The Mexican restaurant was bursting capacity by 6:00pm when we arrived. Already-drunk college and military kids hooted on all sides. Gavin crouched against a wall warily. "Sorry, it's gonna be a 2-3 hour wait," said a very not-sorry hostess, who then turned and complained loudly to a bouncer that it wasn't even 7:00pm yet. A radio station had set up tables of jello shots behind an enormous yellow taped barricade that blocked an entire row of parking spaces. Presumably this was where the party would rage until 3am. We decided to leave the scene while still intact.
Mike met us as we were walking away, his hair mushed flat on the top by his helmet. I tried to fluff it and tuck the puffy bottom bits behind his ears, and he gave me an irritated glare. We walked to the Old Spaghetti Factory and went upstairs to the bar while waiting for our table. The bar was empty, with fancy dark wood furnishings, dim and golden with dangling stained glass and wrought iron chandeliers. We ordered three margaritas and Mike taught Gavin how to play Space Invaders on the retro table arcade. I've always wondered about bars with stairs in them, but I negotiated them well enough despite the heels, dangling toddler, and impractically large margarita glass. The Spaghetti Factory earns 4 stars for atmosphere, but the food seems to be reheated from Costco cans. I stirred my mandarin chicken salad in circles to make it look like I was eating a bit. The drink made me talkative.
mom: What's she saying?
Mike: She's talking in chat.
me: lol. lol @ me.
Sheesh. Afterwards we walked downstairs to look at colored noodles at the kitchen store.
The cat jumped on my head when I was 15 minutes late waking up this morning (5:30am) and I am downstairs with a hot bowl of oatmeal, a cup of tea, and spare time to blog. Good start to a Saturday.
(night 3, no nursing)
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