Friday night was date night and to feel extra special I decided to wear my Donald J. Pliner Retro 70s Date Night Shoes, my new favorite pair of wedges that work perfect with my long, dark jeans! You may not like them, but damn, they do look mighty fine on my feet. I used them in my April Masthead and I heart them like I heart date night, and they heart me back.
Anyhow, for date night, we ate at a local Bistro owned by a friend of ours . . . and that friend of ours made us the best Italian Margaritas. I’m not sure if they were the best because they were the first Italian Margaritas I’ve ever had or if they were the best because she made them extra big, strong and tasty just for us. Either way, they were delicious and they made for a fabulous meal, a fabulous date night, and fabulously groggy morning after.
And why am I telling you this? Because the next morning as I was groggily doing my normal Saturday morning pool-boy duties, I saw a brown blob of something laying about in the far end of the yard and I immediately started to panic because I remembered doing something I rarely do . . . I tossed my shoes on the floor in a passionate flurry as opposed to putting them neatly back in their proper position on the closet shelf as a normal person does in a passionate flurry.
The echo of my scream . . . “NOOOOOOO, THOSE WERE MADE. IN THE MOUNTAINS. OF ITALLYYYY” . . . is still ringing in my neighborhood.
Apparently, Miss Cherry Couture is feeling better from her patella surgery. She’s a thief, that stinking evil genius, and she is way too smart for her own good. Since there doesn’t seem to be any damage, other than a few bite marks, she isn’t requiring any additional surgery to remove my foot from her ass. All of you with puppies are warned: NO SEX FOR YOU! Because it is totally not worth the potential damage.