Romance At Its Finest

Mr. Handsome and I went out for dinner Thursday night. Alone. Without children. Just the two of us. No one else.

Grandma decided to steal the kids and take them to see the movie Up and then for a bite to eat.

And because I, in my perpetual peri-menopausal state of flux, began cramping and menstruating again for the second time in a one-and-a-half-week period (ha! period! get it?), there wasn't going to be any hokey pokey going on around here between Mr. Handsome and I. So, what's the next best thing, you ask? Food, of course!

So, off we went to Capone's, this wonderful little Italian restaurant we've been to many times. The inside is dark, the walls covered with photos of Mafia figures. Of course, I had to be led to our table by my arm, my eyes unable to focus and adjust to darkness very quickly.

I ended up having the chicken amaretto, which I love, especially since it comes with this amazing potato that is shaped like a thick finger and cooked in some kind of coating that is out of this world. For the freaking price of the meal, they could have offered two fingers, methinks.

Mr. Handsome had some pesto pasta, which he found to be delicious.

We had the chance to talk about adult things, like work, and work, and ummm, work...because our jobs have kind of been on both our minds a lot lately. Me, with my new job and all, which I am still enjoying immensely (except that the training part of it is getting to me, because I just want to start actually doing my job), and Mr. Handsome, with a big conference coming up, at which he is speaking, which makes his nethers quiver, I am sure.

We were both stuffed to the gills, and unable to order any dessert, which always makes me sad, because we never eat dessert. It's a rare occurrence in our home. I mean, who has the time to even think about what to eat after eating? Not me, that's who. And Mr. Handsome thinks dessert is superfluous, so that makes it even more difficult to bring out a big old pumpkin pie after a big meal. Not only that, but dessert costs an arm and a leg in restaurants now. Not sure if that's happened in your neck of the woods, but here, dessert costs as much as some meals. And how does one justify spending that kind of money on something that isn't even really necessary? You don't, that's how. You swallow your pride, spoon the pie into your open maw, and accept the consequences, both monetary and caloric.

We left Capone's and were on our way to the car when the restaurant owner came running out, and shouted after us, "Hey! Thank you for coming! I hope you had a nice meal!"

And I, being the perpetual loser joker that I am, shook my head 'no', and looked at him all forlornlike.

Mr. Capone grabbed his head in his hands, said, "No? Oh no, what happened?" and he started running over to us, all worried.

When he had almost reached us, I started to laugh, and told him I was just joking, to which he replied, "Don't do that to me at my age!" And then he collapsed in a wet heap on the parking lot pavement.

Just kidding.

I laughed though, because I thought I was ever so funny and clever. But really, I'm glad I didn't give the old coot a heart attack or stroke. That could get messy, especially if mouth-to-mouth was involved. I'm pretty sure he's chock full of garlic and all things Italian.

Anyway, Mr. Handsome and I came back home, because there is nothing more romantic than sitting in front of the tv and watching an old rerun of Judging Amy.

What else are you supposed to do when your uterus is cramping up a storm, and the fatigue is overpowering?

And then the kids came home, and that was the end of any peace and quiet in our home, because they immediately started a fight, something about being too close to one another as they were coming in the house. You know, serious stuff that really matters.

And then Dee wanted to watch Predator CSI because it was all about beheaded bears in the woods who have their penises bitten off, which of course I wanted to see, but I was getting very bleary-eyed.

I ended up going to bed at 9 p.m., falling asleep almost immediately and not waking until Gryphon, our dog of little brain, came trouncing up the damn stairs again at 6 a.m. This time, however, I didn't have to get out of bed because, just as he was near the top, his feet slid on the stairs, he fumbled to grip something -- anything! -- he panicked, and ran back down. Let's hope that little fumble reminds him that only humans are to use the stairs in this house.