We headed out for the square dance late. I didn't really think it would be that big of a deal. My birthday's in two days, and I figured that, if nothing else came about, I would have a night on the town with the ones I love.
I tried to convince my fourteen-year-old son Houdin that it really was cool to dance, that girls would fall all over him if he learned how, but he wasn't convinced. Either that, or he's not ready to be interested in falling girls just yet. Regardless, he wouldn't come.
But fifteen-year-old Bard was in, as was my husband Bohemian and soon-to-be-six-year-old Sweetheart (in case you didn't figure it out, these are not my family members' real names. They're pseudonyms I use to refer to them in this blogosphere).
So I dressed in black. All black. Black socks, black skort, black flouncy skirt over the skort to give extra bounce during the dancing, black camisole and a black flouncy shirt with swoopy sleeves to give extra bounce during the dancing. I even stopped at the local Stuff*Mart to get a new pair of shoes, as my black shoes are third generation hand-me-downs that wouldn't have lasted through the evening. Well, okay. They would have. But it's a nice excuse for new shoes. Anyway, I thought black would be dramatic. And besides, the only flouncy clothes I have are black. Actually, half of my wardrobe is black.
When we arrived at the Grange Hall where the dance was to be held, I knew that it was a bad thing to see the caller getting into her car. That's never a good sign. She saw us just as we pulled in and let us know that the dance had been cancelled due to a shortage of dancers--there weren't enough to make a square, even with our three. But we were welcome to go in and listen to the band, she said, apologizing again before she left us for the night.
The music from the Grange Hall drew us in. Strains of "You Are My Sunshine," "She'll Be Comin' Around the Mountain" and "Redwing" kept us entertained. I implored Bo to take a swing at playing the upright bass--a very unique "naval bass" made of aluminum. I was proud to watch him play and wish with all my heart that I could buy him an upright. I'd listen to him all the days. Maybe I should just send him to this website and have him build one of these.
After a few numbers, we bid the band adieu and headed for Coccia House for pizza. It came very highly recommended, and we're always up for a good pizza, especially since I'm soaking this pre-birthday thing for all it's worth. Soon to be six-year-old daughter Sweetheart happened to mention the birthday thing out loud, because her birthday is two days after mine, and the waitress came to our table carrying our pizza which was boasting two birthday candles. Sweetheart and I puckered up and blew out the flames, though Sweetheart claims that I blew them both out. She's probably right.
Coccia House was probably the most interesting and surreal restaurant experience I've ever had. We walked in the back door and through the restaurant, which really is a huge house, and it just kept going on and on and on and on. It was like a funhouse restaurant, with rooms off of rooms off of more rooms. We happened to seat ourselves next to a very happy drunkard who took pleasure in informing us that you have to take your bill to the register, not wait for your waitress to take it. He spent several minutes trading apologies with the waitress for not knowing this fact and then proceeded to knock over his chair, almost knocking over himself in the process.
Even though the menu said the pizza was fresh made so it takes longer, it didn't take longer. This is because it was the wrong pizza. And, silly me, I didn't notice that it had too many pieces and too few toppings to be our pizza, so we ate half of it before the waitress realized what had happened. I felt badly, like I had purposely stolen the pizza. But I didn't. Really. I promise.
Bo noticed that the waitress looked very much like Michelle Pfeifer. No joke. She really did. When he mentioned this to her, she rolled her eyes. "You're tired of hearing that?" I asked. "Yeah," she answered. Sheesh.
The pizza was okay. Wasn't as good as Luigi's in Akron or Tomasetti's in Wooster. Just okay.
On the drive home, Bard lobbied emphatically for a trip to the coffeehouse, but Bo and I took pleasure in our cruelty and denied her the privilege. She told me to write that previous line.
And now, it's time for bed.
You might like these posts, too.
