"The chicken wings"

In a few weeks, hubs and I are going away for the weekend for the first time since the kiddos were born. I know, I know. Our pediatrician suggested we go away overnight when they were two. But who was I gonna sic them on leave them with? My parents or my mother-in-law could handle them for a few hours, but when the babes were younger, they were A LOT of work. No one in their fifties, sixties, or seventies has that much energy. Hey wait, my husband is fifty-four. Huh, maybe I should cut him a little slack when he passes out on the couch in the middle of True Blood. Anyway, my sister could have maybe watched them, but she was pregnant and had a four-year-old too, and watching all three kids while also focusing on puking and napping seemed like a lot to ask. But now my kids are almost four, and they are a lot easier than they were, so my sis is going to watch them for our first weekend away.

So where are we going? A romantic B&B? Um, no. We're going to Atlantic City. We’re gonna play blackjack for hours, and see some comedy, and stay up all night drinking, and eat room service bacon and eggs with mimosas in bed in the morning (where morning might mean noon), and then go see Harry Potter, and then come home. That is so much more my speed than a B&B with roses on the wallpaper and pretty china teacups.

So, it's not the most romantic-sounding weekend plan ever, but it fits us very well, and includes many of the things we love to do, and it's perfect. I'm letting the hubs plan the whole thing, while retaining veto power. He has been researching restaurants (including one with an outdoor cigar patio overlooking the ocean — Yay!!) He suggested we get a late lunch so we could gamble later into the evening without losing our (cheap-o, low stakes) table. He suggested... wait for it... Hooters.

Let me give that its own line in case you're skimming. On our anniversary weekend, on our first trip away overnight since the kids were born, he wants to go to Hooters.

I didn't know my eyebrows went that high. He sees my face and just keeps going on and on defensively about the "chicken wings," and every time he does it, I make snarky air quotes. "The chicken wings, huh? Yeah. I'm sure they’re delicious" (eye roll). I actually believe him that this is about the chicken wings. I know his sexy aesthetic quite well after all of these years, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t include tube socks over opaque panty hose, but it's just so freakin' funny to give him a hard time about this. It's too easy and hilarious, and it wouldn't be any fun for me to let him off the hook. He actually said to me, "I don’t care if the servers were all guys and dressed like Mormons, I would still want to eat those chicken wings." That image makes my chicken wing air quotes much more disturbing, really.

So if he's that excited about the "chicken wings," I’m willing to concede. We'll go for sushi or seafood or something fantastic for our late-night post-gambling dinner. But for lunch on our anniversary weekend, on our first weekend away in four years, we will be dining at Hooters.