Perhaps Masters Week had him feeling nostalgic. Maybe it brought back memories of high school spring break, for Didge flashed back to the 80's, and somehow managed to hone in on one of my least favorite memories of the era:
No offense to Aretha Franklin or anyone else involved with the creation of that song, but I really don't like it one damned bit. And I don't now what inspired my beloved to choose that particular song to bother me with last week, but bother me he did. Once he'd realized how bothered I was by it, he put it on my Facebook wall *and* treated me to a nearly continuous loop of it. The next morning, as I was getting ready to head to the Masters, he stood outside my bathroom door playing it at top volume on his laptop. As I was leaving the tournament, I called to let him know I was on the way home. He asked if I had checked my messages.
Don't worry. I'm not going to treat you to another video of my hand holding my phone while it plays one of Didge's voicemails. I can't. I deleted the thing in a fit of touchscreen-poking rage. Just know that it was *that song*, and that the moment of me reacting to it was strong enough that my mother thought I had a touch of sunstroke. I tapped the screen of my phone several times to make sure it was utterly and completely gone. Mom looked at me as if I'd finally taken a happy dive into the deep end. I explained things to her as best I could, and she asked how often "these things" happened, if Didge was ever serious, or if he ever stopped teasing.
"He usually stops when I break out in hives", I replied.
(I think she thought I was exaggerating.)
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