We went to a local pizza place for dinner tonight. The patrons breakdown as thus: 50% are there to watch football, 49% are divorced dads there for their weekly dinner with the kids and 1% is us.
Darling Husband dropped me off at the door so I could snag a table while he parked with Baby Boy. The crowd of 20-something smokers that made it nearly impossible to pass without "show me your boobies, baby!" was thick. But I was hungry.
We ended up in a booth abutting a single dad on a first date (along with his toddler son as wingman) with an an eager-to-please woman and T-boning our table were the rowdy smokers I had the pleasure of meeting on the way in.
At one point, one of the obnoxiously drunk smoker's keys slipped from his back pocket and jangled to the floor. That sound is music to any kid's ears. The toddler, whose dad was sucking cheese off his date's tongue, flopped to the floor and grabbed the keys. He happily hopped back into the booth where the keys found a new home at the bottom of his dad's beer mug.
I wonder how many boobies it will take to get him a new set.
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