We don't go out much. Basically, because we have a two year old. It's not that much fun to drag a little man out to a place of fine dining, and inflict the little man on them and them on the little man. Generally, we get take-out and eat in when he's gone to bed. If theWife's mum's in town however, we will take advantage of Nan, basically throw theNoo at her then run out the door leaving a slowly drifting apart smokey outline.
Tonight, however, being a special night with the vast bulk of family in town, we went out. A slight hiccup occurred however when the place we'd booked at didn't have a fucking ramp. Nice one mimo. Even though when we booked we said 'we need two seats for a scooter bound person', the fucktard on the other end didn't think to say 'oh, well, there's a giant step that needs to be overcome.'
So instead of the booked place we went down the street to a dining pub.
Which was a lot of fun.
Recently I've discovered the joy of Paul Newman's South West sauce. It's delicious. For those of you young enough to remember the El'Maco, the Mexican themed sour cream laced burger by McDonalds of the turn of the millennium, the South West sauce tastes like ... well ... an El'Maco.
Which were delish.
Having ordered a Chicken Parmy, and knowing they would not have the sauce I wanted - I asked for it if they had it; their response was to give soy sauce on the side ... well... it started with an S so valiant attempt - I decided to go get some.
Yes, I went for a walk to the local Coles, went down the sauces isle, and picked up a bottle of PN's SW delish.
Was it worth it? It so was. I had the bottle in my pocket - thanks to being a generously ampled type I can fit a lot in my pocket covert style, including up to 1.25 litre bottles - and surreptitiously sauced up my salad and Parmy when it arrived. Then, well, fuck it. We left the bottle on the table and more than one person used it.
J, my brother's ex-flatmate (a lovely older lady who was a gogo dancer in the 60s), had some and managed to shake more than was intended on her plate.
I don't mind saying I had a couple of shandies under my belt at this point and felt it needed a comment.
'It looks like you tickled his perineum when he wasn't expecting it, causing him to blow much harder there J. That's what you get for performing a surprise sex manuever.'
Totally gross. And I was sitting next to my dad when I said it. Fortunately it was a noisy place and he was distracted. I don't think he would have got it anyway to be honest.
So there you go, I smuggled in sauce I wanted and everything went Tickety-boo.
Once, at a work function, and tired - oh so tired - of fucking cafes having disgusting post-mix as the only softies available, I smuggled in a can of diet coke. I drank it covert style, using a napkin to screen my sips. Finally, with the can now empty, I hid it by balancing it on the aluminum frame of the window behind me.
Alas, snooty waiter saw it and said 'er ... what's that?!'
I responded, having been rumbled, honestly. 'It's mine. I brought it in. I don't like post-mix.'
He flounced off. When we got the bill, I'd been charged corkage for it. Yes, corkage. At, I think from memory, a grand total of $6.50.
What a pack of fuckers.