So the planets aligned, the stars juxtaposed just right, and the gods smiled briefly down upon myself and my lovely wife. All of our kids are going to be babysat/looked after/cared for by others/sold into slavery this coming weekend, and the Kristin and I will have roughly 24 hours of well-deserved, blissful time together. Gone will be the near-constant shrieks of "That's mine!" and "I'm telling!" and "You're not fair!" and "Stop putting your finger in my nose!" that the kids have to listen to when my wife and I fight. Instead, Kristin and I can relax, sit back, and enjoy life for a little while.
"So what do you want to do?" Kristin asks.
"Hot monkey sex," I immediately reply. Somewhat surprisingly, this does not cause her to prostrate herself in a lust-induced fervor. Perhaps I should shower more often. Or maybe my delivery is off. That line always works in the porn films.
"We should go out to eat," she says. This makes sense; after all, my parents have offered to watch the youngest child and pay for us to have a nice dinner, in celebration of our wedding anniversary. Of course, our wedding anniversary was actually several months ago, but hey ... you take what you can get. Nevertheless, it stands to reason, if someone is going to pay for us to eat out, we should probably eat out.
"Okay," I reply. "How about McDonald's?"
She gives me The Look.
"Hey, some very important people eat there," I say, testily. "You never know who you might meet."
"I was thinking someplace a little fancier than that," she replies.
"Okay. How about Wendy's?"
The Look again. I give up.
"Okay, where do you want to go?" I ask, naively.
"Oh, I don't care."
And so it begins.
Not since Salome did the "Bring me the head of John the Baptist" dance has any terpsichorean tragedy caused more grief than the "Don't care" dinner dance. Fortunately, my wife and I understand each other's tastes, so we're able to skip much of the preparatory moves of the dance: the "what do you want" waltz, the menu minuet, the dessert drop-and-kick. We can get right into the meat of the "don't care" dance itself.
You're familiar with this dance, of course. The moves are simple, yet can cause so much frustration. One partner will begin the dance by saying "I don't care" to a question regarding a dining destination. The other partner will then fire off a list of potential eating establishments, all of which must be dismissed (and occasionally ridiculed) by the first partner. My wife and I have performed this dance many times, and we've gotten quite good at it. Sometimes friends will ask us to perform the dance for them, and are usually flat on their backs laughing once we get to the part where we're red-faced, noses two inches apart, screaming at each other incomprehensibly. When the dance reaches this level (and note: a "don't care" dinner dance of that complexity requires timing and skill that many people simply don't have, so Don't Try That at Home), we usually end up going to Waffle House or simply not eating at all.
My wife once achieved international notoriety (and a signed letter of congratulations from Michael Flatley himself) when she selected a dinner destination beforehand, but wouldn't tell me what it was. I was forced to shuck and jive for almost an hour, sweat pouring from my body, until by sheer luck I suggested the same place she had in mind. When we actually got to the restaurant, I was too exhausted to eat.
Ain't love grand?
Anyway, this time Kristin throws a monkey wrench in the works. She likes to do this from time to time, to keep me on my toes.
"How about Copeland's?" she asks.
Now, I like Copeland's fine; it's a chain restaurant that features New Orleans-style cuisine, primarily seafood. But Kristin doesn't like the place. She's complained in the past when we've gone there, and in two instances has faked projectile vomiting while in the restaurant (using a concealed bellows and giblet gravy) as a commentary on the food. So I know that's not a valid suggestion. She's just testing me, raising the level of difficulty on the dance. It's like a skater doing a triple axel right out of the gate. You're hoping to make the next skater on the program whimper like a whipped iguana and give up without even competing.
Fortunately, I am up to the challenge.
"Why in the name of sweet and holy chocolately goodness did you say Copeland's?" I ask. "You hate the place. How about I suggest some restaurants, and you pick one of them?" Thus subtly establishing the fact that I'm going to lead.
"Sounds like a plan," she replies.
Now, I'm not stupid enough to think that she'll actually pick one restaurant. I'm stupid, but not that stupid. Regardless, the dance clearly dictates what my next move must be, so I follow the rules.
"Let's see, we could try The Tavern, or Brio, or Chili's, or Ruth's Chris, or Connie Kanakis Cafe, or Outback, or On the Border, or Shula's. Pick one of those." This last was said with a challenging, in-your-face tone, in the hopes that would goad her into actually picking a place out of spite. Unfortunately, she knows me too well.
"I don't want Brio, or Ruth's Chris, or Chili's, or Shula's," she says. "So that narrows it down."
Notice the scheming sneakiness of her ways. She hasn't actually validated any of my suggestions; she's just ruled some of them out. Now, if I follow the rules of the dance, I must suggest each of the remaining three one at a time, and squirm in frustration as she shoots each one down. Then, when I'm completely out of ideas, she'll suggest one of the four restaurants she originally excluded. If we enjoy the meal, she'll take credit for suggesting it. If we don't enjoy the meal, she'll complain that I dragged her there against her will, because she "didn't want to go there in the first place, and I told you that."
So I attempt a daring and controversial move of my own. Such a move has been banned in international competition for seven years now, ever since the Vladivostok Riots, but since this is an unsanctioned dinner dance I figure I can get away with it.
"I'd like to go to The Tavern," I say. "I liked it the last time we went there, and if memory serves you like it a lot, too."
"Sounds good to me," she says, and so our Friday night dinner plans are set. Or so I think.
Five bucks says we end up at Waffle House, not speaking to each other.
(c) 2012 John Puckett
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