Blog Master G

Once upon a December day was Jen’s birthday, and all were ready to play. We were to have a romantic in-town getaway and the dogs were scheduled to go away when down from the cellar to our dismay we smelled the most distinct fume of burning wires coming our way. We walked all around with our sniffers aloof, trying to track down what could be loose. We smelled and we smelled and we searched and we searched. Was it a burning goose? Or a wire on fire? Something wasn’t quite right, so we made some calls to the local FD, who brought their big truck and men who weren’t wearing tights. They looked all about with their infrared burning scanner but they couldn’t find what we were goin’ on ’bout. We blushed red with embarrassment for calling them here, but better safe than let it burn till it’s clear. So the plans were cancelled and we did not go out. We stayed home and tried not to pout.

Two months hence I’ve collected some pence and oh, what a coincidence that yesterday was Valentine’s Day. I made some reservations and scheduled the wife, for I was determined to avoid the strife. We walked through the snow and slippery ice to a local eatery that we heard was nice. They took our coats at the door and seated us down where we would dine among others who surely were not a bore. Out came the sparkling water — in Italy “with gas” — but no bread for which we had to ask. Along came the wine, a Honig Sauvignon Blanc, but no ice bucket or any pour beyond the first. It was as if we were cursed. But alas, how lucky we were to be enjoying spicy mussels, king salmon, and sea bass. Here we reach the end of my tale of burning wires and fine cuisine, so you can rest assured that I’ve covered my ass, at least until the next date, which I’m sure will be as equally great.