Sunday, April 3, 2011

I Blame Chili's and Their Stupid Good Food

Dear Secret Blogiary,

Mister W. and I do not often get date nights. Hell, between his schedule and The Girls, it isn’t often we get any type of quiet alone time. But we try.

Tonight, out of some random act of kindness, Mom took The Girls for a sleepover. My mind immediately began racing through various naughty things Mister W. and I could partake in.

Oh…The plans I made while waiting for Mister W. to finally get home. And it all started with food. You see, I have long since discovered that, although it is an Old Wive’s Tale, the way to Mister’s heart is to bypass it altogether and focus on the stomach. Mister Q. loves his food. Loves. So it was with great pleasure that I remembered an awesome Christmas present we had yet to use: A gift card to Chili’s.

I assaulted Mister W. as he walked through the door all but tearing off his shirt and shoved him into the shower. As he soaped up I told him of my plans and with a grumble from his stomach he readily agreed that it was a fine plan.

Chili’s was slow, odd for a Saturday evening, but it was nice to get a table without having to wait thirty minutes. Sliding into the booth, Dreamy Waiter took our drink order: Sweet Tea for me (I was driving) and Crown on the Rocks for Mister W.
Normally we skip the appetizers because I never finsish my dinner when we have a started, but Mister W. was Hungry and I just couldn’t resist the southwestern egg rolls.

Big Mistake.
Hot, crispy, just a touch of spice, dipped in that avocado-ranch dressing. Divine. And did I mention hot? Sort of like a lava flow in your mouth except instead of lava it is the skin from the roof of your mouth melting and cascading over your tongue.

I survived. Barely. Thank the sweet tea deity that Dreamy Waiter had just brought me a refill. I guzzled half of it down and suck on ice cubes while waiting for dinner to arrive.

Fajitas all around for dinner; me, the trio, Mister W. the buffalo chicken. Ah! but the meal was so good. And it was nice to be out of the house, eating food that I didn’t have to cook, with someone who I occasionally like to spend time with.

We talked in quiet voices about the plans for the rest of the evening and I am sure that my face was warm not because of the spicy food but because…

But then, poor planning struck. As it so often happens (because every single time we have a date night this is how it ends up) we eat too much and waddle back to the house, bemoaning all the food, as good as it was.

We sit down on the couch to let our dinner settle.

We turn the T.V. on (really haven’t we seen this episode of Mythbusters 5,000 times?).

Mister W. yawns. I rub my eyes.

I lie down and put my head in his lap. His stomach burbles in protest. I sit back up.

We look at each other.

We laugh and shake our heads.

“Every single time,” Mister W. says.


“Maybe in the morning? Before the girls come home?” Mister W. asks.

"I do like morning sex," I say.

Mister W. stumbles off to bed.

And I get sucked into watching a SyFy (why do they spell it like that?) mini-movie, Meteor, "starring" Jason Alexander.

I blame you, Chili’s.

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