Friday Night Dinner

1To my surprise and delight, our family seems to have stumbled onto the beginnings of a new tradition. For the last month, we’ve gone out to eat on Friday night. We’ve done this before, but there was never mention of it. It kind of just happened or it didn’t. Four weeks ago I said I wanted to get out of the house after a long week at work and we ate at Chili’s. The weekend after that I wanted Teddy’s Bigger Burger but it was super busy so we had Miami Grill instead. Last Friday Lynnette picked Ichiriki. Last night we ended up at Auntie Pasto’s in Kunia.

I like the idea of dinner out on Friday night. It gives me something to look forward to after making it through the work week, then fighting traffic on the way on Friday afternoon. It has also given me some insight into what true love really is. We know we’re going out to dinner on Friday, but neither Lynnette nor I give much thought to this during the week. The second I get home on Friday afternoon, I ask “So…where are we going for dinner?” We don’t decide for something like 45 minutes.Once the initial question is asked, the assumption is that the two adults in the house are thinking about the answer to this question while doing other things like checking email, playing with the twins, and all sorts of other minutia. Every few minutes or so, one of these so-called adults will reiterate the question. At some point, the attempt to answer this question becomes a full-blown conversation that always, always, always plays out the same way:

“Where do you want to eat?”
“I don’t know, what about you?”
“I don’t care, whatever you want, up to you.”
“Well, I was thinking about ______________.”
“Eww, no, not that.”

If you can have this exact conversation over and over with the same person every Friday afternoon without punching each other in the face, you’re probably really in love. I mean, that’s the only thing I can come up with that would allow us to endure this.

Here’s a clip from our dinner last night. It features the reason we have to eat so quickly.


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