Tag Archives: dinner parties

Let’s just table the issue, shall we?

For years, my husband and I have harbored a shameful secret. A secret so hideous, so horrifying, so wholly conducive to alliteration, we have hardly dared to even whisper it out loud.

And the worst part is we have carried this secret with us from state to state, apartment to apartment, every time we move, from Ohio to Texas to now Boston. Each time, with each new set of friends and colleagues, our pain and embarrassment only growing as we again try and miserably fail to hide this…this abomination from their innocent eyes.

This shame has only increased ever since we got married and became somewhat upstanding citizens (hunchbacked citizens?). I mean, we pay taxes (occasionally), for crying out loud! We fully intend to register to vote someday probably before we die! Someday we might even be parents once Child Protective Services takes us off their Do Not Let These People Procreate Under Any Circumstances Ever list!

And yet, here we are. Two grown adults, living in our very own house that is “technically” owned by our landlord, and without a single surface to eat on or a chair to sit on that is not of the office variety.

Yes, my friends, my husband and I have never owned a set of table and chairs. For the past, oh, eight years or so, ever since we met, we have been reduced to eating on the couch like a pair of…of ANIMALS (or frat guys…same difference).

Now, you’re probably thinking, “How in the world do two grown adults go without a table and chairs for eight long years!?!” Of course, for all I know, you could be thinking “Cheese may just be the world’s most perfect food.” And I’d have to agree with you there. But for the sake of continuity, let’s assume you’re thinking the former.

It’s not like we didn’t try. We always meant to get an actual dining room set. But other, more pressing financial matters got in the way, such as paying the vet approximately three million dollars because our dumb dog tried to chew his own tail off and the fact we couldn’t live ANOTHER day without owning Rock Band 2.

Although, one time we did get as far as purchasing a second-hand table. Which we had for years. But since we had no chairs to go with it, it ended up turning into “The Giant Shelf of Random Items We Were Too Lazy to Put Away.” And then there was the winter we actually used our patio furniture as our “official” indoor table and chairs, which ended after the Great Thanksgiving Collapse of ’09. We also tried to go all bohemian a few times, making people sit on pillows on the floor as they ate off the coffee table, but that stopped once I hit 30 and the process of getting up off the floor started to resemble one of those bugs that gets caught on its back and can’t right itself.

And then…then a miracle happened. Like a deus ex machina plot twist (yeah, who didn’t pay attention in English class now, Professor Greenberg?), the hand of God himself came down from the heavens and plopped a beautiful, dark wood six-seater with red velvety chairs right in our dining room.

Or, to be more specific, our friend was moving to Chicago and said “Hey, you want this guy?”

And we did want that guy. Oh, how we wanted that guy. Finally! A place to have a nice, intimate dinner! A place for guests to actually sit and eat without our aforementioned dumb dog breathing right in their face! A place to whatever else since I need a third example thanks to that annoying “Rule of Three” writing principle!

I have to tell you, it has completely changed our lives. All two times we have used it in the past three months.

We are now officially civilized.

Yogurt that helps you poo and other joys of aging

A few nights ago, my husband and I had a small dinner party. Just a few friends, a delicious meal comprised of appetizers, ribs, mashed potatoes and cheesecake as well as some bottles of wine. It was a wonderful time and by midnight, we were snug in our bed.

The following morning, we woke up exhausted and suffering from indigestion, a major headache, and sore muscles (from the effort of stirring and standing on our feet for more than half an hour apparently). All of which we remedied by swallowing a ridiculous amount of pills with two gallons of black coffee.

Oh, the joy of growing older.

I’m not quite sure when it happened, but at some point, our bodies stopped functioning on their own. Now that we are in our 30’s, it seems they require aids on almost a daily basis in the form of over-the-counter pills and creams.

For example, over the years, our medicine “cabinet” has slowly turned into a medicine “drawer,” going from a bottle of aspirin and some vitamins that expired in 1998 to the following: Maalox, Pepto, Pepcid AC, Advil, Tylenol, Tylenol PM, Ex-Lax, Ibuprofen, One-A-Day vitamins, B-Complex vitamins, Fish Oil pills, Tums, Metamucil, Midol, Rolaids, DayQuil, NightQuil, Zicam, Caladryl, Icy Hot, L-Lysine pills, four varieties of allergy pills and heating pads (just for good measure).

And that’s not even counting our anti-aging regiments, of which mine is comprised of various expensive anti-wrinkle creams and lotions designed for every inch of my body, from my face to my feet, and pills and powders designed to amp up my metabolism, which decided to screech to a halt sometime around 2008; and my husband’s, which is comprised of Chapstick and a bar of generic soap.

And while we have thus far avoided actual prescriptions from doctors, I realize that day can’t be too far behind judging from the ever-growing pharmacy popping up in my mom’s house and the arsenal the majority of my friends are building against depression and anxiety (or as my friend Michelle recently lamented, “Pills and creams! Pills and creams! That’s all my life is now!”).

Even sleeping can now be a dangerous activity. Ol’ Schnookum Bear and I have not insignificantly injured ourselves more times than I care to remember simply because our neck was tilted two degrees the wrong way on our pillows all night.

It’s official. Our bodies have betrayed us. Or as my husband summed up, “the older you get, the angrier your body gets.”

Oh sure, I realize some of it has to do with lifestyle choices. We still eat like we did in college, exercise is now considered doing laundry (in our defense, we do have to climb stairs to get to the washer) and “oh, I’ll just have one glass of wine” is not in our vocabulary.

But still, it’s hard to come to terms with the fact that I can no longer treat and/or neglect my body horrifically without consequences. Circle of life and junk, I suppose.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to run to the store to buy some more Aleve and that old people yogurt that helps you poo.