Last summer we went to Maine for a fabulous vacation. It was marvelous. We stayed in a house right on Moose Pond — which meant you could, quite literally, run out the back door, down the steps, across the lawn, down the dock, and jump into the lake. And to be perfectly honest, I did this every chance I got. So did Michael. And so did my dad. The water was surprisingly warm and we had a grand ol' time out there — swimming or counting '1,2,3, Jump!' with Emilia, and then jumping into the water, over and over again. Michael's family thought we all had a loose screw, taking to the water as we did, but what can I say? I grew up doing these sorts of things, which means it is way too late in the game to stop now. Besides, they have always been some of my favorite memories from when I was a kid.
Anyway, for some reason or another, my dad took it into his head that he needed to send us a giftcard to Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, a month or so ago, as a 'thank-you'. Now, why on earth he felt so inclined to do such a thing is beyond me. Because, really and truly, it would have been no-where near as fun without him. In fact, we should have been the ones sending him a giftcard. We actually debated saving it until he came for a visit so we could all go together. However, the man just got back from Jamaica with my sister and her family. So visits to the Pacific Northwest may not be happening in the immediate future.
And so, last Saturday, being the first day of summer, we all sat staring out the window at the cold and dreary rain. Just when we were all about to completely lose the will to live, Michael said this: 'How about we go to Ruth's Chris tonight?' Everything immediately looked a lot brighter.
I'm not sure if you've ever been to Ruth's Chris before, but there happens to be a dress-code: business casual. However, as we live in the Seattle area where dress-codes are taken a bit lightly, this can be a funny thing sometimes. Seriously, people wear polar fleece and Merrill shoes to the opera. And say what you will, but Merrills are so hideous they should not be worn anywhere, not even to the gas station. And a couple of weeks ago, there was a kid at church who was still wearing his pajamas (11:00am mass, mind you, not 9:00am). It drives me crazy, this slovenliness that everyone seems to have adopted in the way of comfort above all else.
So anyway, what did we wear, you ask? Jeans, of course. Well, Michael didn't because he has class. But Miss Milia and I did. However, I also wore a silk sweater, my Leombruni ballet flats, and a long strand of pearls wound round my neck, so I wasn't entirely a lost cause. As I was putting on my pearls (costume jewelry that our dear Coco Chanel not only made acceptable, but practically invented), Emilia grabbed another strand from my drawer and tried to wind them round her own little self. After a few minor adjustments, we put on our lipstick and then we all hopped in the car.
I'm not exactly sure how to describe a two-year-old feeling glamourous — but that is exactly how she was, or fancied herself to be, anyway. She thought she was so grown up, and none of us were bothered by the fact that a few people laughed as they saw us all walking in. (I'm sure others scowled — but they are the same group that wouldn't approve of her wearing toenail polish, 'Just like mama!' I'm sure they are just grumpy because they are wearing Merrill's — and those are bound to make anyone feel grumpy.) And let me tell you, she kept those pearls on all night. We didn't take them off until we got home and turned on the bath.
When I was talking to my sister on the phone before we left for the restaurant, she thought we were nuts for taking her with us. But really, Emilia is always (yes, I've just knocked on wood) very good at restaurants. Besides that, she is actually a lot of fun to be with. After we'd ordered (yes, she got the $16.00 filet mignon off the children's menu — thanks, dad!), she immediately began talking about the music in the restaurant. Come Fly With Me was on and she began yelling 'You have that at home! That's Fank A-Natra! You dance with dada sometimes!' Michael was nearly fit to burst — he was beyond proud. In fact, the girl has taken to requesting Frank Sinatra (or Petula Clark) at home on a regular basis.
After our steak and shrimp and mashed potatoes and mushrooms and salads — desert came. As we sat patiently waiting, Emilia began announcing to the world in general that 'There's going to be desert!' And desert there was: she got chocolate ice cream (I was fearing for my pearls as I watched her polish off every bite, but she did spectacularly well) and Michael and I got some sort of fruity, custardy, chocolate cake concoctions. As we were getting ready to go, I leaned over to wipe off Emilia's (rather messy) little face. 'We need to wipe off the french fries, and the steak, and the ice cream, and what else?' 'Lipstick, too!', she replied. Aaaah, it was a lovely, lovely night.
As we all sat in the car on the way home, discussing how mad Governor was going to be when he got a whiff of us ('I know where you've all been! You jerks don't fool me for one second! ...come home wreaking of filet mignon!'), the conversation somehow began to change to this: 'We're a family and we stick together.'
And that we do.
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