horror in my head. In Jennie's head, there was a laugh track, and even when the jokes had a sexual flavor to them, they were still charming, and never crossing that line of deviancy that my ideas always seemed to be on the other side of, waving happily at the less debauched across the line. If she had not been speaking out loud into the recorder, or asking us to repeat phrases, I wouldn't have realized how much funnier her version of events were than mine. She also would tweak the reality and it would begin to build into something much funnier.
Later, she contacted me and Jonathon and ran some of the cartoons by us because she didn't want to make us uncomfortable. She takes reality and pushes it to that next absurd level, so that it's not exactly what actually-actually happened, but it's almost what happened. But it was always fun, and funnier for having gone through Jennie's mind and onto the paper.
I realized that here were two artists experiencing the same weekend, but taking entirely different things away from it. It was eye-opening, refreshing, and made me look at things anew. The experience, like much of this last year, helped me lighten up somewhat, but it also confirmed that I would never be truly light and fluffy. It's just not my speed, and at the end of the year I was content with that, happy even with my lighter shade of dark.
Skip ahead a few months, from winter to summer, and Jonathon and I were back visiting Wendi and Daven. It was at the end of the visit and we were catching a late lunch or an early supper (aka "lup per"), before they drove us to the airport. We were all sitting in a U-shaped booth at a restaurant where we'd gone before with them. It was nice, comfy.
The waiter came to take our orders. He had his little notepad out, pen poised. He asked what we wanted for drinks. I think Jonathon and I ordered first, and then it was Daven's turn; Wendi was on the other side of him. Daven had been studying his menu and only then looked up. I swear, he only looked up and gave the waiter his full face, nothing more. The waiter went from reasonably intelligent, competent, human being to stuttering idiot.
Have I mentioned yet that Daven is six foot three with long, thick hair down to his waist? It's brown, but it's that kind of brown that has natural gold highlights all through it. He has these great big hazel eyes that are truly brown and gray and a little green all at the same time, depending on his mood. He has a Vandyke beard and mustache that he grew so he'd look old enough to date his age group and stop getting hit on by so many men, when all he wanted was to date women. All this is to say that Daven is pretty, very pretty. Oh, and just to add to the treat of it all, his wife, Wendi, is six foot one, blond with huge, soft, blue eyes, and enough curves to make straight men weep and gay women beg. If you are at all insecure about yourself these are not the two people you want to be standing next to.
I knew intellectually that they were pretty, and I knew that Daven flirted at a black-belt level, but I hadn't until that moment understood the impact he could have simply by looking up. But once Daven realized the reaction, he smiled at the waiter. And the waiter just fell to pieces. I almost felt sorry for him-almost.
The waiter said, "Um, ah, wh... what, I..." Out of desperation he sputtered, "Drinks, I can bring you drinks."
All four of us nodded in unison, and said, "Yes, bring us drinks."
The waiter fled.
Daven turned to Wendi and practically bounced in his seat, almost clapping his hands together in excitement. "Can I play with him, please?"
"No," said Wendi.
Pouting, Daven said, "Why not?" I'm not sure I can explain to you how a man that tall, that broad-shouldered, can bounce in his seat and pout and have it work for him, but he does, and it does.
"Because we'll either get great service, or we'll never get our food," Wendi said.
The waiter returned with water for all of us, which was great since we all wanted water. He then asked for our food orders. But he took our orders while staring at