This is probably my most favorite story, and I honestly can’t believe I haven’t shared it with you yet.
Mike is a smart guy. Like, ridiculously smart. He literally knows something about everything, and he can probably build or make anything I can ever dream of (case in point, the chicken coop in the backyard. Or our second master suite that he just added on like no big deal. “You want a window in this wall for more light? Done.”). He’s pretty magical.
So naturally, whenever Mike tells me something, I take it as gospel. I don’t even question it. He knows all the things.
A few years ago when he was in Texas for training, I planned a week long visit with baby Oliver. And I remembered that my friend Crystal lived in Texas.
Now, I am smart about some things. I’m a pretty decent nurse. But geography, not so much. I chalk it up to moving in the fifth grade, and my old school was going to cover the United States in the second semester and my new school covered it in the first semester. Eleven year old me took this as a win, but it still continues to impact my life today.
I’ve lived in Oregon most of my life, and in Oregon you can drive to any border we have in about six hours. So according to my logic, in most other states, you should be able to do the same thing, no? No.
When I remembered Crystal lived in Texas, I told Mike we should swing by and visit her. He looked at me incredulously. “Where does she live, Erin? Do you know how big Texas is?”
Oops. Thankfully the stars aligned, and she was only a few hours away from Austin, which was on our list to see.
My trip overlapped two weekends so we could go exploring, and we now officially love all things Texas.
Crystal was very welcoming and invited us to her Friendsgiving she had planned. We didn’t have time to attend past our one night stay, but I told her I would help her prep the morning before we left.
Crystal and I were in her adorable kitchen, and I was showing her how to separate the skin so you can stuff butter and all sorts of goodness in there like a delicious, edible pillow. Mike was seated in the open living room, holding the baby.
“You know, if you had bought a Butterball turkey, they come pre-buttered,” Mike quipped.
Crystal and I stopped mid-stuff. “No fucking way!” We both explained. “That would make it SO much easier!” We went about prepping her bird, quietly discussing the genius behind the Butterball turkey.
A few minutes later, we hear Mike snort. Looking over to the living room, he is keeled over, bright red, and gasping for air. He finally lets out the biggest laugh I’ve ever heard.
“I can’t…” he chokes out, “believe… you bought that!” He finally spits out, tears streaming down his face.
And from then on out, literally every time Mike gives me some oddball information or tidbit of news, I side-eye him and ask if he’s butterballing me.