Yes, this will work around to the Rhythmball content of the day, but woman does not live by Rhythmball alone...
Darling Husband (DH) and I received a $100 AmEx reward certificate for Morton's the Steakhouse back in January that was suddenly due to expire, so we called a sitter and made dinner reservations. Sitter was 45 minutes later than expected, and Nick and Em were ready to drop everything to come watch the baby, and then the sitter arrived. I find that it usually just takes a moment of panic in order for everything to work out OK. We were very excited to rush out in the rainstorm to drive to one-hour-away Hartford, capitol of insurance, and did so with great glee. By the time we hit our onramp we'd finished talking about eBay for the first time in four days (exaggeration!) and concentrated on having a fun married date. The only nice clothes I had to wear were from the pregnancy, and I'm pleased to announce that they fit considerably larger than last time I wore 'em. I ended up tucking in the blouse and folding over the wide waistband, which I belted with a satin bathrobe sash. Very Project Runway. Hey, I ironed it first.
After combing a three-block radius, we found parking and wandered the food court till we went outside and found the entrance. We were seated in a lovely booth, perhaps the worse booth in the place but better than the places restaurants usually try to stick us. It's OK, the sous-chef was natty and I liked the French tile.
Our waiter started with the name Owen but later switched to Noah. Or maybe I just didn't hear him right the first time, which is possible because in the adjacent booth sat this man whose voice was so deep it could have carried water. His date was 35 and much more attractive than her date, which made me inclined to like them. We couldn't help overhearing him as he explained how Amsterdam works, with the coffee bars and such. The lady was incredulous, and either she was a really good actress or else she was the most sheltered woman on the planet.
Owen/Noah told us about the tableside soufflé, and I asked him if they made a Harlequin one, and then I told him that's a swirl of chocolate and Grand Marnier, and Chef said OK, which was great.
Deep background: Back in 1994 John and I were at our legendary Best Friend Christmas Dinner at Il Fornaio in San Jose; I ordered the biggest steak that they had, and now whenever John tells the story he increases the steak's weight by another 8 ounces and never fails to end it with, "and she ate the whole thing, and the waiters were afraid."
Last night, (DH) read from the menu board that a 48 oz. Porterhouse was in the offing.
"For two," he clarified. So we split it. The tuxedoed head waiter carved it tableside and his bow-tie was askew the rest of the night.
Somewhere during the meal I overheard her: "are you stoned?" him: "yes." her: "all night?"
I went to the restroom and the date next door was washing her hands.
"I don't know how long you two have been seeing each other..." I began.
"Yes?" Her surprise evinced her New Englandness.
As they left, the guy raised his eyebrow at me as a showing of thanks. I was happy to help.
Why am I telling you this? Because I need to do my crunches, and it's already the next day. But I DID show Nick and Em my Basic Sets Rhythmball routine, and they were super-impressed. They even said "oooh!" when I completed three consecutive under-the-leg throws. So apparently my practice is indeed making perfect. And my old maternity clothes need to be stitched into something that fits, so it’s beginning to pay off where it really counts: my childborne hips!