Last Saturday was Date Night. For those who don't have children, date night may perhaps not be the sacrosanct event that it is for us who are tied down after 6 p.m. However, once Kathleen is in bed at the appointed hour, either Brandon can leave the house or I can leave the house, but to leave the house together requires a third party (who is usually paid). And last Saturday was an especially special date night, the kind that doesn't involve separate seating during the movie; we usually only manage that kind on our one night out a month.
In anticipation of seeing an earlier movie, we grilled at home, pretending that it is actually warm enough this time of year to grill outside. And seeing as this was Date Night, a special time where Brandon and I can sit down, talk, and discuss the deepest matters of our soul, the phone rang. So I enjoyed a delicious dinner while Brandon tried to eat around being harangued the entire meal by a well-meaning caller.
But no matter. We could still lovingly hold hands while being surrounded by teenaged girls at the dollar movie showing of Enchanted. I liked it, and well, it was better than anything else offered. Afterwards, we decided to splurge and go to Coldstone for ice cream. Obviously we hadn't been out on a Saturday night for some time, because we weren't aware of the 45-minute wait time for someone to mix your ice cream up on a cold piece of marble. At both stores in Provo. So instead we went grocery shopping. Aren't onions romantic?
On the way home, our rumbling motor emitted a clunk followed by an ominous scraping sound. Our poor car had chosen that moment to break a pipe on University Parkway. So, to finish off our date night, Brandon crawled under the car and rigged up a license plate with string to hold us over until we got home. Anyone who says that married life isn't romantic obviously hasn't watched their Henry Higgins turn into McGuyver.