. And had very large breasts stuffed into a very tight shirt. Al passed her the check and told her he wanted cash.
Did I mention he was very tired?
The unsuspecting teller took the check and asked how he'd like his money; she was looking for one of two answers; big bills or small bills.
She was surely not expecting what my poor, overworked, stressed out husband was about to request.
His answer to this poor girl, and I swear to you on
"Big boobs are fine".
I'm sure the rest of the transaction wasn't uncomfortable at all. She managed an "excuse me", pretending not to have understood, but really wondering what kind of sicko was on the other side of the glass.
Poor girl.
Poor Al.
When Al stepped up into the camper that evening and told me this story, and after I stopped convulsing with laughter and cleaned up my own puddle of pee on the floor; he forbid me to ever repeat it.
I convinced him that it was pure gold, a gift that could keep on giving for years and years. Then I ran up to his parents' house and told them.
And I called everyone I could think of and told them too.
And as soon as I had a blog, I shared the gold with a bunch of strangers.
Seven years later, we're still snickering about it.
Sharing the gold makes me happy.
So does Al.
Happy Birthday Babe.
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