We made it downtown last night. Adults, out on the town, going to an adult restaurant, eating and talking sans children. Fiction miraculously turned fact.
I parked in a handicap spot, put on the emergency flashers, and dashed into the Marx. How does one know exactly when a restaurant stops serving dessert? The host rattled off, from memory, at least eight mutli topping, multi unknown-words desserts that from their descriptions led me to believe that we would be getting mouse-size portions regardless of the choice. Oh well, maybe that's what adults without children eat.
I retraced my steps to the flashing, yet-unticketed car and relayed this adult information. The ladies exited to secure seats. Dean and I drove to my office where we parked and enjoyed a stroll back to the restaurant. Oh, did I mention that the restaurant was Marx?
1. great conversation: more parenting talk, concern about socialistic propensities of college instruction, and a brief explanation of why I have enjoyed reading Nietzsche. I forgot to add "Thus Spoke Zarathustra" to my book list of yesterblog.
2. great desserts. These were not mouse-size portions. Quite the contrary.