2001-03-03 - 11:28pm

Who's Who Cheat Sheet
Who I Read

On the internal soundtrack: "Killing in the Name", Rage Aganst the Machine

The lyrics are a tad repetitive, not to mention accusatory, but I heard it on the radio and liked it.

Oh, my, gawd.

I just got back from dinner at Melrose, the restaurant in the Park Hyatt Hotel in the West End.

Wow.

Poindexter had the best filet mignon he's ever eaten, and I was in ecstacy over roasted quail and raspberry creme brulee.

If you're in the mood for a fancy, expensive meal, and you like New American, GO.

We had an excuse -- Poindexter's birthday and our anniversary. We were both very pleased with the food. I whispered to Poindexter during the entree to stop looking so obscene, and when I was eating the creme brulee he told me he was glad he is able to get the same reaction from me, or else he'd be jealous.

It was really, really wonderful.

Not only that, but the restaurant is very quiet, and half of its walls are glass. I hate noisy dark restaurants and feel a desperate need to get out of them after about half an hour. This place was so subdued that we lingered there for two full hours.

When Poindexter called to make the reservation, there was some trouble with them needing the table by 8pm for a convention. So he asked Poindexter if it was a special occasion, and Poindexter said, "It's always a special occasion." So the guy fussed a little and got us to eat early, which is fine with us, since we are old farts, as I've discussed previously.

When the reservation was set, the guy asked what the occasion was. Poindexter hesitated, then said, "Well, we don't want a scene or anything."

The guy said in a horrified, snooty voice, in clipped tones, "We don't sing."

Cracked me up. Instead, my raspberry creme brulee had "Happy Anniversary" spelled out in chocolate around the rim of the plate. It was really nice.

On the way home, Poindexter and I were discussing how we feel in fancy restaurant. Poindexter says he feels like a grown-up. He enjoys the fanciness of it all. He says, "Act as though you expected it" for everything that happens.

Me, I'm a little freaked out by it. All these people coming to the table, offering pickings from a bread platter, offering pepper, pouring drinks, changing my fork and knife to something different expressly for the entree. It's weird! I know I'm paying for them to do this, but it's still weird to be waited on as though I can't do anything for myself.

That, plus I am a bubbly excited dork, and I was so excited about everything I just wanted to grin and hop up and down. This is not the most fancy restaurant I've been to -- eating at excellent and therefore often fancy and expensive restaurants is something of a hobby for us -- and it didn't even require a jacket. But I was excited anyway and the atmosphere is just all wrong for my bubbly behavior.

There was a comment card with the check, and I wrote a rather gushy comment. I felt like a dork doing it -- I'm sure the rich-looking folks at the next table wouldn't be caught dead doing such a thing. But I decided to do it anyway, because I don't think anyone doesn't appreciate positive feedback.

Case in point: Awhile back, when I was in high school, I went to a matinee performance of the Kirov ballet or some other really fancy world-renowned ballet. I went with a friend who was a ballet nut, and heck, I like ballet. I like anything in which people have such superb control over their bodies. It's truly amazing. But I digress.

The matinee was filled with middle-class folks wearing jeans. I was a little appalled. We had dressed up. Not only that, but none of these people were really familiar with ballet -- I think the purpose of the matinee was to introduce it to more people -- and they didn't know the "proper" times to clap. So, as though it were a sporting event, they clapped every time the dancers (danseurs?) did something particularly nifty.

To be sure, most serious ballet aficionados would be horrified.

But the thing was, the dancers LIKED this. You could see it. They'd do something that looked technically difficult, people would clap, and you'd see the dancers grinning. They were eating it up. They were quoted later in the local paper as saying how much they enjoyed giving the performance.

So even though I was dorky and probably inappropriate, I don't care. I'm glad I wrote the comment.

Although we love food, Poindexter and I both prefer to eat it at home. We're serious homebodies. So I knew that Poindexter would like takeout for his birthday. He picked Chinese, so I went over to a place I'd heard was good.

Unfortunately, it wasn't exactly where I thought it was, so I had to do a U-turn and sit through five light cycles in Seven Corners. Then, well, suffice it to say that THEY HAD CHANGED THE NAME. You can imagine all the wandering around I did until finally I just bit the bullet and went into a differently-named Chinese restaurant with the correct address.

Then, I get home, check washingtonian.com again, and find out that WE CALLED THE WRONG RESTAURANT. The Fortune I wanted was on Arlington Boulevard, and we had called another restaurant that once had the same name and didn't change their phone book listing. I don't believe it. At least I did end up at the restaurant that Poindexter called. There's that.

Groan.

Poindexter managed to get through two birthday phone calls and an entire episode of the Sopranos before I finally got back.

Warning: This segment, while not TMI or about my hairiness, is nevertheless pretty gross.

While we were in Florida, I read a book set in the early 1900s, in which there was a scene where someone dies of worms. It was really, really nasty.

When I mentioned it to MIL, she told me about a popular weight-loss method back in the '30s and '40s. Apparently people used to deliberately ingest a tapeworm. Said tapeworm would then eat all the food you ingested, not leaving any for you, so you could eat and eat and eat and still lose weight.

Apparently, when you think you're thin enough, you poison the worm with something that kills it but not you, it dies, and, uh, you pass it.

Ick.

Some couples, my parents included, set aside a certain time each day when they sit down and talk about their day. Just to connect, or whatever. It doesn't mean they don't talk at other times too, but this time is one of those things they sort of pencil into their mental day planner. For my parents, this time is immediately after my dad gets home, when they sit and have a drink and chat.

Poindexter and I, however, are too hungry when we get home to talk, so we tend to eat and watch taped shows when we get home. Our "talk time" is right before bed.

Since talking to each other is quite high on our list of favorite activities, sometimes this keeps us up later than we planned. Also, I get more sleep than Poindexter, so he's usually more tired than me. And I ramble more. So it's a running joke, once we've already passed the bedtime deadline, for him to fuss at me to turn off the light, which is on my side of the bed.

It'll go like this:

Evelynne: [Ramble, ramble, ramble]
Poindexter: Mm hmm. Turn off the light.
Evelynne: [Rambling some more]
Poindexter: Why is the light still on?
Evelynne: [Asks Poindexter a question.]
Poindexter: [Rambles on at length], blah blah blah, why is the light still on? Turn off the light.

And finally, I do.

I'm sure you have to be there, but this amuses me.

Are we really going to get that big snowstorm? I'm hearing rain on Sunday, changing to snow Sunday night all through Monday, and getting up to a foot. I hope so. If the federal government closes, Poindexter and I get to stay home and cuddle all day. Wooooo!

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