peskypippi.comBecause I have a lot to say…

My good friend invited me out to dinner with two of her friends that I didn’t know. A table for four, please.

I hesitated at first, because my Saturday nights are kinda sacred and are usually spent with my family, a movie, and a giant bowl of popcorn.

One of her friends was a delight. The other was a hater

I wasn’t prepared to spend my free time with a salad, hater on the side. I got flustered.

This one was skinny. Her hair in a sleek bob. Clad in a cashmere sweater, she pursed her lips as she looked me up and down with her x-ray vision.

I was 10 minutes late. I showed up in some dumb chunky sweater. My hair still wet from my shower. The three women were already buddied up in a booth. “A Blue Moon on tap, please,” I sang to the waiter, and squeezed in next to the cashmere-bob-pursed-lips one.

You know the awkward moment when the other women order appetizers as their dinners AFTER you order the Alaskan salmon and mashed potatoes and salad, with ranch dressing please. Yeah that.

My booth buddy (not) ordered an appetizer Caesar salad for her dinner. And couldn’t finish it. (When I told this to my real buddy Scott, @DiaperDads, he tweeted, “I just can’t get past fake-ass personas. Like we don’t know there’s a stop at Dunkin Donuts planned after eating salad.”)

Over dinner, I was explaining a project I was doing at work Miss Cashmere interrupted and sneered, “You WORK??!!”

As if working is a strange, new phenomenon.

“Uh, yeah, you DONT??!!” I wished I had retorted. I usually think of witty comments like two days after the fact.

“Another beer, please,” I nearly pleaded to the waiter.

The sauce on the salmon was delicious. And those mashed potatoes were perfectly buttered and garlicked. I envisioned licking the plate.

When the table got quiet, I felt the need to fill in the quiet with gab. So, I talked about my blog. My kids. My recent clothes purchases and returns. My latest recipe. My silly stories. I blathered. Did Miss Cashmere have any clever stories? No, but she sure seemed interested in putting my stories down.

When it was time to gather our coats and purses, my purse strap got tangled. I yanked it, flinging my purse to the floor, spilling its entire contents. Coins scattered and rolled every which way. Was this a metaphor of how I felt exposed?

Miss Cashmere was quick to smirk and eye roll.

I quickly collected my coins, wallet, receipts, gum, pens, bag of almonds, phone (and my dignity)–and shoved everything back. I smoothed out my chunky sweater over my full belly and gulped down the last of my beer. I stood up straight, smiled a fake smile, and uttered, “It was nice meeting you. Thanks for inviting me.”

I got the hell out of there, relieved to feel the Winter night air cool off my flushed cheeks. And I made it home in time to still score some late-night popcorn.

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Never look a gift horse card in the mouth.

Someone gave my husband a $100 gift card to fancy schmancy restaurant. Not a chain restaurant. And definitely a no-kids-menu restaurant.

It was a teensy tiny place with white table cloths and candles. With a menu written in calligraphy.

Date night! We had big plans of ordering tons of drinks. Tons of apps. Tons of food. Tons of dessert.

I even wore something with a little elastic around the waist to account for expansion.

But whaddya know. After scanning the menu–gulp–prices were so high, our visions of drinks and apps sorta dissipated. Even with the $100 gift card.

“We’re fine with water,” I told the waiter.

I ordered the mushroom ravioli with cream sauce. And my husband ordered the chicken with pesto and pine nuts.

No apps. No extra drinks. Face it. We’re kinda cheap when it comes to restaurants. I mean, we’ll spring on beers and a pile of nachos as big as your Grandfather’s Chevy any day.

What can I say? I like big food. (I also like Sir Mix-a-Lot’s I Like Big Butts song…)

The salads arrived. Nothing special. Just your typical grass-and-weed mix. Crunch. Crunch.

Then the main course. And it looked like this.

I’m not kidding you. I thought I ordered RAVIOLIS. As in a huge pile of them. I felt like the giant in Jack and The Beanstalk eating a pea. What is UP with the ginormous plate and the itty-bitty food that cost as much as my winter parka

Do you take your knife and fork and slice up the one freaking ravioli?

And you won’t catch me offering, “Here honey, try some of mine.”

My husband’s meal was just as comical. He’s a big guy. Like NFL-quarterback big. You can’t fool him with the sauce drizzled in a spirograph pattern, creating an optical illusion.

We finished our dinner snack in about 8 minutes. Taking little bites and drinking lots of water.

The check came. That was that. We shelled out $20 of our OWN money for a tip. And left with our tummies grumbling.

Then we hightailed it Burger King for dinner #2.

giant plants. small portions. kaching.

Looks may be deceiving. Take lentil soup, for example.

I stand up for ugly foods and eat things that are not beautiful: oatmeal, meatloaf, lentil soup.

So I make this jumbo pot of lentil soup. Chock full of lentils, onions, celery, carrots, garlic, sausage. You know, all the good stuff.

It doesn’t matter. Still ugly. Actually, it’s horrifying to look a.

“Looks like barf,” say my kids. That soup won’t be going anywhere fast around here. Maybe I can get my husband to eat it.

And this is what he says: “It tastes as bad as it looks.”

Two words for my lentil soup: epic fail.

Who doesn’t love Chinese food? I am definitely a fan of potstickers. With their golden brown outsides and stinky little cabbagy, juicy insides. Yum!

Yet, I am not a fan of eating pork and usually, Chinese restaurants only have that kind. But there’s one potsticker brand that I love love love. And they’ve got chicken in them. And no MSG (except for the optional soy sauce) and no trans fat.

I could well be Ling Ling’s next brand ambassador. Ya never know. You may be seeing a banner ad very soon on my website. Just sayin’.

Buy a bag at Costco. Throw it into your freezer. And then, at 7:00 p.m. (yeah, we eat late), when you’re like “what the hell are we having for dinner tonight?” Just grill up a pan full of these beauties in some olive oil. And ya’d think you’re in Chinatown.

We all know about the “witching hour.” The term we use to refer to the time in the evening when Moms turn into witches and kids turn into beasts. One word: mayhem. But witching hour is a bit of a misnomer around here. I now call this the “bitching hour” because this is what roughly happens around our house at twilight:

1. Homework.
2. Dinner preparation.
3. Work deadlines.
4. Hungry kids.
5. Tired kids.
6. Team sports.
7. Shuttling to-and-from activities.
8. Chores.
9. Exhaustion.
10. Bickering.
11. Me yelling.

But I ran across a Tweet today with an even better descriptor, that literally cracked me up. I conclude with a Tweet from @herbadmother:

“I don’t know why they call it a ‘witching hour.’ It would be more accurate to call it ‘hours of batshit honey badger batshittery.”

But that is kind of mouthful, so let’s go with “batshittery hour,” shall we?

I admit, I am not the greatest of cooks. But I make a mean grilled cheese sandwich. This is a staple at our house at dinnertime. They are quick and easy to make and sooo yummy. Throw some turkey slices on them and–pow–you’ve got a protein-packed, golden brown sandwich. If all goes well. However…

I also admit that I am also a fan of Facebook and Twitter. But these addictions don’t go so well with cooking grilled cheese sandwiches. I get caught up in commenting on other peoples’ posts, posting pictures of my beautiful sandwiches, and yapping on about what a great cook I am. Then what happens? Burnt grilled cheese.

It happens.

Yeah. We talk about poop at our house. All the time. It’s funny. Everybody does it. Poop happens. One of our favorite books: Everyone Poops. That book is the best. You can see animals actually pooping. You can see poop in babies’ diapers. You learn that poop is all different sizes and shapes, even different smells. Love it!

Poop shouldn’t be a taboo subject at home. It should be a topic…at DINNER. Yep, we disgusted my sister-in-law once at dinner because we were talking about poop. She doesn’t have kids. Still doesn’t. Did we scare her off?

Maybe the family that talks about poop openly is more regular. I know one thing: just saying the word out loud makes me crack a smile. (Did I just say “crack?”)

One of my all-time favorite movie lines is in Harry Potter when Hagrid says, “Better out than in.”