Tonight is "Me and Deb" night of Deb's vacation. It's the night for just us to have some quiet, intimate time, probably go out to dinner, snuggle up on the couch, probably with a big dog between us.

Tomorrow Deb and Jake are heading down to Columbus for their annual spring trip. I love that they've started doing this every year. Deb gets to have a travel adventure that involves bicycles and Jake, and Sara and I get to stay home and try to wear each other out. Last night Deb told me not to hurt myself this weekend. She has a big knot on her shin from slamming a grubhoe handle into it trying to take out a stump and she's telling me not to hurt myself having sex.

Not too long ago, someone asked how Deb and I got together. Well, it's a wild, sordid tale.

When I first met Deb, I was working at the then-biweekly queer newspaper and drinking myself through a miserable rebound relationship and working extra long hours so I wouldn't have to go home. The woman I was with is a perfectly lovely person, and very cute, but just not for me.

Deb came to the newspaper looking for writing assignments. At 30-something she was a newly divorced, adult baby dyke. Every time I saw her she was on her motorcycle and wearing tight black jeans that wrapped around her soccer-player thighs in the best way possible and a black leather jacket. Mamma.

But I was still attached and I was a stickler for monogamy back in those days, so I looked and that was it.

After a while, I broke up with that girlfriend, though, like true stupid lesbians, we continued to live together.

Then I went about 90 days without getting laid, and I didn't like it one bit. I started getting grumpy, my coworkers started to notice, and get tired of it. Still, nothing had changed about my inherent shyness, and it was difficult for me to ask anyone out.

I thought Deb was cute, and I wanted to ask her out. I even ran into her one day in Little 5 Points. She was working on a story and was sort of in a rush. I stopped her, said Hi, asked if she might, maybe, one day, possibly, could ever come to even think about, going out for coffee with me ... sometime. She was all "Yeah, cool, whatever, I got stuff to do now, bye."

Badsnake is crushed, but not defeated. She still has "bitching about not getting any" in her reserve arsenal.

So one day not long after that, perhaps the same afternoon, I'm sitting back at the pair of computers in the production room; next to me is Jesse, one of the sales reps from the newspaper, working on the other computer. I'd gone out with Jesse once, to The Otherside, now famous as one of the Atlanta bombing sights, and she completely ignored me most of the time while she acted like a salesperson, schmoozing and whatnot. Anyway, Deb happened to be in the editor's office, discussing something with, you guessed it, the editor.

Now, the editor's office had a huge window overlooking the production area.

I'm bitching and being crabby in general. I think I was also bitching about Deb not giving me the time of day when I so charmingly asked her out for coffee. Frankly, I was whining. Jesse says, "Man, we gotta get you laid." I say, "Yeah, tell her [indicating Deb through previously mentioned window with a surly nod of my head] that." Then I resumed being absorbed in my work somewhat ...

until I noticed Jesse making these hand gestures. She had gotten Deb's attention and was pointing toward Deb in the editor's office, then pointing toward me, and then doing this universal gesture:

I 'bout shit a brick. I was seriously contemplating killing Jesse right then and there. But then Deb finished her meeting with the editor and came back and gave me her phone number. The next day she called me and invited me to an art opening [a place with free cheese, crackers, and wine because she couldn't afford to feed me or anything]. Deb had figured, correctly, that I might be too shy to call her after such circumstances.

We had sex on our first date, and the next day Deb left for a week to go on vacation to Cumberland Island with friends. Having gotten my ashes hauled, I was a much more pleasant coworker. We dated heavily for the next four months before we moved in together. The rest is history. [cue violins; credits]