Do you know how profoundly boring Sweet Babou and I are? We are such freaking homebodies that we had never had to hire a babysitter before last Friday. On the extremely rare occasions when we would want, or need, to go out, we had a friend or a grandparent watch the kiddies for a couple of hours.
However, we were invited to go to dinner with Sweet Babou’s boss, Jack, as well as Sweet Babou’s co-worker, Alan, and Alan’s wife, Brenda. We really wanted to go to this dinner. Not only did I want to meet the people I had heard so much about, but when your boss asks you to dinner it is kind of moronic to give it a pass. This dinner was a fairly big deal for me, too, because I was going to put on my nice blouse and make-up, just like a real girl.
So, I asked around amongst my friends and found Gilda, who had recently graduated with a degree in elementary education and had worked with kids on the Autism Spectrum. We knew the older girls would be fine, but were nervous about Baby Spock throwing a fit the entire time we were gone, but she gloamed onto Gilda like a long-lost aunt. Hallelujah!
Thus, we were happy when we set off for out big night out, but I was also nervous. I have social graces worthy of some of the seedy trailer parks in Appalachia, but might be kicked out of the double-wide trailers of more well-to-do Hillbillies. I have NO habitus. What if I embarrassed Sweet Babou with my too-blunt and awkward ways? He had to work with these people!
Imagine my relief when Jack dropped the F-bomb two minutes into dinner. Furthermore, the larger the quantity of refreshing alcoholic beverages that Jack, Alan, and Sweet Babou consumed, the more boisterous they got … so I was rapidly fitting in. I am personally convinced that people drink to act like me. I have few inhibitions and find farce entertaining. People drink to lower their social shields and to act silly. See? Happy hour should be called “Fokkerization”.
Once surrounded by geeks who were lit up like Christmas trees, I was in my milieu. The only way I could have been more at home was if I were knee deep in drag queens. Not only did I find that I really liked Jack, Alan, and Brenda, they seemed to find me hysterical. And I didn’t even put my elbow in a puddle of marinara sauce, or anything. There was much with the saying how we should all do this again sometime soon.
It . Was. Greatness.
And when we got home, Spock was not sad. She was perched upon Gilda and watching Little Einsteins, happy as a small clam. (Lilo and Stitch had been asleep for a while, but we told Gilda not to torture herself by trying to get Spock to sleep unless Spock wanted to. Have I mentioned that Spock is incredibly spoiled? Stop judging me. She’s my last baby and I will spoil her rotten if I want to, dammit.) We now have someone we can pay to watch the girls, so that we can have a “date night” every so often. Time with my husband, for the win! Dinner where I only cut my own food! Movies!