The word of the day is . . .

When I came home from work on Friday, Mark was very eager to show me a new game he’d invented with the girls.

He extended his hand, index finger pointed toward Loaf and said, “Give Daddy a dink,” and she reached her little hand out and gently touched her extended index finger to his.

“Dink,” she said in the sweetest, softest voice. He then repeated the process with Peanut.

Now, I must admit, as touching as this little scene was, I was initially taken aback because where I grew up? Dink is a not a nice word. When I was a kid, a “dink” was one of two things:
1. A jerk, an asshole, or a really stupid person, or, even worse,
2. A slang term for penis.

But, I kept my mouth shut, figuring it was perfectly innocent and as long as he only played this little game within the walls of our house there was no harm, no foul.

Then we went out for lunch on Sunday.

The restaurant was crowded and we were forced to wait outside for over half an hour. The weather was nice, but the kids still started getting restless. I held Loaf in my arms while Peanut hovered around my feet holding onto one of my legs.

“Hey? Who wants to give Daddy a dink?” Mark asked, trying to occupy their attention for few minutes. “No one? No one wants to give me a dink? You’re dinkless right now?”

And that was it. Because every time I hear that word, I hear the echo of some kid on my elementary school playground screeching, “Billy, don’t be a dink,” or better yet, an unnamed 10th-grade class delinquent telling the math teacher to “suck my dink” the day he was thrown out of class for the third day running. So hearing my husband talk about getting a dink and being dinkless to our daughters in a moderately crowded place was just too much for me.

“Do you know what that that word means?” I hissed under my breath.

“No,” he said in complete shock. “What?”

“Penis. It’s a slang term for penis.”

“It is not!” he said in utter disbelief. “That has to be some stupid Massachusetts thing. No one else can possibly have ever heard of that before.”

God I love being right.

10 things I learned at date night

1. Italian tapas make a damn fine meal. Especially when accompanied by 10-year-old Italian wine.
2. You will feel like a rock star getting VIP treatment at the Gotham Comedy Club until you realize that entails being seated at the exact geometric center of the stage (where every comedian of the night will find some reason to poke you) and being given complimentary champagne on top of the two other drinks you must consume during the 90-minute show.
3. When you get junk mail from a bank or credit card with a postage-paid return envelope, you should send it back empty, or better yet with a note reading, “fuck you, I’m not buying anything ever.”* Hee. I am so doing that.
*As told by Lenny Marcus.
4.This guy? Hysterical!
5. Only in New York can you find a place like this where you can walk up to a counter, order a chocolate shake, then go to the back lounge and get a shot of vanilla vodka poured into it. Mmmmm.
6. I can still hold my own dancing on the bar at Hogs & Heifers.
7. Late night shots? Still not a good idea.
8. Puking is the body’s defense mechanism. If you are feeling the urge after a night of drinking, purge, baby, purge. Not doing so will cause you enormous regret later.
9. Waking up still drunk is still as unpleasant as the last time I remember, but waking up still drunk when your mother in law is staying with you and wants to discuss Thanksgiving details? Sheer. Hell.
10. There are times in life when having a hangover is totally worth the night that got you there. This counts as one of those times!

Date night! Date night!

Tonight is date night and New York City here we come! I cannot remember the last time I was in New York for an adult outing. I think it was in early 2005. Seriously.

Sure, we've taken the kids there for day trips and I've been there for work. I've met friends there for lunch. But a night out in New York? It's been a very, very long time.

Not to mention the last time we went out for dinner in "The City," I was about 7 months pregnant and suffering from virtually every related ailment: indigestion, sciatica, exhaustion. I hobbled around on my one good leg (the other one numb from Miss Loaf hanging out on all the relevant nerve endings since the end of the first trimester) trying to be a good sport. Glass of wine? Fuggetaboutit. I was so tired, I think we were home by 11 p.m. Fun date I was not.

I have high hopes for tonight's evening, even though Mark is sick, I have a cold sore the size of a second head on my upper lip and it's supposed to pour buckets sometime this evening. These are not things I am concerning myself with. We're going to NYC. We'll be with good friends, eating good food and drinking wine. Lots and lots of wine. :-)