Operation: Khaki Attack

On Saturday morning, something strange occurred.

Fauxhawk awakes at 8:00, showers, dresses and leaves the house smelling fragrant and wearing a pair of pressed khakis.  Pressed khakis. Who knew he had a pair?

 

“But where are you going?” I ask.

“A lotta of moving parts today, P," he says, jetting out the door. "A lotta moving parts.”

I conclude that this could only mean one thing: Fauxhawk is having an affair with a Republican night nurse.

When he returns later that evening from his haircut in Williamsburg,  I am lying comatose on the couch and two hours into “Ghandi.”

“You know how when I go to Williamsburg to get my hair cut I’m supposed to buy you a present?”

“Mmmm-hmmm…” I say, eyes on the screen. Ghandi has really good abs.

“Well, do you want your present?”

“Uh-huh!” Does this involve moving from the couch?

“It’s on the balcony.”

We climb out the window to sit in little outdoor space that we've poked and prodded and fussed over all these years that we've been together.  It's dark, but Fauxhawk has strung little globe lights along the railing.

 

This is the part where Fauxhawk gets down on bended knee and asks me to marry him.

This is the part where I say, “YIPPEE!” and give him a big kiss.

This is the part where we celebrate in a rented Mini Cooper (car date!), driving all around the city we love and eating burritos the size of our heads.

This is the part where Fauxhawk tells me about the khakis and talking to my parents (whose interrogation tactics would make the guards at Abu Ghraib wilt. He is still recovering from the anal probe, but I love my parents for asking the tough questions and Fauxhawk for answering them with good grace.)

This is the part where things get interesting.

(And by interesting, I mean "deeply weird." Fauxhawk is, as I write this, creating an Excel spreadsheet of potential guests and the cumulative versus individual probability of their attendance. GROOMZILLA ALERT!)