March 12, 2009
Last night, my husband took me to a dinner at a fancy restaurant in downtown Philadelphia, compliments of his work. A quick glance at the online restaurant reviews confirmed that it was the kind of place where Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and two-inch roots would be welcome.
The evening was quashed early by my husband's request that we not discuss my three favorite subjects: our kids, the octomom, and the clearance aisle at Wal-Mart.
"So what are we supposed to talk about?" I hissed as we sat down.
Several minutes were consumed by a lengthy discussion of the menu.
My husband liked the fact that "cheese" was called "brie." I liked that the main dishes were listed numerically, like Burger King.
"I'll have a number 3," I told the waiter.
The man holding the notepad and wearing a tuxedo looked confused.
Once my husband translated my request into Thai-French fusion, all was well.
My chicken was served in a tall cylinder that my husband identified as seaweed. Perched on top of the tube appeared to be a full-grown Chia pet.
Eventually I located what I assumed was the chicken and ate it in two swift bites. I spent the rest of the meal thinking about what I wasn't allowed to talk about.
During dessert, my husband praised the quality of the food. I lamented the quantity. On the way home, we stopped at Taco Bell. When I made my request through the drive-thru microphone, it felt good knowing that I was talking to someone for whom #2 is not a bowel movement, but a taco and burrito combo meal.
No translation necessary.
In all seriousness, our "date night" was a lot of fun (how can it not be where there is free food involved?!). The frequent lull in conversation, though, raised a good question: When YOU go out to dinner with your hubs and no kids (we go out a TON...like every 6 months), do you ever run out of things to talk about it?