small talk

We go out for adult evenings less often than Knoxville gets a good snowfall. That’s probably a confusing example, because if Knoxville gets ANY snow, we don’t even go out for the children’s entertainment. Bad example aside, Doug and I went out for a few hours Saturday evening. Doug’s primary job for the evening was to wear his juggling hat instead of his programming or dad hats. My job was to not get caught with the wine that I brought to the beer only venue.

Before the variety show began, Doug and I were introduced to one of the performers who is a local legend. I smiled, shook his hand and said nothing because I am a walking, talking, social snafu. The voice in my head was high pitched jibberish like SuperTween on giant pixy sticks. ‘Squee! So cool! What will he and Doug talk about? Doug’s soapboxes are so diverse. They might talk about automatic cars or music or poetry or local history.’ Doug is a social butterfly who can talk for hours with absolutely anyone. I zoned out all of the bar noises and listened for what was certain to be an entertaining conversation.

They discussed Irish vs Scottish surnames and their spellings.

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