Babymoon: Episode III: Revenge of the Fondue

A short time ago in Kansas City, MO...

Previously, our heroes encountered Fred the Shoe Salesman and stopped his evil plot to install himself as dictator. We continue our adventures with our now well-shod duo...

We checked into the hotel and got settled in. Standing right alongside the rather standard bathroom and bedroom arrangements, laid the Holy Grail of our journey. The reason for our monumental trek. The purpose of our sojourn.

The giant jacuzzi bathtub...

Standing there as a beacon of bubbly goodness, bathed in a halo of purest white light, angels singing softly in the distance, it beckoned. We stood for a moment, gazing at this marvel of jets and hardened plastic. Then Carly took a bath. As it filled and she prepared to experience the awesomeness of The Tub, disaster struck. The cold water tap handle broke off. Now, she was cursed to having a increasingly chilly bath. Of course, this would not do, so we needed to inform the front desk. Meanwhile, I, on the other hand, had found another treasure worth mentioning.

The terrycloth bathrobe...

I am firmly convinced that bathrobes are a gift from the heavens. If it weren't socially impolite (and illegal mostly), I would be in a bathrobe all day (plus pj pants, of course). Going to class in a bathrobe. Going to work in a bathrobe. Mowing my yard in a bathrobe. The comfort factor alone makes up for the awkward conversations I'd have to have. "Just gettin' my mail, Mr. Jones. In my bathrobe. You should try it. It's comfy. How's that rash?" See? Awkward. Of course, since that seems totally impractical and breezy, I may have to upgrade to the bathrobe's more dashing cousin:

The smoking jacket...

It's time to go to dinner. So, Carly leaves the tub and I grudgingly leave the terrycloth perfection behind. Off to the resturant with a quick side trip to the front desk. They can have it fixed before we get back, and Carly can have a proper bath. It's 4:30 in the afternoon and we're off to dinner. It was the only reservations they had left. We arrive at The Melting Pot which is located on the Plaza, the fancy part of town that caters to the nuveau riche of Kansas City. Every city seems to have these areas, teeming with upper-middle class eateries and boutique stores, mainly for people with more money than any reasonably sane person would need at any given time, and filled with women that would look down on me so hard that they give themselves whiplash and wouldn't give me the time of day in a clock shop.

(Side note: It has been said that getting married is a sure fire way to get women to hit on you. The theory goes something like this: Women see a ring on a guys finger, figures that the guy must not have commitment issues and is therefore an upgrade to their current guy who has yet to ask the question, even though they've nagged them incessantly about it for the past 3 years they've been dating. I have not witnessed this phenomenon myself aside from the geriatric customers I deal with everyday that think I'm a "doll". It's my theory, that the people who made this theory came up with it in order to make themselves feel better about NOT getting hit on by said women, and passing off any interaction with the fairer sex as being "hit on". Further, they should just comb their hair over their bald spot, accept it, and move on. Sometimes a "hello" is just a "hello".)

We travel down two flights of stairs to get to the front counter of The Melting Pot, follow the hostess down a few more stairs and are seated in what can generously be described as a wine cellar, or, as I prefer to think of it, a bomb shelter. Seriously, we must be quite a ways underground. But it's nicely lit, quiet and, for a time, we're mostly alone.

Fondue is amazing, by the way. So brillantly simple, yet so tasty. I can imagine the geniuses that invented it:

"Dan, I have this amazing idea for a new way to eat things. You know how much you like cheese and chocolate?" "Sure do, Bill" "Let's melt 'em down to molten slag and dip bits of bread, veggies and fruit into them." "Hmmmm, slather yummy stuff onto other yummy stuff. Bill, you're a madman... but it just might work! Let's call it something French to really jazz it up. Make it seem fancy and exotic when it's really a pretty simple concept. You know, like lattes or bidets!" "Brilliant, Dan!"

The Melting Pot is a fantastic fondue resturant that serves stylized meals in a romantic and comfortable setting. It's ideal for a quiet meal with a romantic interest, a fun and interactive eating adventure for the family, or simply a place for a good, filling dinner. Soft music plays over the speakers as Carly and I get settled into the private booth and look over the menu.

So, you understand our suprise when our tall and loud waiter comes around the corner, blindsiding us with a hearty, "HEY GUYS! HOW ARE WE THIS EVENING?!?!?!" Jarring, to say the least. Wide eyed we give him a weak reply and give him our drink orders. He happily trots off telling us that he'll be right back to, "get this party started". I wasn't aware that she and I were at a party, but he insisted. So much so that every course was a party waiting to erupt it seems. We asked him if it's cheaper to go with the package deal that comes with 4 courses or to go a la carte and pick what we want. "OH, NO. GO WITH THE PACKAGE DEAL. SOOOOOO MUCH BETTER AND CHEAPER FOR YOU. NOW, WHAT DO YOU SAY TO THE TUSCAN INSPIRED PACKAGE?!?!?"

Later, he told us that this was his last week, since he was switching jobs. To become a car salesmen. I kind you not.

"SO, WHAT DO I HAVE TO DO TO GET YOU FOLKS INTO THE S'MORES CHOCOLATE FONDUE TONIGHT?!?"

But, seriously. If you get the chance, eat at the Melting Pot. It's nummy. And the pine nuts are amazing.

Back to the hotel. The tap is fixed and Carly gets her bath. I get my bathrobe. And all is right.

Sunday. Nothing much to do today. So, a quick trip to the breakfast bar in the lobby and another long bath for Carly, and out the door we go. Our mission: We needed to hunt down a comic book store that sells games in order to get a new copy of Guillotine.

That last sentence might sound like Mad Libs, but let me explain. For this, you'll need to hop in your DeLorean, go 88 miles per hour and travel back to the weekend of the baby shower/baptism/wedding shower. Carly and I own a card game called Guillotine. As the name suggests, it's a game about the French Revolution. The object is to collect more important noble's heads than your opponents. It's a lot more fun than it sounds (and less revolutiony). We wanted to play it that weekend, but our old copy had gotten wet sometime since we played it last and the wetness had turned to mold. So, no more Guillotine.

Now, come back to last Sunday (or travel ahead to the future, if you want. You have a time machine after all. Incidentally, if you do go, pick me up a hoverboard. They promised me those things by 2015 and I want one. Also, if you see future Jon, punch me in the face and take my hoverboard. That guy owes me money anyway).

We went all over the city looking for a comic shop that was A. open and B. selling games. This being Sunday, most places didn't open until noon. So, here we are, sitting out in front of a comic book store on a Sunday morning. If you had asked me what I thought marrage was 4 years ago, the last thing I would have said is, "sitting in a car with my wife, waiting for a comic book store to open so we could get a copy of our favorite card game." A dream to be sure, but never my idea of reality. This is reason #103234 why I love my wife.

For lunch, we wanted to go to Mongolian barbecue. If you've never had it, go eat it. Now. It's great. Just don't go on a Sunday. They're closed. As we found out.... But that Indian place is open...

Ever since we moved here, we've been searching for a good Indian resturant. In Memphis, we were within walking distance of one and we got spoiled. 5 failed attempts to find one here, and we struck gold. And aside from the guy walking past us with the moccasins on that had Democrat donkeys on them and smelled like aromatherapy candles, it was good. Feasting on curried goodness, we spotted something that, well, was not so good.

The lady in the booth next to us got up to refill her plate at the buffet. She wasn't a big woman. She was mostly non-descript. Plain really. Reading a book and eating her Indian food all by herself, looking quite content to do so. As she walked past, though, something was amiss.

It was a perfect line of sweat.

In her crack.

And we went home.