"Let's go to Red Robin!" said Marvin, like he was offering up an evening at 21 or something.
"Red Robin?" I like to think of myself as being too cool to go to Red Robin, but between you and me, that teriyaki chicken burger is to die for. And yes, I do remember I am not eating poor chickens anymore.
(Has anyone seen Food, Inc., by the way? Because we just did and it is appalling.
But I will tell you about that on a different day, like I'm gonna tell you about the pet psychic. And how I'm gonna tell you about my friend Marianne making me a watch and making me give it back. And like how I'm gonna answer all those outstanding Ask June questions you've posted.)
"Yes," said Marvin. "We can have a date night."
Now, I don't know why I feel the need to tell you how to seduce me, because is it ever really gonna come up? But in case it ever does, I am not girly in the way that I need a whole evening of fancy dining at the Red Robin, followed by low lights and Kim Basinger doing a strip tease and John Cusak holding a boom box over his head. Just tell me you wish to hanky-pank and I will generally be amenable. I guess this is the one arena of life that I am most like a man.
I also want to you leave so I can watch Sports Center.
See. I don't even know what Sports Center is. Is it a cable TV channel? Is it a radio show? Is it an actual place? Like, a center you go to? I honestly have no idea. I have just heard men say that, and also "I wish she'd turn into a sandwich after" and all those things, so that's why I am saying Sports Center now.
Anyway, Marvin assures me there is a Red Robin in Greensboro, "just down the road," which means he has no idea where it is and has kind of looked it up and no, we won't take my car with the GPS in it, he absolutely knows where it is and he MEANT to turn down this dead-end street.
We finally end up in Switzerland, with its mountains and cheese and knives and lederhosen, and also Heidi, so far is this restaurant from our house, but man is it worth it, because it's RED ROBIN. You don't just get to go there every day.
We park in Tibet and walk to Switzerland, so crowded is Red ridiculous Robin on a Saturday night, and let me tell you, the TEMPERATURE was Tibet/Switzerland-ish, because I know I did not bring up often in yesterday's post that it was EIGHTEEN degrees out.
The poor beleaguered hostess is not at her stand when we get there, so Marvin steals a balloon. Which, why? Why do we need to break the law and be morally inappropriate? Those balloons are for CHILDREN to choke on and no one else, but here is where Marvin and I diverge. I am a rule-follower. He is not.
After our meal, in which the waitress interrupted me FIVE times, we got ready to go. And can I just interject, here? This is a huge, pervasive problem in the South. The wait person? Comes to the table and bugs you way too much. WAY too much. "How's every little thing?" "Everything still tastin' good, y'all?" "Y'all need anything, even though I was here 48 seconds ago?" "You all ready for your check?"
I think in the South, it would be considered the height of rudeness for the waitperson to, say, pick up the check without saying some little thing each time. But GUESS WHAT? We just want our FOOD, and for you to have a MODICUM of civility, but mostly to let us TALK because that's why we are having our glamorous and slightly illegal evening AT THE RED ROBIN.
After–seriously–the fifth interruption of my scintillating story? I gritted my teeth and after she left, Marvin said, "Maybe you just talk too much."
Of course, THEN, he said, "No, go on with your story, I really want to know what Tammi Thompson did at cheerleading camp in fifth grade" and you know what I did? I refused to finish my story, that's what I did.
My grandmother, the one I am turning into, used to similarly "punish" you by refusing to tell you things.
Constantly. Even her tea was Constant Comment, and I am not even making that up. Once in the car? On a trip? I timed her. FORTY-EIGHT seconds. That's how long she went without talking. So to think giving us the silent treatment was KILLING us, and please, PLEASE Grammy, go back to talking, is kind of funny. And have I mentioned I am turning into her?
At any rate, we came home, and at some point in the car, Marvin had blown up said balloon. I guess he had to do something to fill up that punishing silence.
I immediately stampeded to my computer, as I am wont to do, and after a minute or two, the dog started really barking. This was not that alarming, as she barks at anyone who has the nerve to walk past our house. Don't they KNOW this is her territory? "Do they not UNDERSTAND this Lula yard? OFF! OFF! OFF MY YARD! I.MEAN.IT! Rrrrrrun! Lula Pit Bull! [ish!]"
So I ignored her until Marvin asked me to come into the living room.
That poor dog was all hunkered over, barking at the balloon. Which had the nerve to be, you know, hovering on the living room floor like some, some, HOVERY thing.
Being the caring dog owner that I am, naturally I kicked it in Lu's direction, which made her pounce on it, which made it pop. Loudly and suddenly.
I think I saw her skeleton actually leap out of her body for a second.
I am sorry to tell you it was the most hilarious thing I have ever seen in my life, and I know this makes me a terrible person, but two minutes later she was on my lap, the evil floaty thing completely forgotten.
So that was my exciting evening at Red Robin. Off to watch Sports Center. Or, you know, read it. Whatever you do with a Sports Center.