Edgy Mama

According to the lovely Joshilyn Jackson, Friday was “Take your Dog to Work” day. As the Bisc often sleeps at my feet as I work, or chews on my feet if he’s feeling frisky, TYDTW day didn’t seem to apply to me. I did decide, however, to take our dog out to dinner with us Friday night.

Asheville touts itself as a dog friendly town, and in my ignorance, I assumed the large outside patio at Mellow Mushroom would be particularly canine receptive. But no. No dogs are allowed, and, according to the apologetic hostess, if you tie your dog on the outside rail, on the sidewalk, next to the table where you are eating, he’s considered an “unattended animal” and both you and the restaurant will be ticketed by the big, bad police.

So we walked over to Asheville Brewing Company, who have a “we love pooches on our patio policy.” There we got fabulous za (the Sheer Delight is, well, a delight), excellent beer brewed on the premises, and our pup, who happily chewed on pizza crusts at my feet.

I remember when there was only one Mellow Mushroom–the first, in Midtown Atlanta, which was a bit of a dicey area in the late 70s and early 80s. But they had good hippie za and served pitchers of beer to underaged kids. Like me. All the servers were perpetually stoned.

The possibly apocryphal story behind the restaurant was that it was started by a couple of dropouts from nearby Georgia Tech who were soon joined by a University of Georgia dropout who came up with the now prescient “all natural” angle.

Now, the restaurant has something like 28 locations in five states. I guess it’s a grand success story. I was thrilled when it came to Ashvegas. They still have the psychedelic menus, funky decor, and happy mushroom mascot. But they’ve lost something. They’re practically mainstream now. The servers are still funky, but clean. In every way. I’m sure they card folks relentlessly. And they prohibit pups from their perky patio.

for all the birthday wishes. I had a great weekend: time alone, time with dear friends, and time with loved ones. All that and a neighbor thought I was turning 34 (just add nine). What more could a girl ask for?

The only blip in my lovely weekend was that the Tarheels choked and lost to Georgetown in overtime. My girl was despondent–crying on my shoulder at Asheville Pizza Company. And yes, we ate pizza for dinner. But it was good pizza–the Sheer Delight, which is a yum concoction of pesto, portobello shrooms, walnuts, and gorgonzola cheese. And we got basketball and micro-brewed beer with the za.

Plus, S.C. might be coming to town in a couple of weeks, and he’s promised to feed me Indian food.

My birthday is March 25. On the Catholic calendar, it’s the day of the Feast of the Annuciation. In other words, the day that the angel Gabriel came down from the clouds, scared the you-know-what out of a poor Jewish girl, AND told her she was carrying God’s kid. Nine months to the day later, we celebrate his birth by putting live fir trees in our house and courting a fat, bearded man with milk and cookies.

Anyway, I’ve always liked that my birthday is a feast day. Everyone’s birthday should be one. Not that I need an excuse.

So the kids have been talking about what we should do, as a family, on my day. I overheard my girl going through the options.

“Well, Mom really likes her computer…” I know she’s thinking, “When Mom’s on her computer, I can’t go to Webkinz world, so forget that.”

Then she says, “Mom likes books.” I imagine a day where we all sit around reading. That’s my vision of heaven. Books, yes. Give me books. Better yet, a gift certificate from Malaprop’s.

I hear her say, “Mom really likes her camera.” There’s a pattern emerging here, I think. All the things that she thinks I really like don’t necessarily include the kidlings. Hmmmmmmmm.

Then I hear her quiet voice. “Mom kind of likes baseball. That’s it, we’ll go to a baseball game!” Then the realization hits her. “I really like baseball,” she says.

“Yeah,” chimes in the boy. “I don’t think Mom wants to go to a baseball game.” Hurrah, I think, he’s starting to get sarcasm!

More musing. “Mom likes to go out to eat! Let’s take her out and she won’t have to cook.” This sounds promising.

“Marco’s or Mellow Mushroom?” asks the boy, offering the two local pizza joints we frequent.

At this point, I have to intervene. “How about we try a new restaurant. One that Mom really wants to go to?” I know I’m wheedling when I start talking about myself in the third person.

“What kind of restaurant?” asks the boy, fear lighting up his hazel eyes.

“How about an Indian restaurant?” I say.

“Nooooooooooooo!!!” Screams of terror emanate from their tiny bodies. I must have misheard myself. Did I just threaten to make them drink poison? Did I ask them to give their allowance back? Did I try to force Vindaloo down their soft throats?

The drama continues for several minutes. Forget the fact that this is about MY birthday, and I should get, just once, to make a unilateral decision. As always, the noise does me in.

“Okay, okay. We’ll go somewhere where there’s pizza, french fries, or waffles. Okay.”

Slowly, the noise level decreases, though the boy is still hiccupping back sobs.

Do you think I could ask the chef at Mela could make waffles out of pappadum flour for my kidlings? After all, it’s my birthday.