So we're enjoying our Minnesota-Italia dinner-- sauteed marinated chicken breast, ratatouille over pasta with parmesan, simple green salad, a cheap but nice bottle of vino-- when there's a knock at the door.
It's two Mormon missionary boys, or I suppose I should say elders, wanting to talk.
"I'm sorry, sweetie," says DIH, "we're in the middle of dinner."
(Thinking, Damn, where are the Bible Babes when you need them? Because this could be fun. Besides, DIH was well into her second glass of the aforementioned vino. Who knows what gems of theological wit she might have come up with?
(But no. Dinner is dinner. End of story.)
The Mo boys leave.
DIH returns to table. And has an afterthought. And acts on it.
I ran out into the rain (it's raining here in Mini-Apple) and left a note inside one of the boys' bicycle helmets. "Guys- thanks for your work on Prop. 8! Fight on!"
Which I am hoping made their evening of attempted evangelization in the rain a little more pleasant.