Would you like a drop cloth to go with your entree?

I swear, I will never get past the point of spilling down the front of my shirt.

It is so embarrassing. Let me tell you about what happened on Thursday night:

So, B.J. and I go to the sitter to pick up the kidlets, and the usual question arises: What do you want to do for dinner?

And then the standard response: I don't know.

We go through this most nights of the week. When I am 'good' I have a lovely menu mapped out and groceries purchased so that I can create healthy and palatable meals. They may not be culinary masterpieces (or in some instances much more elaborate than Costco chicken nuggets and a salad), but it makes my little brood happy and keeps them from turning into Gremlins. Anyhow, THE question popped up--even though I had thawed a pound of ground beef--and we looked at each other for a while and B.J. says "What do you want to eat: Chinese or Mexican?"

Hmm. That takes me all of about 2.3 seconds to decide: "Definitely Mexican. Let's go to La Hacienda Real' It is usually a zoo anytime after 5:00pm but if we hurry we can get a seat before 5:00pm."

B.J. says: "Mexican it is."

So, off we go in our gold mommy-van to the Mexican restaurant. It doesn't sound like a big deal, but truly, I love Mexican (It is really Mexican-American, since it doesn't remotely resemble authentic Mexican cooking. I digress...). B.J. doesn't much care for it, and to get him to willing go and consume such cuisine is a rare treat.

We arrive at our destination. We find a Kramer* parking space. Unload the kidlets, and are immediately escorted to a nice, comfy-cozy, booth and served up the usual fare of tortilla chips and salsa. Now, I cannot resist fresh made salsa. It is too much for me to handle. If I were 'good' I'd request they keep the chips and salsa (that's what all the diet gurus say: "have the wait person take the bread (or chip) basket away, and remove the temptation."). But, as you all know, I am definitely not good.

Strike one!

Within about 5 minutes the waitress takes our order. After she does so, I glance down to find a big blob of tomato-salsa neatly perched on the top of my right boob. Nothing too conspicuous--if you're blind, that is. 'Geez' I think to myself. I've already spilled. The 4-year-old and the one-year-old haven't gotten any food particles on their clothing, but I have. I continue in my mind: 'Well, at least I changed into a dark blue-green shirt. I'll just discreetly dab it with water, and it won't be too bad."

Next, comes out our entree. I ordered something new, akin to a Mexican stew (think spicy tortilla soup type broth, chicken and steak strips, with peppers, mushrooms, and sauteed onions.). It was very hot, but delicious.

Strike two!

About two minutes into my dinner I notice that an onion is perched precariously on the edge of my spoon. I try to slurp it into my mouth before the inevitable: it lands in my lap. I am thankful at this point that I'm wearing a pair of blue-jean gauchos. The onion blop won't show--too much.

I lay down more napkins in my lap in a feeble attempt to wear less than I am eating. You'd think by this point in my life that I'd be able to consume a meal without advertising to the entire universe what each course consisted of on my ensemble. Wrong. At this point in the meal, the one-year-old has decided to decorate the front of his shirt with Spanish rice, and the odd tortilla chip particle here and there. But, he's one: that is what one-year-olds do--they make messes and wear more than they eat. The 4 year-old is still miraculously clean.

I eat a little more, feed babies, drink water without mishap. I think I'm doing pretty good. Maybe I can still swing by Wal-Mart on the way home to exchange the pair of shorts I bought for Peanut (ha ha, I thought I could fit her into a size 4T--she's four, makes sense, right? Well, it was wishful thinking--she still fits into her size 24mos shorts. She needs a smaller size). As we finish up our meal and the kids begin to get squirmy, I notice a weird shadow on my shirt. What is that? What would make such a weird shape?

Strike three!!!!!! Yeeeeeeerre OUT!

I have just discovered the mother-lode of spills on the front of my shirt. I somehow didn't notice that I had dribbled the Mexican stew down the front of my shirt, smack-dab in the middle--about the size of a silver dollar. 'Great.' I think to myself. 'Just perfect. The Peanut manages to eat her dinner without spilling any of her dinner on her clothing, and here you are, a grown adult, a mother, and you look like you're some 90 year old woman who forgot to put her dentures in and has inadvertently dribbled down her blouse. Just perfect.'

At this point I madly dab at my shirt to try to get some of it off. I tell B.J. there is about as much chance of iced tea being served in hell as there is me entering Wal-Mart with my walking-menu-advertisement-shirt on. I blot as best as I can, and decide to pack it in. I tell B.J. that I'll take the kids out to the car while he pays. Thankfully, I have a baby to cuddle in my arms thus disguising the spills and sloppiness that is my shirt from the other non-spilling-on-their-clothes-patrons.

We make it to the car without incident and head home.

My father always said to me as I was growing up and spilled "eat some, wear some." Guess it still holds true.




*Kramer parking space: Named in honor of the Seinfeld episode where Kramer decides to 'adopt road.' He decides his stretch of highway is going to be the 'first class' section of road and in making the 'Kramer lane' takes a 3 lane highway and repaints it to a 2 lane highway for that 'first class leg-room touch.' True to Kramer, everything is a disaster and the episode goes in the usual fashion from there. So, a Kramer parking space is an extra-wide space with plenty of 'wiggle room.'