Tubby night

Clean Pippins & plates

Every six weeks our dog, Pippin, goes to the groomer's. We lovingly call his grooming a "tubby" in one of those annoying-to-outsiders baby talk voices. He really hates going (there's whimpering and dragging), but the baby talk keeps his tail wagging. "Pippin, are you going to get a tubby?" And the tail wags on.

My mom and I, on the other hand, love tubby night. It's like this: Pippin goes to the groomer's, and I go to dinner and shopping with Mom. Dinner is always at John's Sandwich Shop on North Avenue — a family favorite of ours for the past, oh, 15 years. John's is known for breakfast and brunch, but we love going any time of day. The neighborhood staple even gave me my very first job: bus girl. Ill-fitting khaki pants, syrup everywhere, and my total inability to work the espresso machine. Such fond memories.


































But I am fond of the avocado quesadillas, so it's a good thing we visit John's every six weeks like clockwork. My mom and I sit there, give the lone waitress and cook something to do, and chat. I can't disclose the content of those chats because, well, that would be violating the Tubby Night Code of Silence or something. 

After my mom and I join the Clean Plate Club, it's off to Mayfair. There's almost always a trip to the Clinique counter, and then we just bum around. Summer shoes were the name of the game during our latest spree, though we each came away empty handed. Wide feet.

Okay, so it's not a glamorous night out on the town. But sometimes, after a long six weeks of Wednesdays, all a dog needs is a tubby — and all a girl needs is her mom and a dang quesadilla.