"The babysitter is here. Are you ready to go?"
"Give me just one more minute, honey. I just need to put on a couple of finishing touches to my makeup and I'll be ready to go." His sigh started at his shoulders and escaped through his lips. I rarely wore makeup, but he knew that when given the time to do so, I liked to dress up occasionally. This was one of those nights.
High expectations. High romance. No children.
It definitely had all the makings of a spectacular Valentine's dinner. Our wedding date looming in just over a month, our last Valentine's Day as single people held much promise. Reservations had been booked; the evening well planned.
Twenty minutes later, after many hugs and kisses and little hands finally releasing their death grip on our legs, our evening officially begins. We head north to our destination: a bonafide Italian restaurant. After a few navigational mishaps, we finally arrived.
Disappointment #1.
So, maybe a bonafide Italian restaurant where I can't even pronounce 99% of the food on the menu, outlandishly priced, and a "special" that consisted of 6 courses of mushrooms prepared 126 different ways, was not the ideal I had thought it would be.
We slid back into the car, drove the circle that was considered the strip. Nothing. Nothing, and more nothing. There was Hardees, McDonalds, Taco Bell, an hour wait in Outback Steakhouse. We took a right turn that led us off the strip and saw an interesting sign looming in all it's neon glory just ahead. House of Blues, it boasted.
Disappointment #2.
This House of Blues was aptly named as it brought tears to my eyes when I discovered that all of its food is smothered in barbecue sauce, even when you ask them NOT to smother it. I dislike barbeque sauce. No, I hate barbeque sauce. I'd already shot down everything my husband had suggested, the guilt in starving him and my own stomach, forced me to stay. I tried to enjoy it, but when the first fat tear rolled down my face, my husband unraveled.
"Why didn't you tell me you didn't want to eat here?"
"I've fussed so much already. Where else were we going to go? It's Valentine's Day. Everything but here is packed."
"There's a good reason for that. This food sucks. There isn't even any entertainment. Let's hope the movie is better than this."
Let's just say that as memorable as this evening was, the movie was not...
![Mama’s Losin’ It]()
I chose prompt #2 this week: Share a story of a memorable dinner.
--Stephanie, AKA The Drama Mama
"Give me just one more minute, honey. I just need to put on a couple of finishing touches to my makeup and I'll be ready to go." His sigh started at his shoulders and escaped through his lips. I rarely wore makeup, but he knew that when given the time to do so, I liked to dress up occasionally. This was one of those nights.
High expectations. High romance. No children.
It definitely had all the makings of a spectacular Valentine's dinner. Our wedding date looming in just over a month, our last Valentine's Day as single people held much promise. Reservations had been booked; the evening well planned.
Twenty minutes later, after many hugs and kisses and little hands finally releasing their death grip on our legs, our evening officially begins. We head north to our destination: a bonafide Italian restaurant. After a few navigational mishaps, we finally arrived.
Disappointment #1.
So, maybe a bonafide Italian restaurant where I can't even pronounce 99% of the food on the menu, outlandishly priced, and a "special" that consisted of 6 courses of mushrooms prepared 126 different ways, was not the ideal I had thought it would be.
We slid back into the car, drove the circle that was considered the strip. Nothing. Nothing, and more nothing. There was Hardees, McDonalds, Taco Bell, an hour wait in Outback Steakhouse. We took a right turn that led us off the strip and saw an interesting sign looming in all it's neon glory just ahead. House of Blues, it boasted.
Disappointment #2.
This House of Blues was aptly named as it brought tears to my eyes when I discovered that all of its food is smothered in barbecue sauce, even when you ask them NOT to smother it. I dislike barbeque sauce. No, I hate barbeque sauce. I'd already shot down everything my husband had suggested, the guilt in starving him and my own stomach, forced me to stay. I tried to enjoy it, but when the first fat tear rolled down my face, my husband unraveled.
"Why didn't you tell me you didn't want to eat here?"
"I've fussed so much already. Where else were we going to go? It's Valentine's Day. Everything but here is packed."
"There's a good reason for that. This food sucks. There isn't even any entertainment. Let's hope the movie is better than this."
Let's just say that as memorable as this evening was, the movie was not...
I chose prompt #2 this week: Share a story of a memorable dinner.
--Stephanie, AKA The Drama Mama
