Dinner With Tata and Banana? I Will Be Lucky To Get Home Alive
Tonight I am having dinner with Tata and Banana. We're going to a place that I've never been, but both of my friends have eaten there. At first, I wasn't too alarmed at trying a new restaurant because it comes Banana recommended and she's not know for being culinary adventurous.
Translated: The restaurant either A: serves a decent piece of salmon with a side of steamed broccoli or B: the children's menu is deemed 'amazing' by her. Which means it has chicken fingers.
For the most part, I am really looking forward to dinner with my friends. We always have a lot of laughs and usually there is a side trip to Old Navy. However, there are two things that are bothering me.
First, weather-wise it should be a lovely evening. Sunny and eighty-one degrees. T and I will demand that Banana drive us in her convertible. Banana's okay with this because the breeze will help blow the copious amounts of dog hair out of her shiny red convertible.
Seriously. There is enough dog hair in her car to make a whole other dog.
Riding in the convertible with Banana driving is always a dicey move. Banana doesn't always obey the traffic laws and has put us in harm's way many, many times. She insists that things such as speed limits, traffic signals and one way streets are merely concepts. They exist for everyone else, but don't really apply to her. We indulge her fantasy because she has a convertible and we like buzzing around town in it.
My strategy for coping with Banana driving is to ride shotgun, tighten my seat belt until my eyes bug out, and bicker like a five year old with Tata about how it was my turn to ride in the backseat.
Why the desire to ride in the backseat? Because T has scientifically determined that, if in an accident, the backseat to be the safest spot in Banana's convertible. It has something to do with the car flipping over and the front seat people's heads getting smushed while all the backseat person has to do is merely lean over and lay on the seat, thus avoiding getting her head smushed.
As usual, her logic is flawless and so I agree that, in an accident, the backseat is the safest place to be.
But she always beats me to the back and I really hate that.
It's true that I don't like losing out on the safe spot, but it's the taunting that comes from the backseat that really makes a person nuts.
Picture it: I'm in the front seat, covered in dog hair with my eyes bugged out because my seat belt is too tight. Oh, and I'm pouting because I have to ride shotgun and not in the scientifically proven safe spot. T is taunting me from the safety of the backseat, asking me things like 'Did you bring a helmet? 'Cause if this car flips over … well. I wouldn't want to be you in the front seat'. Banana is oblivious to T's taunting and my pouting because she is driving at warp speed through every intersection between our meeting spot and the restaurant.
I will be lucky to get home alive.
Which bring me to the other thing bothering me about dinner tonight. The name of the restaurant. When it was first suggested that we eat at the Spicy Pickle, I thought it was either a male strip club or slang for an STD.
Apparently, I was incorrect. According to the internet (where I get all the news not covered on E!), the Spicy Pickle is an actual restaurant and not home to either a male review show or an STD.
Still, fingers crossed there will be no reason to get a shot of penicillin after spending an evening at the Spicy Pickle.
I repeat: I will be lucky to get home alive.