Dinner with the Folks

My parents and I went out for dinner tonight. This isn't unusual. In fact, this is the 5th meal in a row that I've eaten out. But tonight was unlike any other meal I've experienced.

We walked into the resteraunt, the smell of roasted lamb and pretentious filled the air. We were placed at the bar until our table was ready, with the other "stuffed shirts" and their drunk loud mouthed wives. Twas interesting.

My parents thought they'd be cute and nominate me to be DD for the night, seeing as how I'm not "of age." So, I sat there with my Shirley Temple in front of me, silently flirting with the cute bartender as my parents got wasted. I was debating on whether or not I should say ..."as they slowly got wasted"... but this wasn't the case. Within 15 minutes they were finished with drink #2 and ordering up #3. Well, gee, they didn't waste any time. I had never really gone out with my parents when they were drinking...this much. They both became chatty, with each other, with me and with everyone that passed by them. They had blushed cheeks and goofy grins on thier faces. I'm in for a great night, I thought, as I sipped away on my one and only Ms. Temple.

A half hour later we were seated at our table. When my mother tried to get off the barstool she nearly toppled over. It seemed after only one sip of her first drink she began slurring her words. She was giggly, giddy almost. My dad, on the other hand, seemed to be holding up alright. He was more talkative than usual and even became quite the little jokester.

The waitress brought us our first round of rolls (my parents kept begging her to bring more) and within the second, my mother's had disappeared. Obviously, she devoured it. My dad said, "What's the matter? Where's your roll? Did you drop it or something?" Boisterous laughter erupted from my seat. Ah, good times.

The waitress poured us some water and offered us lemon pieces to go along with it. She motions one toward my mother, who says, "What? What do you want me to do with this, Lady?"

I buried my face in my crisply folded white napkin.

By the time our salads came, the table was a disaster. There were crumbs everywhere, silverware strewn about, drips and splatterings of soup on the tablecloth. I looked at our surroundings, at the 6 other tables and their "prim and proper" inhabitants and felt utterly out of place, but happier that way. I'm glad my family isn't perfect. I'm glad we're quirky and unpredictable. I'm glad our dinnertime conversations aren't dull, ever, and I'm glad that we can talk openly about our bodily functions over a good bowl of spaghetti. It takes alot more to do that than it does to talk about politics or money.

Three hours after walking in there, we left. Our bellies were full and our hearts were light. They may not be perfect, I thought, but I wouldn't change them for the world.