A Perfect Evening.

On Friday, Abby and I got it into our heads that we deserved a dinner out of the house. We'd been working away at the baby/frugality/Social isolationist grindstone for quite a while, and it was time to pat each other on the back.

I saw your wife. Well done.

*reluctant back pat*

The initial plan was to go down the road to our local bar and grill. We're fans of the reasonable prices, the acceptable taste, and not-unfriendly wait staff. Somehow, this plan neglected the

portable obligations at home. So we packed the battle wagon and rolled out.

It has more class than a rich neighborhood's organic-local-source grocery store and four dozen cup holders.

As the waitress dropped off the menus, my sister called and said she'd be willing to watch the girls while we went out and ate. We finished our drinks and packed back up to get the, now hysterical, home and in bed. As they've gotten older they have both a happy hysterical and sad hysterical setting. This was the better kind. The two hysterias are actually very similar, with yelling, table slapping, strange gargle noises, and full body wriggling; but the happy one includes smiles and and the other has rivers of tears.

Anyhow, the girls went down without event and we waited to make sure there wasn't any bedtime meltdowns. All clear. So we slipped out to grab a bite.

Darling, shall we GTFO?

We went to a restaurant around the corner that we've wanted to try for pretty much the whole time we've lived where we do. It was fantastic. there was no baby monitor, no crying, no one trying to nibble off my plate (neither child nor dog). To start we shared a bacon and chevre salad. We ordered a low end bottle of wine, and it suited our unrefined palates just so. I had a wild boar ragu (fantastic), and abby had a steak and frites (truffle oil seasoned fries). The conversation was good and the mood was good.

We were finishing up the entrees and she asked, "Should we get dessert?"

That was really a formality, because when she asks, the meaning is really: "I'm going to order dessert, and I know you want it too; but if we act conflicted and then give in, we don't seem like such fatties."

I hmm'ed and haw'ed appropriately and then accepted the desert menu, "Just to look at."

Then both our phones vibrated. It was a text from my sister, saying simply, "Maynard(the younger dog) is throwing up. Everywhere." And just like that, our beautiful evening, and my chances of getting lucky, collapsed like a sand castle in the mojave desert. Fun Fact: Sand is not very adhesive when it's 120 degrees.

"Your turn to get up."

We came home to find that he had indeed thrown up all the vomit. In all the places. Dr. Seuss could have written a story about it being here, there and the smell filling the air. He somehow managed to eat Doc(the older dog)'s dinner, in addition to his own, in the shuffle to get the babies down and us out of the house. The pile in the bedroom was large enough, I had to use two pieces of cardboard to scoop it before the reclamation project could start in earnest. Then there was the laundry to do and the steam cleaner to run.

Saturday, we had the wonderful opportunity to take him to the vet. $300 in x-rays and several days later it's agreed by all that he had a bad doggie case of "feeling like shit after eating too much."

There's no judgement there. I've bought cheeseburgers I had no caloric need for.