We went to The Weber Grill last night with Liz and Kyle. It wasn’t my first choice, considering it’s a chain in cahoots with a device that aids in outdoor cooking and somewhat expensive, but both Charlie and Kyle were positively drooling over the idea. We’d had plans to try it on a trip to Schaumburg, Illinois, to visit IKEA last year. But, of course, those plans fell through, with our opposite schedules and the fact that it costs about the same to board the dogs as it does for us to get a hotel for a couple of nights. It’s kind of difficult to reconcile the added cost (hotel for us, or hotel for the dogs? Pick one). At that time, Cavan was taking 19 credit hours and working a lot, so he couldn’t be expected to skip classes or call in to work to accommodate our desire for food and housewares.
We were expecting them to be a bit late so Charlie and I got a drink in the bar beforehand. The restaurant did have a dress code: according to their Web site, men’s shirts must have sleeves. I told Charlie and Kyle they’d have to leave their Hulkamania tank tops at home, then. They didn’t dress up much, but I was wearing dark jeans, heels that made it impossible to stomp all over downtown, and a cute white, brown, and green top. Not to mention the fabulous earrings, bracelet, and matching handbag. As we were standing in the bar, a young woman who was dressed in an eerily similar outfit, was checking me out. Not in a hot girl-on-girl sort of way, but in either an I-don’t-like-that-you’re-so-obviously-low-class-and-we-have-on-the-same-thing way, or perhaps she just thought “Oh, no, she does not need to be wearing that.” I admit I’m not 110 pounds anymore, but I do tend to fill out jeans and a top rather nicely. I don’t know what the bitch’s problem was, but I gave her a catty look back and refused to let it dampen my spirits. Mostly because it’s a bar in a chain restaurant in Indianapolis, honey, you’re not exactly Being Seen at The Ivy or anything.
I’d seen an orange-mango cosmo on their menu online, so I decided what the hell, I don’t have to be anywhere until 10 on Tuesday, and I ordered one. It was a bit of a mistake. At first I had a pretty good buzz because it was mostly pure alcohol and my stomach was empty and I have liquor, on average, once every three months anymore. But then I had all those spices that made my catfish “blackened” (and I’m not a big fish eater, but the options other than barbecue and red meat were extremely limited) so I was regretting it when we got home last night. Nothing horrible happened; I just didn’t feel “good.”
Besides seeing our friends and treating them to a post-wedding dinner, having a good fru-fru drink, and trying someplace different, there was one other really good thing that happened last night. Charlie was, literally, in heaven. In some aspects – and I mean this in the most positive way – Charlie can be a very simple man. He’s happiest when provided with a juicy steak and a glass of red wine. It was nice to see him so content, for that moment, just eating.
And just because I care about you and don’t want you, if you happen to be a fan of juicy steaks and red wine, to feel too hungry this early in the morning, I should let you know that someone let forth a stomachful of Eagle Pack Indoor Cat Food and hairballs yesterday. Normally this wouldn’t be an issue. With all hardwood floors, it’s relatively easy to clean up those inevitable – and frequent – accidents. Yesterday, however, when I was greeted with this mess, I had been at work all morning, and could not tell how long the barf had been on the couch. Yes, it was on the sofa. Sunken in to our great, expensive, green couch cushions. Right now, I’m reminded of that because, despite my best efforts to thoroughly clean the cushion, I keep getting whiffs of stale, vomity fabric.