Outnumbered Two to One

Last Friday my sister and I decided to meet up once again for another one of our  oh-so-rare girls’ night out. It had been a couple of months since we’d last ventured an evening without our respective broods and we both felt we needed some grown up time…you know, after dark, in our good jeans, with our hair brushed and sporting a little lipstick. Fancy, right?

Well, after abandoning my children to their father’s capable hands, I hopped in to my styling minivan, and shuttled off to meet my sister at the restaurant, which is about 20 minutes of highway driving from my house. About halfway there, cruising along at a steady 80 mph, I noticed some movement in the left corner of my windshield. What I saw lurking there was this…

Now, I normally don’t harbor any ill will toward the arachnids. Live and let live is my general approach, not like roaches which I strive to either annihilate or flee from. The problem was that as my vehicle was hurtling forward at an alarming rate of speed, I suddenly became terrified that this slightly repulsive critter was going to fling itself toward my face and I was going to drive my car in to a ditch where it would quite theatrically burst in to flames.

Spiders are fine, sure. Spiders on your face are somewhat less fine.

Rather than pull over to the side of the road and risk getting splattered by whizzing traffic, I opted to get off at the next exit, drive to the nearest gas station, and run screaming from my car, while simulataneously checking my hair for spiders. After a brief moment’s panic I walked back to the driver’s side and checked things out. The tiny spider was still perched at the edge of the windshield, possibly wondering what the heck was making me so twitchy.

After trying unsuccesfully for several minutes to flush the guy out with a balled up paper towel, I was approached by one of the car wash attendants who must have thought I was completely schizo dancing around in my flats and making little squeaking sounds on the asphalt.

Luckily he ignored his better instincts, and helped a girl out. He very gallantly grabbed the little guy by the legs, pulled him out, and set him free in the nearby bushes, hopefully to live out the remainder of his spider life in peace and happiness. He also was quick to point out that spiders are good luck and I should consider his little visit to be a good omen.

I suppose he was partially right, I was lucky enough to find parking that night at the restaurant , we only had to wait half an hour to be seated, and the movie we caught didn’t suck.

All in all it was a successful evening.

Now had a spider landed on my face, I probably wouldn’t have been so fortunate.

Occasionally I get out of my shackles, order a pizza for the family, and slip out the door while they’re watching reruns of iCarly.

Friday night was that night, the rare and coveted occasion when I’m able to shirk my motherly responsibilities and leave behind my brood for an evening of reckless abandon. Interpret reckless abandon to mean dinner and a movie. Not as exciting as say bungee jumping off the Brooklyn bridge, but definitely enjoyable in its own right.

My sister and I had a lovely dinner at PF Chang’s, consisting of appetizers, an entree, and dessert, during the course of which, I didn’t have to take anyone to the ladies’ room mid meal, I didn’t have to scold anyone through gritted teeth, and I didn’t have to walk out of the restaurant to field a loud, screeching tantrum. The only food I spilled on my person came from my own plate and I promptly licked it off, cause I’m classy like that. I even managed not to give myself indigestion …I wore my big pants.

We watched a 10ish showing of Four Christmases, in the hopes that it would put us in a festive mood. Alas, twas not the case. While it had it’s amusing moments, the sappy, heavy handed and too neat ending, had us both rolling our eyes. Alot.

The highlight of our evening, apart from a banana spring roll with coconut ice-cream (oh yeah, it was that good…HASAY who?), was this stylin mannequin with the porn-star rack.  I mean she’s no Kim Cattrall but obviously, she’s had some work done.

I suppose it wasn’t enough that we were staring, pointing, and giggling, we had to photograph her with my sister’s camera phone for bloggy posterity too.

Don’t we just reek of dignity and maturity.