Tag Archives: date night

40 Accidentally On Purpose Random Acts of Kindness Before 40 … No. 5

23 Feb

I don’t know if I was feeling bitter … more like burned out and disappointed rolled up in one.

It was a pretty crappy emotional cocktail.

It wouldn’t seem like much to a lot of people, but for me it was kind of something.

A Night Out.

That’s something. Definitely for someone who doesn’t get a lot of them as babysitting is a rare thing. A Night Out. It’s a simple moment that recharges your battery, but that didn’t happen for me last week. When I found out it wasn’t going to happen I got so burned out about the whole situation. But I didn’t stay home and sulk, although I felt like it.

Instead I went out with my kids and tried to have a family fun night at our favorite Italian restaurant. And what I found was an opportunity to make someone else’s Night Out much better.

Their date night actually.

While standing in line waiting for my order I overheard a couple, maybe in their early 70s, talking about the wine selection and not being really sure whether or not to buy a bottle. They talked about it being their night out and maybe splurging a little. As their linguine and clams came up they hadn’t decided what to do. I looked at the wine selection myself and grabbed the bottle of Malbec they were contemplating. They smiled and nodded their heads. I placed it on my tray.

“Is that any good?” They asked.

“Don’t know, but thought I’d give it a try. You guys seemed so interested. Thought I’d give it a chance.” I said.

They smiled at each other and put a bottle on their tray.

As they reached the front of the line, I waved at the cashier and pointed to the bottle.

“Hey, hey … that bottle is on me.”

 

40 before 40

40 before 40

 

 

They turned to look at me, confused.

“Have a great date night.” I said smiling.

“What?”

“Yeah … have a great date night. Drinks are one me.”

They gave me their thanks and walked to their table.

The bitterness, and burned out feeling was no longer there. I wasn’t upset or sad about missing out, because I had gained something by giving. I realized that just because I couldn’t have a Night Out myself, didn’t mean I couldn’t spread some happiness to those that were already out.

 

 

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Three Packets, and I Still Got My Ass Kicked … But Jet Li Helps.

23 Mar

It didn’t turn out the way we thought it would.

A nice dinner in a trendy Big-Bad-Voodoo-Daddy restaurant/bar, followed  by an evening of relaxation. Simple, yes?

No.

Not for the Guat.

There was nothing Big Bad Voodoo Daddy about it … Just bad.

The service was slow, the food was bad, the dinner was overpriced, and the wine glass was not half full. Not cool, man.

Once again “me time” bites me in the ass. “Me time” … time away from your kids so that you’re not a parent for five seconds, time away from your job so you’re not working for “The Man” 18 hours a day, time away from school so you’re not having a nervous breakdown from all the stress of a higher education. This is “Me Time.”  And once again it bit me in the ass.

First it’s my near-death Pinkberry experience, then it’s my mission eight o’clock falling up the stairs (yes I said up) experience, which resulted in a bruise the size of a watermelon on my hip area, and now this. Me time is being challenged by forces of the universe.

Sal De Uvas Picot...didn't help me this time.

Three packets of Sal de Uvas Picot and I still got my ass kicked. One packet usually does the job when I have an upset stomach, but this food entity inside me was cruel. It just laughed at my efforts.

It laid me out…I’m down for the count, still. I went to the porcelain thrown and had that not so good feeling rumbling in my stomach and esophagus. I was grossed out. I literally grossed myself out.

Oh-oh.

I knew it was coming.    

And then there it was … I threw up the sad three-course dinner. I don’t like throwing up, I imagine most people dislike this experience. But the stomach is a powerful thing. It’s part of the digestive tract. It’s in charge of phase two. Apparently the enzymes and acids did not agree during phase two, tragically for me.

So needless to say it took me a while to recover. I was down for the count.

So here I am feeling wretched and hoping it’s not food poisoning, because I sincerely don’t want to visit the porcelain thrown all night.

After my episode, I laid down on the couch, curled up on my side, flipping through the channels.

image via ma-collection.com

Then my dude found him on TeleFutura. He was kicking ass and he made me feel better.

I mean I didn’t imagine I would end up watching a 1994 Jet Li movie dubbed in Spanish:  Puno Legendario. Fists of Legend.

Ahhhhh … nothing like watching Jet Li kick ass to help keep my mind off my stomach kicking my ass.

My U2 Experience and Why I Won’t Eat at Jack-in-the-Box

11 Mar

There it was … the big red box with white letters, spinning flashing its sign. She wanted to go inside. There were no other fast food places around. I insisted that her GPS said there was an In-and-Out about seven blocks north, but apparently she was starving.

I’ll wait.

What’s the big deal?

Are you kidding me? What’s the big deal? Bono…The Edge?

Oh.

In-and-Out it is.

Bono and The Edge of U2 at Gillette Stadium, F...

Image via Wikipedia

I had never been to a U2 concert. They said it was an experience. A must see. I thought I would surprise my boyfriend (at the time) with floor tickets.  He was a huge U2 fan. Apparently he’s known and loved them since Bono had a mullet. I wasn’t aware what floor seats were and whether they were any good, but when he opened the envelope I realized they were amazing seats and I was an amazing girlfriend.

The day of the concert was so rushed. We didn’t eat home-cooked meals, but thought we’d pick something up along the way. We saw a Jack-In-The-Box and McDonalds on our way to the arena. I wasn’t a big fan of either one. I told him maybe we should look around, I’m sure there’s something else. It’s this or eleven dollar hot dogs from the arena. Jack-In-The-Box it is I guess.

I got the basics: Burger, fries and a lemonade. But then I saw the sign and changed my mind. “We make are shakes fresh. We use real vanilla ice cream, Oreo cookie pieces, whipped topping and maraschino cherries.”

The chocolate lover in me said: dude how can you not order that, I mean really lemonade, or Oreo Cookies Milkshake? C’mon now.

Milkshake, please. Large.

After we ate, we made our way to the arena and something didn’t sit well with me. My stomach began swelling and I had that bloated feeling.  He asked whether I wanted a beer or wine cooler before going in to the stadium. I politely declined, said I wasn’t feeling too well, probably full from the meal. One won’t hurt, may settle your stomach. All right.

So I picked the strawberry kiwi fizzy wine cooler. Thought it’s carbonated, it may help.

Always listen to your gut. It’s trying to tell you something.

We entered the stadium, bought our souvenir t-shirts and made our way to the floor. The floor. It meant the floor next to the band. The floor, where I could see the microphone stand and wires and if I reached my hand up toward the stage, Bono would probably high-five me, well he’d probably high-five my dude. Sweet, I thought. These were good tickets. He was happy, I was happy.

The lights dimmed and the opening act, The Pretenders, took the stage. As I nodded my head to the tunes, I got a funny feeling in my stomach. It wasn’t the butterflies of a new romance. It wasn’t the boom-boom of my inner musical soul thriving. It was the disharmony of a Jack-In-The-Box. It was my gut, calling me a jackass. I had no Sal de Uvas Picot to save me. But I tried to shake it off. I tried to dance it off.

The set continued, the band rocked on, and the people continued trickling in, filling up the arena. It began getting crowded on the floor … and then that’s when it happened.

It just came out. I threw up. I couldn’t stop. I was like Paul Rudd in I Love You, Man. My dude turned and looked at me, then at the floor. A couple of fans witnessed the spectacle and then probably wished they hadn’t witnessed it at all.

Disaster.

Oreo Cookie Milkshake indeed.

I was mortified. I couldn’t stop. The band didn’t stop jamming. The other floor ticket holders didn’t stop rocking. They didn’t hear me or the Oreo Cookie splat. But I did hear massive profanity as a few fans accidentally stepped in something that shouldn’t have been there. I needed to evacuate.

I didn’t know what to do.

What do you do when you lose it on a date? But not only a date, a concert … a most awesome U2 concert? Probably get ready to take a cab home, who wants a throw-up chick in their car?

I was unsure of my standing with my date at the moment.

My dude looked at me, walked me up the stairs, found the nearest bathroom, handed me one of the U2 shirts, and nodded his head.

After twenty minutes I came out of the bathroom, a little more refreshed and unsure of what was to come. We’d probably need a different spot on the floor. We’d probably be in the back, not even close to the microphone stand. We’d probably be better off in seats. And there would probably be no good-night kiss … No … there was no probably about it. I was sure of it. No kiss. But I was O.K. with that.

He took my hand, led me back to the floor, found a different spot, and he continued to rock on. Just when I felt the need to say something, an apology, a this-doesn’t-usually-happen-to-me-speech, he said:

I guess next time we’ll eat tacos, no milkshakes. Just lemonade.

He smiled and rocked as Bono took the stage.

Regardless of his compassion for my Oreo Cookie Milkshake mishap, I have yet to eat at Jack-In-The-Box again.

Fresh milkshakes with real vanilla ice cream … yeah … I’m not sure about that.

All I Wanted To Do Was Leave By 8:00

15 Jan

Tun-tun, tun-tun-tun-tun, tun-tun-tun-tun, tun-tun-tun-tun, tun-tun tun turooo-rooo, turooo-rooo, turoo-rooo, turoooooooooooo …

Cover of "Mission Impossible (Special Col...

I felt like Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. But instead of being a successful secret agent I was a mom that ended up with a bruise on her hip and a bad tequila sunrise.

All I wanted to do was leave my parent’s house by 8:00 o’clock to make it to my friend’s BIG 4-0 celebration. Listen to music, laugh with some friends and not have to worry about being a mom for one night. I don’t get out much in the evening, let alone an entire night for partying, so needless to say I was pretty excited.

It’s hard to find someone to watch my kids for even an hour, let alone an entire evening. I know what you’re thinking, You live at your parents…hello they would to help you out, right?…Well there are all types of grandparents. You got the Huxtable loving grandmother who cares, does anything for you, drop your kids off any time you need a break. I’m-a help you. Then you have the Everybody Loves Raymond Marie Barone grandmother who sometimes helps a little bit TOO much. Or you have the crazy Tyler Perry grandmama like Madea who’ll watch your kids, but knock the sass out them with a frying pan in a second. And then you have my mom who believes in “the chancla”. She’s old school and won’t hesitate to reincarnate into the Latin version of Madea…I try not ask for many favors as I feel my presence in her house is a big enough favor alone as I am in her “space.” Asking for her to watch them is usually a great challenge…like climbing Everest in the snow with one leg. So I keep the babysitting to a minimum. I have to build enough courage to withstand “the exhale” and “the look” and then the … “well I guess so.”

But once that force field is up I have to insure that everything is hassle free. So I needed to put my kids to sleep before we could leave. That way all my mom had to do was watch them as they slept…easy right? I thought so.

I figured if I planned it out with enough time I would be able to tire both my kids out for an early nap in the afternoon and then plan out for an early bed time. As it got closer to dinner time I began with the crazy anxiety and feeling like it wasn’t going happen. There was too much to do and I should have started earlier, like a 7 a.m. or something. But I pushed on …

At 6 p.m. I cleaned the house, did some laundry, played with my son, fed the baby, cooked dinner, washed the dishes, opened the computer for blogging, prepared the bottles for the evening, left detailed instructions for my mom, played with my son some more, closed the computer for no blogging, folded the laundry, then his dad finally shows up.

At 7 p.m. they take showers, while I try my best to keep the baby awake and reiterate the baby sitting instructions for mom, which she ignores of course because as she often tells me “…how do you think you were raised?” I often wonder that myself. She shrugs off my instructions and tells me not to worry about it. She knows what she’s doing. My husband and son get out of the shower, and help me fold the remaining laundry. Our son decides to help too, so we have to re-fold half the pile. Husband gets our son ready for bed. Our son needs his teddy.

At 7:30 p.m. I run downstairs to get it and run back up. The baby needs the bottle I run downstairs to get it and run back up. Our son needs water I run downstairs to get it, and as I am going back up the stairs I realize I also need to take the bottle warmer and baby cooler with milk bottles. I turn back to get them and as I walk over the dog and her bed in my Hanes cotton socks I don’t quite make it up the stairs as a normal person would.

Walking is not complicated. It’s really not.

One foot in front of the other…it should be the same process when I go up the stairs, however the laws of physics did not agree with my Hanes white-cotton socks. I slipped at the base of the wooden staircase and my hips landed smack down on the corner of the second step…bottles went flying everywhere. And I needed to take a minute … several actually as the pain radiated throughout my body and the ouwwwwwww came out.

Pine is not a soft wood at all. If I was a senior citizen the ambulance would have needed to make a trip to the house. This pain was beyond profanity. It was just ouuuwwwwwwwwwwwwww and clenched fists. People fall down stairs all the time. Constantly. However, my body decided to fall going up the stairs. UP! Not down. Up. It must be the Guatemalan blood.

At 7:45 I peeled myself off the stairs, collected the bottles and sippy cup and crawled up the wooden staircase and plopped on the bed massaging my hip.

“You shouldn’t have fallen down.”  my husband says.

“Yeah. I guess that wasn’t a good idea.”

At 7:50 I took a shower and rubbed my hip

At 7:55 I came out of the shower, continued rubbing my hip, and took some ibuprofen.

At 8:00 I got dressed and kissed my son good night and his dad put him to bed. The baby was wrapped up and sleeping already. I carefully made my way downstairs to use the blow dryer.

At 8:15 My son was still awake.

At 8:20 My mother returns from filling a prescription down the street that apparently needed to be done at that moment in time.

At 8:30 My husband comes down and assures me that our son is on his way to dreamland.

At 8:31 My husband tells me he’s left the keys to the car next to my son.

At 8:32 My son is still awake.

At 8:45 My husband assures me again that our son is off to dreamland.

At 8:50 We’re in the car ready to go, pulling out of the driveway.

At 8:55 We’re on the freeway. Only 55 minutes later. If I was saving the world like Tom Cruise, we’d all be dead by now. I thought, at least my kids are asleep and I don’t have to worry…

At 8:56 my aunt, who incidentally caused the mini tsunami that washed over my computer a couple of days ago, decides to slam the bathroom door.

At 8:57 My son is awake asking where we are.

Midnight…My son finally falls asleep.

At 1:00 a.m. We walk back in the door. I’m still massaging my hip. No time for blogging Saturday night. So for the second time this year I miss a day. First one due to a mini-tsunami that sidelined my computer. Second one bad hip and failing mission eight o’clock. Better luck next time.