Spanx For the Memories...

New Year's Eve was our wedding anniversary. Well, one of them anyway, because Hubby and I got married twice (funny story for another time).

Anyhoo, I wanted to go out to a fancy shmancy local restaurant to celebrate. I'll call it "European Cuisine", because we really DO like this place and the owner, and I don't want to inadvertently bring any embarrassment. Mostly my own, just in case somebody saw me at the end.

We agreed to get early reservations so we could get back home before the drunks started hitting the streets, and made arrangements for Little Guy to have an evening elsewhere.

And in preparation for the big night, I bought myself some Spanx.

For the uninitiated (which I was until recently) Spanx are a brand of shapewear---I guess a newer, trendier name for a girdle---that celebrities like Oprah and Gwenyth and Lindsay are singing praises for. They come in a variety of styles, and I picked the ones that go from waist to below the knee, kind of like long bike shorts.

I wanted to wear a slinky pants-set that I hadn't been able to wear for a skillion years and look sexy for mah man. You know what I mean. It's hard to get jiggy with it if you're jiggly with it.

And if strapping in the hips and tummy and loose stuff meant it would all squeeze down and give me enormous calves, who'd notice? I'd be wearing pants. At least my butt would look good!

As usual, nothing ever goes as planned. We didn't count on Little Guy.

"You know, I've never been to European Cuisine", he said with studied casualness early in the day. Rut row.

I'm aware of that. Hell, we've only been there three times in the last 10 years and had to take out an additional mortgage on the house each time.

"I've never tried French food before, " he said a little later.

You've had French Toast, I reminded him. And besides, I don't think European Cuisine is actually a French Restaurant. I think it's German or maybe Bavarian.

"Oh."

He came back a little while later.

"I don't think I've ever had German food before. Or Bavarian."

I was starting to get a little desperate. He wanted us to invite him to come with us without actually asking to come with us.

Honey, you've had German Chocolate cake. You didn't like it, remember? And you've had uh--Swiss Cheese---I think that's kind of Bavarian. And sauerkraut. You don't like sauerkraut.

"But I might like it now."

This is a grown-up place. I don't think you would enjoy it. It's our anniversary.

"Oh". He went away again.

Then he came back a little while later with the local phone book under his arm. "It doesn't say 'no kids allowed' and you promised last time that I could maybe come with you the next time," he announced. "It's my anniversary too."

Crap.

I called Hubby at the office.

What time are the reservations?

"Uh, I thought YOU made reservations."

Rut row again.

Unfortunately, European Cuisine was solidly booked until 8:15, which is usually the time I'm sucking for air. Literally. But I figured I could take a late nap and everything would be A-OK. Since we had originally planned on being FINISHED with dinner around that time, the things we had scheduled for Little Guy weren't going to work out after all.

So he got his wish.

It's a fancy dress-up place, I warned him. You'll have to be on your best manners.

He was so excited that he was all polished and shined and ready to go at 5pm.

It took me a little while longer to squeeze into my Spanx and adjust everything (had to make sure my butt cheeks were anchored north instead of south). In the end, I was pretty pleased with them, and my silky pants glided up with nary a hitch. Woohoo!

European Cuisine is in a little historic house that was built back when they didn't enrich our milk with Vitamin D and we didn't have Wheaties and if you were 5'6 you were considered tall. The doors are very--um--short.

Anyway, space is at a premium, and there is very little maneuvering room between tables. By 8:15, the dinner crowd had all spread out and the waitstaff had to practically balance trays on their heads to get through.

The first thing I did was reconnoiter the location and path to the restroom. If you've ever been on heavy-duty diuretics, you know once in a while that "gotta go" feeling turns into "oops, I think I tinkled on myself" faster than you can say "Zippity Doo Dah".

The quickest and most direct route would take me past a table for two. He was dipping a bread cube into some kind of fondue pot, and she was poking at a salad. She also had that Nancy Reagan thing going (big enormous head looming over tiny shoulders). I tried to gauge the width of the path and realized that depending on which way I was turned, if I had to get to the restroom in a hurry, I'd probably end up brushing my crotch or my heinie against her humongous helmet of hair. Oy. Not a pretty thought.

I put my hand over my glass when the server came over with a pitcher of water. None for me, please.

15 minutes later, the server brought over the board which had the menu on it and rushed off. It's a limited menu, so it took us all of 3 minutes to decide on what to have.

"See they have Chicken Cordon Bleu! That's French!" Little Guy was triumphant.

15 minutes after that, the owner wandered over and asked if we knew what the specials were. We didn't. He told us and rushed off.

At 9pm, the server came over and asked if we were ready to order drinks. We let her know we were ready to order PERIOD. ;-)

15 minutes later our drinks came.

Little Guy was understandably getting antsy. He kept patting his stomach more and more frequently and mentioning, "I'm getting kind of hungry."

When a busperson came to refill Fondue Boy and Nancy's water, I flagged her down.

Could we please get some bread or something? We've been here for over 45 minutes.

Nancy turned her humongous helmet head around and gave me the hairy eyeball.

Fine, I muttered under my breath. Ass it is, Beyotch.

Turned and asked the server, Could I also get some iced tea?

About a 1/2 hour later, the guys were happily attacking rolls and their soup and I felt the call of nature. Luckily, Fondue Boy and Helmet Head had finished and there was plenty of room to get to the Ladies.

As I said earlier, the restaurant was built in a time when short people were the norm. The actual area the toilet was in was about the size of a linen closet. And there was a window that was waist-high, but fortunately it had a curtain hanging over it so nobody would see me doing my business from the parking lot.

I tried to wrestle with the Spanx in the tiny space between the toilet and the wall. I was getting a little frustrated and afraid that I wouldn't be able to peel them down fast enough, so I decided to give them a good yank. It was like wrestling with a ginormous rubber band so I put some stank on it.

Wham!!!

Next thing I knew, I was sitting on the can and little birdies were circling around my head. The curtain wasn't just hiding the window, it was also hiding a hand-crank that stuck out about 4 inches.

I made my way back to the table clutching my brow and a fast-growing black and blue lump.

The rest of the meal was basically uneventful and delicious, but when I saw a woman teetering from the bathroom clutching HER brow (I could practically see the birdies circling her head), I almost snorted a spaetzle out my nose.

Out in the parking lot, Little Guy jumped in the SUV. Hubby and I put our arms around each other and gazed up into the mountains, knowing that in an hour there would be fireworks shooting from the top. Hopefully by that time, we'd be home enjoying fireworks of our own.

He walked me over to my side of the car and gallantly opened the door. He put his hand out to tenderly help me up into my seat.

I lifted my leg up

...and fell on my face into the vehicle.

What in the hell was wrapped around my legs?

It was my pants! The Spanx worked TOO well and my pants just slid down.

I was flailing around face down on the seat with my butt cheeks anchored north and my slinky pants tangled around my ankles.

Hubby almost had an accident of his own because he was laughing hysterically. Then he was clutching HIS head because I bounced a shoe off of it.

No, not really. I made up the shoe part. The other part was real though.

Guess who spent his anniversary sleeping on the couch?

No, I made that up too. I was nice to him since he left an arm and a leg back with our bill.

Wishing all of you a Happy New Year!

ATM