It's Friday! Thank God and all that stuff! Right?
Before I had kids (two boys, ages 6 and 8), a typical weekend was jam-packed full of parties/events/gatherings/things.
Remember Friday afternoon happy hour? Remember concerts?
What about brunch after rolling out of bed at 1:00 on Sunday afternoon?
Yeah, that doesn't really happen anymore.
Dining out is different.
I live in Portland, Oregon, America's foodie capital. In my 20s you would never find me at a chain restaurant -- why would I go to Applebee's or Chili's when I could support one of the zillions of local, farm-to-table, delicious, organic restaurants available to me?
Now, on Saturday night you will find me out with my clan at Red Robin complaining like an old lady about how loud it is (why would you go there if you didn't have kids? I see people on dates there and it's so confusing), how nothing on the menu has any flavor and how a chicken sandwich is a chicken sandwich, not a chicken burger. Jesus.
Sleeping in is different.
Saturday and Sunday morning used to mean waking up between 10 and 12 and as previously mentioned, going out to that brunch. My signature dish was a giant plate of biscuits and gravy, because I was all into my health and stuff.
This Saturday, by 7 at the latest, I will be bleary-eyed sipping my coffee while constantly being told to "LOOK Mommy LOOK" at SpongeBob doing something funny, Fairly OddParents doing something annoying or talking to Dora (because nobody else in the room will do it) answering her question regarding what my favorite part of today is.
Drinking is different.
I used to love going out for a fancy drink. Give me the most foo-foo girly thing you got, with lots of cherries, pineapples and tiny umbrellas with extra sugar on the rim. I want a work of sweet, syrupy art going down my gullet. Bonus points to the bartender who has the pretentious giant square ice cubes or the little plastic monkeys.
Tonight, I will settle for some old airplane booze bottles that have been sitting in my freezer since the year of the flood. Either over ice or mixed with some grape Juicy Juice, garnished with an actual grape -- if I can find one that's not furry.
Date night is different.
On the off chance my husband and I do get out for a date night it always ends the same way. I know what you're thinking, but you're wrong. Yes, we go out to dinner and have a few drinks. Then we end up buzzed at where else, the world's most romantic spot. TARGET.
We call it "Drunk Target" or "Tipsy Target" depending on how loopy the one who didn't drive is. Because nothing caps off a special evening like stumbling down aisles under fluorescent light with a big red plastic cart to hold you up. I try on clothes, he looks at books and toys and we leave with Ziploc Bags and giant plastic Rubbermaid containers.
Plastic tub and a purple sweater with unicorns on it. STOP ME.
Movies are different.
I am an actor. I used to see every single movie that was up for an Academy Award religiously every year. Last year I saw one, Les Misérables. Oh wait, and Brave, Wreck-It Ralph and ParaNorman. That's it. Lately I keep talking about how I'd like to see that "new movie" Silver Linings Playbook which I'm beginning to think isn't ever going to happen. And yesterday I saw Snoop Dogg as a snail in Turbo, which made me pretty damn misérable.
And of course, as cliché as it sounds, I wouldn't change any of it for the world.
Well, maybe some of it. I mean, "for the world"?
I'd get out of eating bland chicken sandwiches and forced early morning conversation with Dora.
My airplane booze and my Tipsy Target -- I'm keeping those.
This post originally appeared on Lori's blog, Once Upon a Product, where she chronicles her obsessions with food, beauty products, Mick Jagger and other important topics.
Follow Lori Ferraro on Twitter: www.twitter.com/Drawntothe80s