When Paul plans date night, there is almost almost always the possibility of crowd surfing.
Wednesday night we rolled out pretending we were childless warriors, only totally not childless and not the warriors we once were, apparently.
I donned my rockin' Brazilian lace shorts and leather jacket, even in the midst of Brazilian turmoil, I'm sending out my support. I opted for flats at the last minute when I remembered that I didn't want to get stomped on by the lady next to me who would likely be wearing hiking boots (she was). I even pulled out some curly hair moves, Rogue Wave-y hair for the event, a show at the Black Cat in DC. A band we dig, Rogue Wave.
We've been a little hard up for a babysitter recently since our college student headed home for the summer. We're still a little spoiled from Brazil, if you dare to call it spoiled, we just call it "marriage maintenance." I simply don't see how marriages with 3 + children survive without weekly date-nights or date-days. It's hard here, ironically, in our own county. We are full time, all the time. Not only do I no longer have two mornings a week to work, we don't have a regular date night. We love our kids, but our kids also love us, when are sane and in love, which we are when we finish our sentences to each other, alone.
The reality of returning to America, in many ways, has been our own rogue wave. But instead of being side-swept on Wednesday night, we broke out our damn surf-boards, donned our inky smeary "of age" stamps and stormed the Chat Noir hand in hand...with only the brief indication that we might be imposters when the bouncers flashlight, during my purse search, turned up a sandwich baggy of....
Pepperidge Farms Baby Goldfish. Busted.