...And the way you look tonight.

Friday was Date Night, and the last one before my kids came back home to roost. I ran out during my lunch and picked up a little black number - you know, the classic black dress with a cutting neckline. However, upon dressing for our date, I became a tad bit self-conscious of the massive amounts of cleavage spilling forth. I tried to reduce the plunging neckline with a safety pin, but that left a shiny little piece of metal, so I covered THAT up with an antique rhinestone pin. Then I grabbed my little black purse and tucked my MICHAEL BUBLE' tickets inside and headed out for the evening.


I could review this performance, but how bored would YOU be? Besides, I replay it constantly as is...suffice it to say I swooned...a lot...and I finally understand how my mother, at 30-something, could still turn red and get hot under the collar while listening to Elvis. I think you could best describe my behavior as, groupie.



After nearly two hours of swooning, LoveBug took me for a late bite at our little Italian cafe in Hyde Park. We (yes, both of us) talked on an on about the incredible show Buble' puts on for his fans, AND their spouses/partners that really didn't want to be there but only went in hopes of getting sex later. We had a fabulous dinner with great conversation, and suddenly, it was midnight.

I made him tell me ONE MORE TIME how gorgeous I looked in my little black dress, then finally released the girls from their pinned enclosure. The rhinestones were constantly getting caught on the seat belt and the safety pin was most likely ripping the material anyhow. As we drove we rambled the way tired people ramble when they have to drive but MUST stay awake. We talked politics, cracked jokes, discussed future remodeling projects, and then I went into a ten minute rant about my crazy-assed family. Suddenly my husband interrupts me. "Look out your window. Isn't that Michael Buble's tour bus?" I craned my neck and could see that indeed, the red tour bus appeared to be the same one parked outside the concert hall. Better yet, the back window was open. I waited for us to approach, hoping to catch a glimpse of maybe a band member, when lo and behold, there was Michael Buble. With one leg propped up on the seat across, in blue jeans and a salmon colored t-shirt, he chatted away on his cell phone. As I'm squealing, "Oh my GOD it IS him!" against the closed car window, he meets my eyes, raises his hand, and wiggles his fingers in hello. Me! He wiggled me! So I'm wiggling back and blowing kisses as the bus approaches the exit and he's no longer in sight.

I sit back, sigh of sheer bliss. I replay the incident, but only briefly before the reality of the incident comes home. I look down, and my breasts, once neatly tucked into a pinned enclosure, are free as birds and glowing in the milky moonlight. I flashed Michael Buble'.