I went back to Lelli's tonight.
That's the restaurant that Josh's family frequents and has the best dinner.
Five courses of pure delight.
And an antipasto tray. Does that count as a course? Forgive me, I'm so unrefined.
I'm certain the meal must exceed the recommended daily allowance for fat and calories, but let me assure you: It is worth it.
The only problem is that the drive to the restaurant takes around 45-60 minutes.
Well, that's not really the problem. The meal is totally worth that little drive.
The problem is that, well, it's a huge meal. Really big. And, um, it's kind of a long drive home.
And, well, sometimes* I can't make it home without stopping. You know, for a restroom.
There, I said it. And now you all know.
I pig out on a huge meal and then make my father in law stop on the way home.
*by sometimes, I mean usually**
** by usually, I mean frequently***
***by frequently, dang it I mean almost every time****
**** and once, I made him stop twice on the ride home
The very worst time was 2 trips ago. Boppa (my father-in-law) had taken me, Josh, and John (my soon to be brother-in-law) for a lovely dinner at Lelli's. I ate my meal, used the facilities, and got in the car.
We didn't even make it onto the highway.
And people, the highway is about a quarter of a mile from the restaurant.
So I made my father in law pull over at the only place available-- a gas station. I raced inside, because my need was urgent, and thankfully the single restroom was available.
But alas! The lock on the door was broken. Since I didn't have a whole lot of options at this point, I went ahead and had a seat. (Only after I danced a jig while cleaning it first. I do have standards, you know.)
And then I heard the doorknob start to rattle.
In a voice about 10 octives higher than normal, I loudly squeaked out "Don't open the door!" Thankfully the door never opened farther than an inch and I quickly went about my business.
I got out to the car and my laughing husband informs me that it was none other than Boppa who had almost barged in on me!
You know, the same guy that had driven me to the restroom. The same one who knew my destination when I ran from his car. That guy.
Apparantly Boppa thought that the male/female sign next to the door had indicated that there was some hallway leading to different restrooms. Because we know how common that is in gas stations, right?
Anyway, I had absolutely no reason to share that little gem of a story with you other than I am in a steak coma from the best.fillet.ever. and I wanted you to celebrate with me that tonight, I made it all the way home!
And I'm sorry. And I'll understand if you never come back here again.
p.s. Boppa, thanks for dinner!