party foul

Friday Night is often an excuse to go out to dinner in the Wannabe Hippie household. Come to think of it, so is Monday Night... and Tuesday as well, Wednesday is good for eating out, not to mention Thursday. And of course, the weekend; gotta eat out on the weekend. Really, why was I just whining about my kitchen? ANYWAY, the basket of chips and salsa had no sooner made their appearance than Anya had started scooping salsa into her mouth by the fistful. She does this every single time and the only reason I allow it to keep happening is because sometimes she likes it. Last night? Oh, last night it turned her face bright red, made her nose run and caused her to scrape at her tongue with her tiny little fingers while saying, “ahhhhggggahahhahha!?”

Being the classy lass I am, I whipped out a boob and latched her on right quick, knowing that milk is the only way to stop the burning in a case like this. Tortillas work too, but mama’s milk when the victim is only a year and a half is pretty much gold. So there Anya stayed, nursing and flailing her limbs about. Like you do. I was attempting to look at the menu when the waitress put down a big, beautiful margarita, the only one I expected to have all month (whooo! big spender!). Before I got two sips off the tasty thing, Anya’s foot went wonking into my menu which in turn went wonking into my margarita which in turn went, “ahhhhggggahahhahha!?” all over the table. PARTY FOUL!

When I finally flagged down our waitress, she set to cleaning up the mess (which luckily hadn’t made its way into anyone’s lap) and asked me if I wanted another one. I nodded yes. But here’s the thing: would you have expected them to charge you for the second one? I mean, I know it’s not their fault that the crazy child is a monkey nurser, but for some reason, I thought maybe they’d take pity on me. I didn’t actually give it much thought. I assumed. And you know what they say about when you assume? That you, um, shouldn't do it? But there on the bill was the final unfortunate thing: a charge for two margaritas.

Damn. Now I don’t get another until January.