The Cheerleader I Live With is pretty rad. I brag about him a lot, and some of my friends have told me that they think he’s an alien. ‘No one is that awesome’, they say, ‘oh, but HE is’, I reply. An alien. Pfffft…. that’s just rude! Why would you call such a nice guy an alien? What could someone ever do to justify being called an alien?

*magic wavy transition*

Friday. Date Night.

We wake up, and I (once again) beg The Cheerleader I Live With to tell me where we’re going for Date Night. He (once again) just laughs at me and says,”no”. I hop in the shower and when I come out, he’s packed an overnight bag for the two of us. He drops me in the car, we drop the dogs at grandma’s for the night, and we’re off to… somewhere. I’m trying my best to be ultra-whiny in the hopes that he’ll finally get frustrated enough to tell me where we’re going and what we’re doing, just to get me to shut up. No dice. We soon pull up in front of some artsy-fartsy hotel, and he tells me to hop out so that the valet can park the car. Ooooooh… Artsy-fartsy hotel… He knows me so well!

We check in, go up to our artsy-fartsy room, and he tells me to get changed into the dinner attire that he had packed for me. It was only 1pm, so I thought he was being a bit weird. He said that we had somewhere to go before dinner, but we wouldn’t have time to come back to the hotel and get gussied up. So, we pre-gussied.

We head downstairs to the hotel restaurant and have a spot of (surprisingly awesome) brunch before we get back in the car and get going… somewhere else. We pull up outside a spa, and The Cheerleader I Live With leads me inside. We’re taken upstairs, told to change into poufy robes, are handed glasses of wine, and are led to the steam room to relax. After we’re sufficiently relaxed (it doesn’t take long), a nice lady comes up to us and says, “we’ll start your Vichy shower treatment now, then we’ll do the hour-long couples massage after”. Well, OK!!

So, two hours later, I’m officially goo (and a little drunk, given that I keep getting plied with wine), and sitting by the fireplace in my poufy robe before The Cheerleader I Live With tells me that I should get changed soon, as we have dinner reservations. I pour myself back into my dinner outfit, then pour myself into the car for the short drive from La-La Land to… well, La-La Land, I guess.

Our dinner was AWESOME. The waiter was fabulous, the meal portions were massive, the food was phenomenal, the dessert was fabulous, massive AND phenomenal, and the place had heated toilet seats. Heated toilet seats! My god… can it get any better than heated toilet seats!? Nay, my friends… nay.

And so, after waddling to the car with a belly full of panna cotta (and more wine, of course), The Cheerleader I Live With informs me that the night is all but finished. Just as well, as my head is spinning at this point (and not just from the wine, but that certainly helps), and I’m feeling mighty spoiled. However, back at the hotel, I’m treated to a lovely glass of champagne as we sit on our poufy bed… and watch hockey. A perfect end to an incredibly awesome day.

*second magic wavy transition*

And so… yes, I have come to accept that maybe The Cheerleader I Live With is, in fact, an alien. And I’m totally ok with that because being loved by an alien is (apparently) pretty damn rad. Three cheers for aliens! Long live aliens!

I, for one, welcome our loving alien overlords.

Happy Monday!