When The Incubator gets excited, it's truly a sight to behold. I don't know whether it's because she married young and missed out on her jolling days, or whether it's in her genetic make-up, but mention a good time, and she's all over it like wet spaghetti. (I imagine it's the latter, if this whole 'cut from the same cloth' theory holds any weight. Given, of course, that I quite like a good time. Although it must be noted, I'm not a 'good time girl' - ask Rugby Boy.)
So last night, The Daughter and I went on a wee date. We've spent a lot of time with The Parental Unit of late, and if I'm entirely honest, I get a little irritated playing the second fiddle. It seems to always be, "Oh, Granddaughter, come and snuggle with Granny," and, "Why don't you and I leave Mom to relax and go out for milkshakes?" Not to mention, "Mom's always in a bad mood, isn't she?". (For the record, I am seldom in a bad mood. The only time, really, that my mood could be considered bad, is when people say things like, 'Mom's so grumpy, Mom's in a bad mood'. That's enough to cause a release of steam from the ear valve - note 'valve', not 'valva').
The Pant: I'm taking The Daughter to the movies tonight. Do you want to come?
The Incubator: No thanks. But I would like to go to a pub near the movies with The Beautician and drink an excessively large amount of wine and have you drive me home.
Movies with my girl was super. Half way through Cars 2 (our options were limited), we gave up on the whole two people to two seats ratio, and she snuggled onto my lap and we watched the rest of the film covered in pop corn and love. So much pop corn, in fact, that when I removed my boots (new, bought en route to movies when realised the gaping mouth looking of the left one made me look as though was raised shopping in Walmart) there was enough pop corn to sit through a screening of Gone With The Wind plus intermission.
But it's The Incubator who needs focus at this juncture. I picked her up, banged up the heater and headed to the homestead aka middle earth. Seriously, The Parental Unit's suburb is the coldest place on earth. It rivals Poland. I fear after having spent an extended period of time there, that my ovaries may have solidified and may yield - if ever I get the chance again - part-human-part-milkshake.
So, we were en route to their home, The Daughter and my teeth were chattering such that I feared expensive dentist runs, and The Incubator was chatting away with the comfort that the lubrication of wine alone can bring.
The Incubator: My darling,-
The Pant (addressing The Daughter): Babes, Granny is talking to you.
The Daughter: Yes, Granny?
TI: No, I'm talking to you.
TI: Yes, you.
TP: But you said 'my darling'.
TI: That's you.
TP: But you never ca-
TI: Oh. Stop with the wounded child persona. I like you. There.
TP: It's just a bit of a shock, Mom.
TI: Get over yourself. We can be friends.
TP: No, we can't.
TP: Friends talk about sex. I'm not talking sex with you - ever.
TI: But we can go for a drink, can't we?
TP: Are you trying to tell me that I'm your favourite daughter?
TI: After your brothers, yes.
TP: So, I'm your third favourite daughter?
TI: Yes, I mean no. I mean. Ah, can't we go for a drink, Pant?
TP: We can go for a drink. (Thinks a little) You know, I've always felt that they were quite feminine.
TP: My brothers.
TI: They're not. Apart from the fact that The Brother wears eye cream, of course.
TI: Let's go for a drink.
TP: Okay. But where?
TI: I really want to take you to the Pan & Kettle.
TP: Not the place where the lady sleeps on the bar to protect it from criminals?
TP: Where they only serve quarts?
TP: Where the toilet is in a tent?
TI: That's the one.
TP: The same lady who pees herself while riding her bicycle around the village?
TI: You got it.
TP: The one that says 'fuck' a whole bunch more than me?
TI: The same one.
TP: More than you?
TI: That's her.
TP: The one who-
TI: You know where I'm talking about. Now do you want to go or don't you?
TP: I don't know.
TI: Don't be such a spoilt sport, Pant.
TP: What about The Daughter? I. Am. Not. Taking. Her. There.
TI: I've already asked Dad to look after her.
TP: Have you got hand sanitiser in your bag?
TI: I do.
TP: K. Let's do it.
We got to the homestead, I tucked The Daughter into bed, forced myself to have a wee (I did not want to find myself desperate for relief in Narnia and have to sit on a solid ice toilet seat in a tent on the side of the road). And just as we were leaving
TI: Pant, won't you phone The Beautician and ask her if she wants to come.
TP: Okay. (Dial number. Ring ring.)
The Beautician: Hi, Pant.
TP: Hi Beaut. The Incubator and I are going to the Pan & Kettle for a drink. Do you want to come?
TB: Oh shame, have you?
TP: Have I what?
TB: I'm sure I've got face wash in stock. Shall I bring it round now?
TB: I'm sure The Husband won't mind, silly billy. Let me just ask him (addressing husband) Husband, Pant has run out of face wash and is having a bit of a hectic break-out. Do you mind if I pop over and drop some off with her?
TP: I AM NOT HAVING A BREAKOUT!
The Husband of Beautician: Of course not.
TB: See, I told you he wouldn't mind.
TP: So I'll see you at the pub.
TB: Perfect. I'll be at your mom's house in 10.
And that, my friends, is why I found myself huddled around something akin to a fire in a barrel with a Castle Lite quart (R21) in hand last night. And a merry little pub it is. After a quart. As in life, most things are better after a quart.