I am not a particularly enthusiastic fan of Mexican food, but Gary loves it. I had given him a gift certificate for a meal at his choice of Mexican restaurant, with the fine print that the certificate had to be redeemed with a kiss (and that I promised not to complain about the food!) He redeemed his certificate this past weekend, properly cashing it in with a kiss, so off we went.
The Spanish music playing at the restaurant put us both in a silly mood. We started reminiscing on completely fabricated memories of our childhoods growing up in the streets of Mexico, and Gary painted a hilarious scenario of his mother singing him the specific song playing at that exact moment. When I called him out on it and asked what the words to the song were in English, he winged it convincingly and made up the lyrics on the spot.
I one-upped him with a fanciful story about building our little hut by hand with my father (heavily borrowed from the outdoor patio construction I could see through the window, I might add). Never mind my only time in Mexico was very fleeting, was in my adulthood, and was restricted to touristy areas. I still made a good story.
All weekend Gary carried on about being my Latin lover. When I corrected his Spanish (after all, I did actually study the language for a while in high school and college), he shook his head patiently and informed me that my classroom grasp of the language was rudimentary compared to his use of his native tongue.
We’ve been known to get a death grip on a joke and beat it long past its untimely death, with no regard for its accuracy, political correctness, or humor factor to any other living soul…but I suppose as long as we are still amused, it still has some life in it!
Ah, mi amante latino!