This has been an unusual week. Jon and I became the parents of a seven-year old. I got hit on in public. We got a whole day off from parenthood thanks to some friends. I went shopping for jeans and bought the very first pair I tried on. I don’t want to give the impression that my life is always this easy-breezy, as it shreds my SAHM street cred, but the week finished off strong with another kid-free evening. Two in one week – gasp!
One of our very cool neighbors/friends turned 38 this week. Saturday night was the night to celebrate, so a sitter was hired and we headed to the chosen restaurant. I never would have found the place on my own – I would have been scared off at the door by the high douchebags-in-hats quotient:
Not that you asked, but here’s my opinion on men in hats – if the first thing that you notice about a guy is that he’s wearing a hat, he’s wearing it wrong. Anyway, this particular tavern’s claim-to-fame is that it has an indoor Bocce court. Oh, and onion rings.
Jon and I were victorious on the Bocce court (good game, Bachelor’s), we had some tasty food and drink, and we got the chance to spend some time with some stellar people.
The decibel level in the restaurant soon rose to a point that impeded anyone from actually hearing anyone else. I swear, I screamed at my good friends more loudly than I have ever screamed at my kids. ‘SO, DID YOU ORDER THE FIELD GREENS SALAD?’
We drank and shouted to each other and laughed until way past our bedtimes. We also took lots of pictures:
Oh, and my apologies to the woman who was standing behind the bench I was sitting on. When I swung my legs out to leave, I didn’t mean to leave a red-clay-colored mark on your white jeans where my shoes brushed against your legs. You didn’t notice at the time, but I’m sure it came to your attention at some point. My bad.