I’ve been on a fondue kick.
I do this pretty often – I’ll eat one thing for like six months straight until the sight of it makes me vomit. What, ME (with) food issues?
Lately, rather than spaghetti and meatballs, it’s been fondue. I’ve been on fondue like it’s my job.
I was feeling kinda mopey on Saturday, what with a week full of sick kids who decided that staying home to torture me while whining and coating my home in a nice glistening pile of germs – rather than going to school and infecting all of their classmates – was the way to handle it. By Saturday, I had a 101 degree fever, a cough that would make a TB sanatorium proud, and a case of the Mondays.
The only answer?
(not more cowbell)
(also not more vodka, but only barely)
I bribed The Guy on the Couch to go to fondue with me, and when I say “bribed,” I mean that it went like this:
The Guy on my Couch (mowing lawn and singing loudly off-key)
Aunt Becky: (standing on driveway waving frantically)
The Guy On My Couch: “Shit are you okay?”
Aunt Becky: “Yeah, why?”
The Guy On My Couch: “You looked like you were having a seizure.”
Aunt Becky: “Nope, just hungry. HEY, Fondue Reso in an hour and a half. BE READY.”
The Guy On My Couch: “You sure you’re not seizing?”
Aunt Becky (mysteriously) “Can one EVER be sure of such a thing?”
Upstairs, trying to find something to wear. Have forgotten that I’ve thrown all my clothes down to be a) washed or 2) given to Goodwill. Have no clean pants that I can find and do not feel like wearing a dress as the fondue restaurant tends to be cold.
Ah-HA I say to myself as I pick up a pair of jeans - this is PERFECT!
I slip into the jeans and change out of my Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt and into something slightly more dressy. Contemplate making dressy Shut Your Whore Mouth shirts as I slap on some makeup and perfume before heading downstairs.
The Daver: “You look nice.”
Aunt Becky: “Thanks!”
The Guy On My Couch: “Ouch, Daver. You didn’t tell me that *I* looked nice.”
The Daver: *laughs*
(a few minutes pass so I pick up my crabby daughter and whirl her around until she’s laughing so hard she can barely breathe)
The Daver: “Are you…”
Aunt Becky: “…?”
The Daver: “Are you wearing MATERNITY pants?”
Aunt Becky: “Thems be mah EATIN’ pants.”
The Daver and The Guy On My Couch begin to laugh uproariously. Unsure of why the grown-ups are laughing, all three children join in.
An hour and a half later we’re sitting down on what we’d both forgotten was “date night,” so the restaurant is packed. Our server shuffles by us at least ten times before finally making his way to our table, by which time I am ready to gnaw off his arm. Uncooked, even.
A Server Named Dennis: “So sorry about the wait. It’s been crazy.”
Aunt Becky: “I heard that table behind us (an 8-top of a particularly annoying family) hound you for decaf. It’s all good.”
(sidebar: decaf coffee and hot tea are the banes of every server’s existence)
A Server Named Dennis: (laughs) “What can I get for you?”
The Guy On My Couch: “We’re weird.”
Aunt Becky: “You can say THAT again.”
The Guy On My Couch: “We’re weird. We don’t want meat. We just want cheese, then chocolate.”
A Server Named Dennis: “So it’s like a Festival of Cheese? Cool.”
The Guy On My Couch: “BRING ON THE CHEESE. Okay, we’ll start with the Swiss.”
A Server Named Dennis: “For two or…”
The Guy On My Couch (decisively): “For four.”
A Server Named Dennis: (laughs): “We shall begin the parade of cheese.”
The Guy On My Couch: “WINNING.”
Aunt Becky (on iPad) : “Fucking Tiny Tower – I need a fucking new elevator.”
Both stare at me.
Aunt Becky (mysteriously turns on her Slack-Jawed Yokel voice): “I got mah eatin’ pants on, y’all.”
Both stare at me.
Aunt Becky: “I done hurted mah elbey-bone.”
The Guy On My Couch: “Go back to Tiny Tower.”
Aunt Becky: “YOU GOT IT.”
Three cheese later, we get to the chocolate. The battle of the forks ensues.
Aunt Becky: “MAH MARSHMALLOW, BACK OFF FUCKSTICK!”
The Guy On My Couch: “You don’t get ALL the marshmallows, Miss Greedy-Pants.”
Aunt Becky (narrows eyes): “I can take you.”
The Guy On My Couch: “This IS a business dinner, yes?”
Aunt Becky: “Yes.”
The Guy On My Couch: “You probably shouldn’t kill off one of your board members. I’m guessing that’ll reflect badly on our non-profit status.”
Aunt Becky: “…”
The Guy On My Couch (smugly): “Pass the marshmallows.”
Aunt Becky (narrows eyes): “You’re fired.”
The Guy On My Couch: “You can’t fire me, Miss President. You’re a non-voting member.”
Aunt Becky: (begrudgingly passes a marshmallow)
The Guy On My Couch: (pops it into his mouth)
Aunt Becky: “I licked that while you weren’t looking.”
The Guy On My Couch: “I hate you.”
Aunt Becky: “Don’t FUCK with my marshmallows.”
How was YOUR weekend, Pranksters?