Jay carrying me lovingly through a forest like a sack of potatoes when we first met.
Previous anniversary celebrations have included trips and tattoos, but this year we decided to keep it simple and have a nice dinner out, just the two of us. We made reservations at a reasonably nice restaurant, I brushed my hair and put on actual clothes, and we set out for some steak and non-baby-focused conversation.
The restaurant we went to turns into a nightclub on Friday and Saturday nights and the dining section is partially open to the dance floor on the main level. They often host corporate and other functions in their private rooms. As we drove into the parking lot, we were surprised by how busy it was on a Tuesday evening in November, but weren't concerned since we had reservations. When we walked in the door, the hostess rushed toward us asking, "Are you with the cycling club?"
*Warning - offensive opinions coming. I really, really don't like cyclists as a group (not you specifically...probably). It enrages me that cyclists feel entitled to push their hobby on the 98% of people who drive to work in my suburban city. I get stabby when cyclists start preaching about how the rest of us just need to get our fat asses out of our gas-guzzling cars and the earth would be saved.
Get a fucking clue. I am a professional with two kids who lives 20 kilometres away from my employer and daycare in Canada, home of the 35 degree summers and -20 degree winters. Are you actually suggesting that I put on my suit, sling my files around my neck, pack my infant and toddler into one of those kiddy bike trailers and ride for two hours through rush hour traffic to the daycare, my frostbitten children skidding around in the slushy road behind me? Bikes belong on trails and sidewalks, not roads. Period. In a collision between a bike and a pedestrian, the pedestrian doesn't usually end up in the morgue.
Back to our lovely anniversary night out. We informed the hostess that we were definitely not with the cycling club and were ushered to a very comfy booth, where our server asked what we wanted to drink. As I mentioned a few posts ago, I rarely drink, so I decided to take advantage of the occasion and have a strawberry daiquiri with my steak (wine, schmine. I wanted a daiquiri so that's what I got). It was so good. Yum!
We were halfway through our meal when the music went quiet and a microphone came on. This is when we discovered that the restaurant had given the dance floor and main section of the club to the cycling group, which was directly on the other side of our booth. A Powerpoint slide came up on a large screen and a voice boomed out: "We'll start with a message from the founder of Share the Road, before moving on to the presentations and other remarks." Jay and I gaped at each other in horror. This was like a pair of Satanists stumbling into an Easter service.
As we rushed through the rest of our meal, trying not to hear the ridiculous propaganda invading our ears, one of the kitchen staff suddenly appeared at our table, plunked down another strawberry daiquiri and announced it was on the house since he "had it left over anyway". At this point I forgot that my anti-depressant medication significantly amplifies the effect of alcohol, and in my haste to escape the cyclist cult, gulped down the entire second drink in the time it took Jay to look at the bill.
Fortunately for everyone involved, I'm a very cheerful drunk. I promptly began singing and giggling as Jay hustled me out of the restaurant, where I observed the parking lot full of cars and yelled happily, "Where are all the fucking bikes NOW?" before staggering off toward our car. On the way I caught sight of the word "slow" painted on the asphalt and began shouting "Wols! Wols! Wols!" before erupting into peals of maniacal laughter at my great wit.
Somehow I got into the car without falling down and continued to entertain Jay by clapping wildly off-beat to Trespassing by Adam Lambert, then caroling along to Cuckoo - "Walk that walk like you don't give a fuck" - out the window at other startled motorists.
At some point I sobered up enough that I was able to avoid terrorizing our babysitter when we got home, and luckily Jay found the whole thing hilarious rather than being offended that I had gotten trashed at our anniversary dinner. It was a great night and I'm already looking forward to the next one. Cyclists not included.