“Excuse me . . . What?!”

A week or so before Christmas, Butter’s Grandmom asked if she could keep him one Sunday night because they had a project to work on. I didn’t mind at all, and settled in for a night of solo time with the Bear.

Around 4 p.m., it became glaringly evident to me that unless we went out, I was going to end up feeding Bear & ignoring feeding myself. Hey, it happens. Right?

M started a new job a while back, and I’d only been in once to visit him. He kept mentioning to me that I should bring the kids by one night, perhaps with his parents, but I figured that night I could wrangle one child & eating at the same time. Once Bear got up from his nap, we headed out to Pop’s restaurant for dinner.

It was nice.

I got to meet several of M’s coworkers, including a fellow Steelers fan. I met his Boss. I’d met other bosses the time I went by myself, but this was the Boss with a capital B. He’s a really cool guy. A table one section over from M’s asked if I was a celebrity because people kept coming over to visit me. After I thought about it, it may also have been because we were seated at a table which could easily for 6-8 people.

And then this happened.

M pointed us out to one of his fellow servers who is from England. He’d told me all about this guy before, so I wasn’t surprised when I met him. I was kind of shocked when he said to the girls, “This is M’s missus.” Only he’s British & it was loud in the restaurant, so I thought he introduced me as M’s mistress.

If you could have seen my face that night . . .

Needless to say, I’m mortified about hearing him say the wrong thing, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to show my face to him again.

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