Only the best for me and mine

I found that I always choose the red "bacon"-flavored treats first from the Milk Bone Flavor Snacks I give Lucy, much in the same way I always go first for the "Special Dark" candy bars in the Hershey's Fun Size mix.
I happen to prefer dark chocolate, but I'll bet all colors of Milk Bones probably taste the same.
Poor dogs don't know any better. Or maybe they're just lucky they don't have too many choices.

I base most of my fashion sense on what doesn't itch. ~Gilda Radner

I waited until almost the very last minute to see the Golden Age of Couture exhibit at the Frist Center, which is Nashville's art museum.
It was on loan from the Victoria and Albert Museum in London.
The first thing I thought of as I began to tour the exhibit (besides "Why is it so damn dark in here?!") was my Aunt Suzanne and her original Barbie dolls.
When I was little and we visited my granddaddy in Coldwater, Mississippi, I always ended up in Suzanne's room at the back of the house because that's where she kept her old Barbies. She didn't get them all out every time we came, but when she did, I was so happy.
Her Barbie dolls were much better dressed than mine. Even though I loved all 17 of mine, they came with these garish disco clothes.
Suzanne's Barbies had much classier wardrobes of silky evening gowns with demure rosebuds at the hip and stoles made of "real" fur.
Some had interchangeable wigs that came off like hats. Even Midge came with elbow-length gloves and perfect little molded evening shoes.
So as I moved through the Frist exhibit and began to take in the craftsmanship of the clothing, I suddenly felt like Cinderella after the clock struck 12.
I had gone to a bit of effort before leaving the house, dressing in a "housewife goes to town" outfit of nicer Capri pants, sandals and "cute" top.
I learned a lot at the show, such as how Dior's "New Look" designs, shaped to emphasize a woman's shoulders and hips, were considered scandalous in Britain because the clothing required so much fabric. Given that the country had endured nearly a decade of rationing during World War II, the British critics didn't immediately fall for the French designs.
As I pored over the Balenciaga suits and Dior dresses, I began to feel every loose thread on my Target pants and scuff on my discount shoes.
I stood a little straighter as I moved through the gallery, but still felt frumpy. At one time I had cared about fashion. Over time, though, with a family to care for, I placed less emphasis on the art of my clothes. My priorities were comfort, affordability, and appropriateness.
Even so, I came to the red Jean Desses gown and found myself standing before it like it was a painting, examining the gathers and draping.
Then a funny thing happened.
The gowns were all showcased on life-size, headless mannequins inside glass cases. The lighting in the gallery was such that, if I stood just right, I could see myself reflected in the glass, and it looked like I was wearing the gown.
I was "wearing" a couture gown! I walked from case to case "trying on" all my favorite dresses. I felt like a life-size Barbie.
Then I had to get back in the box.
But it was fun to play for a while.

Some dark glasses, por favor

On Sunday, my family of five did what we usually do on Sundays after church: We went out to lunch at Mazatlan Mexican restaurant.
It’s fast, it’s inexpensive, the food is pretty good and we feel like regulars there. It’s usually the only meal we all eat out together, and we rarely stray from the plan.
Once in a blue moon we might get chicken from Church’s, but Mazatlan is our go-to place on Sundays.
Except for last Sunday.
On last Sunday, I decided we should try a new place, the Cinco de Mayo place in Merchant’s Walk, located in what once housed Pargo’s restaurant, for you long-timers.
As usual, it took some convincing.
“But we like Mazatlan,” my 6-year-old protested.
Then the twin eighth-graders joined the protests.
“Yeah, we like it. We know the place. They know us. We even know what number to order without looking at the menu,” they added.
Then I found myself having one of those conversations in which I’m saying the most ridiculous things just to get my kids to see how narrow-minded they’re being.
“But what if we go to Cinco de Mayo and it’s the best Mexican food you’ve ever had?” I asked.
Of course, one twin is an expert in logic.
“What if we go and it’s the worst Mexican food we ever had?” he asked.
“But what if it’s not?” I retorted, like the mature person that I am. “You won’t know unless you try it. And if it is, we won’t ever go back.”
So we went. As we compared and contrasted the salsa and the atmosphere, Henry said, “I feel like we’re cheating on Mazatlan.” I rushed to our defense.
“We’re allowed to try new places,” I said. “It’s the American way.”
“Yeah, freedom of choice,” Owen said.
The result was a split decision: One son and I liked the new place a lot, especially the gravy they serve on their enchiladas instead of rojo sauce. My husband, of course, liked both. The other two sons still liked Mazatlan.
The truth is that Mazatlan had become “our place.”
So this past week, we headed back there for our Sunday meal. But we all slinked in.
When the host seated us in one of the round corner booths, we all looked at each other and giggled.
“Why do I feel guilty?” my husband asked. “It’s like they know we cheated and went somewhere else last week.”
“I know,” I said, diving into the chips and salsa. “Just act normal.”
So the waiter came out, we ordered a No. 2, a No. 12, beef fajitas, a tostaguac and a kids’ beef burrito with queso, as usual.
The guy we call Cowboy, who always wears a flat-top haircut and plaid shirt, brought out four platters on one arm, as usual.
We ate and talked and laughed and looked each other in the face, catching up on each others’ lives, as usual.
Then we piled back into the truck to head for home. The boys, who were on a post-lunch high, bickered until I had to yell at them to calm down, as usual.
It’s not brunch at Tavern on the Green, but straying helped my family realize that we kind of prefer “the usual.”