Last night after work, Ned and I met for dinner at the restaurant I really like that he isn't that crazy about. I have no idea how you could not be crazy about this place, but its big draw, really, is that it has outdoor seating. It's that place we went to one night when we were first dating that sat us in pitch blackness.
When I just went to find that post, I thought, "I wonder what the hell I would have called that post. I shoulda called it In the Dark." So I Googled "byebyepie" + "restaurant that sat us in darkness" and guess what I found. A post called In the Dark. Clearly my brain never changes. Not since birth.
"The reason I never really am crazy about that place is there's not one goddamn thing to eat there that's healthy," said Ned just now, like that's a feature that matters. One reader in particular gets all excited when Ned's getting out of the shower and getting ready while I type. Today he has on a white shirt and sort of charcoal-looking pants. I don't mean he has pants on made of little squares that make your hands dirty when you pick 'em up. After work, Ima set Ned in the sun and make s'mores right off his pants.
(I just heard him zip that gym bag. The bag of enemy. The bitch that takes him from me for hours each day, that gym.)
Here's another thing. Ned always says about things, "I don't DISLIKE it, I'm just not crazy about it." He says that about everything. He just said that about this restaurant just now. Why can't he just come out and admit he dislikes something? The other day he said, "I don't DISLIKE that guy, it's just he thinks he's better than us." I mean, how could you not dislike someone who thinks he's better than you? Unless of course it's true. Like, if Sarah Jessica Parker thought she was better than me, I'm down with that.
That's why I hate that People of Walmart site. It's like we're laughing because we think we're better than poor people. That site has never made me laugh, not once. Makes me sad, really. How awful are we? Oh, here we are, with our cute clothes and our privilege, laughing at people who aren't as cool as us.
Oh my god, SERIOUSLY, with the digressing.
SO WE WENT TO THAT RESTAURANT. Geez. And the reason I fought for it was because of the outdoor seating. I got there first.
"Oh, all the outdoor seats are taken," said the little chippie of a waitress who was not that little. I mean, if you're 23, BE THIN NOW. This is the only time it's easy. Don't be chubby. You'll never have a time you can look back and say, "God, I looked great."
When Ned got there, I was crankily sitting inside. "Why are you inside?" he asked, as if I'd just FORGOTTEN I wanted to be outside. I told him the sitch--that it was a 20-minute wait to eat outside. "You want to wait?" he asked. Of course I didn't want to wait.
"You wanna go to--"
"NO. I don't want to go anywhere else," I cranked. "I don't wanna drive around town and find four other restaurants that also can't seat us outside."
I swear to you this town has gotten busier. Have more people moved here? Is the economy better? I liked it when no one could afford restaurants. You know when you could probably always get a seat? The Depression, that's when. The Depression was probably great.
So we sat inside. A Nirvana song came on. "You know, this is really a David Bowie song," said Ned, who knows I hate David Bowie. Why does David Bowie have to be so dramatic, with his face glitter and his spiders from Mars? Who gives a shit where your spider came from? Any time you end something "from Mars," you aren't being very imaginative. Same with "from hell." "It's a job from hell." Oh, ho ho ho ho hoooo! Wow! How'd you think of THAT?
And his teeth. Hello, Big Book of British Smiles.
"Yes, I know," said, knowing full well Ned was gonna launch in his how-can-anyone-hate-David-Bowie diatribe.
"How can anyone hate David Bowie?" Ned asked, as the food came.
Every song that came on after that, Ned would say, "This is a David Bowie song." They were playing Old People Music for patrons like us: The B-52s, that song Funky Cold Medina, some REM. Every song. "This is actually by David Bowie."
Ned's love for himself grew with each bite. In the meantime, I had to methodically wipe each of my fries with my napkin, because they'd put way too much salt on them. By the end of the meal, I had 27 napkins at my chair, like I was a toddler. Ned ate every bite of his unhealthy sandwich and fries. "I don't DISLIKE fries..." he began.
On the way home, the radio played a David Bowie song.