The case of the flying book

Last night Mr. Handsome and I ate a tremendous amount of popcorn and grape juice while watching Nacho Libre. If you like Napoleon Dynamite (which we do), then you’ll like this movie—ridiculous, zany, and fun—the perfect movie to watch after a day spent fighting with your spouse (don’t ask).

So … after the movie I hop into bed and read a bit from my book, Leaving Ruin (about as different from Nacho Libre as you can get). Soon Mr. Handsome hops into bed and rudely sticks his nose right up against the pages of my book. (To his credit, without his glasses/contacts, he’s blind as a bat.) My wrist does an involuntary flicky thing and the book whacks Mr. Handsome in the face. He yowls, and then his hand does an involuntary flicky thing and Leaving Ruin sails out of my hands and onto the floor by the bed. I sputter frumpily and then lean waaaay out over the edge, trying to retrieve the book while still staying in my cozy little nest. Mr. Handsome plants his feet on my backside and pushes. I press my hands on the floor to keep my balance. Then, with one hand, I pick up the book and turn to look at Mr. Handsome whose feet are still pushing (yes, it was an awkward position). My book-wielding hand does another involuntary flicky thing and the book takes to the air once again, this time landing with a thunk on Mr. Handsome’s face. He yowls again, this time in real pain, and shoots up out of bed. After a couple minutes, during which I squat on the floor and alternate between shaking uncontrollably with laughter and trying to act sympathetic, he regains composure. There is no blood. But this morning there is a definite red line across the bridge of his nose, stretching from one side to the other.

I’m still chuckling.

About one year ago: Skillet-Blackened Asparagus.