1989                                2007

Yesterday we celebrated our wedding anniversary. And when I say celebrate, I mean we basically hung out all day at home, he tidied up Cocoa’s cage while I put fifty trillion braids in my girls’ hair while singing loudly to Martina McBride’s new CD.

When I reminded Catybug it was our anniversary, she said “which one?” because we have so many. We note every important event in our lives on the calendar and use it as a reason to go out and have dinner at a fancy restaurant. No. Seriously. We’ve been married twice. Yes, you read that right. It’s confusing enough that I didn’t know what I was doing the first time – now I have to try to figure it out again, AND remember another date on top of it. What’s most confusing is how we just lump all of the years together overall, instead of trying to figure out how long we were together, then apart, then together. That’s just silly, and it’s also a reminder that we don’t know what we’re doing. Who needs that? And where’s my Kool-Aid?

To celebrate our whatever anniversary number it is, my fancy husband got all dressed up in his shiny shoes and took me out to dinner. I had to whip out my calculator and subtract 2007 minus 1989 before we left, though, to figure out how many years I can still proudly admit that I’m just as confused now as I was then. That’s 18 years. I should get an award, really.

We arrived at Portabella’s Italian Bistro (because I love Italian food, but I never get any because my family is crazy and doesn’t like cooked tomatoes in their food) and we were greeted by a vacant stare from the only couple in the place. How charming! I was quickly distracted by the water fountain, and stuck my finger on the concrete glazing ball thing to disrupt the flow of water. OoooOOoh. That’s COOL.

Then some cute guy in a white shirt and black pants came up and asked us if we had a reservation. I looked around and thought – woah. We need one? You should pay us for being here, really. heh. My husband in all his shiny black shoe-ness handled the situation with class, and I just giggled and rolled my eyes. We were seated in a booth, and my hubby started to browse through the drink menu. I snatched it from him pretty quickly and chose a Merlot – and what happened after that was what proved to me that I am just not that fancy.

The waiter, matire d’, whatever title he’d like to have- brought our wine. He presented the bottle all charming and stuff and said it was a 2000 Grand Archer Merlot and blah blah blah he popped the cork while I gazed at the menu. Then I noticed he handed the cork to my hubby, who was supposed to sniff it – LMBO! Sniff cork? Who sniffs cork? What’s the point of the cork sniffing? I sniffed the cork and it doesn’t smell anything like the wine. I am not sure of the significance of that, but I’m no wine connoisseur. Obviously. He poured a little wine, my hubby tasted it, nodded, and then our waiter poured into my glass. I’m not kidding – he held the bottle of wine like he was dipping a baby’s head into a bowl to Christen him. That’s fancy.

So I took my first sip, and Wee! It was very alcoholic! I haven’t had alcohol in a long, long time. You could tell I was out of my element, because I grabbed my fork and started taking ice out of my ice water and dumping it into my wine glass to chill it. You know, like the stuff you get at the grocery store, you just keep it in the fridge, right?

Except ice in a fancy wine tastes really, really yucky. I won’t tell you how fast I drank that glass just to get a fresh room temperature refill.

We had some amazing appetizers, the Bruschetta trio (bruschetta topped with different stuff, like goat cheese and reduced balsamic vinegar – yum) – and then of course the focaccia with herb infused olive oil and parmesan. I was in my danger zone with all of those carbs, and with the wine – my mouth was on fast forward.

I ordered the Chef’s Signature Creation, Pork Osso Bucco.

“Tender jumbo pork shank glazed with a light caramel-thyme demi glace served with our house garlic smashed potatoes and fresh vegetable, a must try item.. “

Woah. It doesn’t say anywhere in here that you get a half a pig. Okay so it does say “jumbo” but how was I to know it would be an extra-large pig? When our waiter set my plate in front of me, I had the immediate desire to put down my fork and knife and pick the thing up like a chicken leg and start gnawing the meat off like a cave woman. It could have been the wine, of course. I’m going to blame it on the wine. Part of me wanted to ask for the reduced balsamic squirty bottle so I could sign my name on the other half of the charger this thing was dished out in. “Leanne was here.” or “Came. Saw. Drooled. Ate like the pig she ordered.”

I’m sure by the end of our date my poor well mannered hubby thought back to the good old days and wished we’d just stopped at the Taco Bell drive through, instead.