If my grandmother read my blog she'd probably disown me

So my third wedding anniversary—the year of leather gifts—is over.

All I have to say is, I never knew leather could be so wonderful. Chuck bought me a leather bikini, which he hid in a leather suitcase. I gave him a leather recliner and rubbed his feet through his leather slippers. We wore leather jumpsuits to dinner. After dinner, we raised our glasses of champagne to the smell of dead cow. After that I whipped Chuck with a leather belt then rubbed leather moisturizer on his berry red ass.

Yes, oh God, yes, it was so leathery good.

Actually, as much as I abhor animal cruelty, I can’t be a total hypocrite and ridicule all things leather. I do own leather shoes and purses. But after reading this, I’ve decided to change my ways. No more leather goods.

From now on, I will only buy products made of granny vaginas.

Think about it: there sure are a lot of them.

Ok, ok, I know, that was gross. But what do you expect? I’m tired. So damn tired. Chuck and I didn’t actually make it out the door last night until 8:30 because my father was two hours late to baby-sit Junior. And the service at the restaurant was soooooo slow...

Soooooooo sloooooooooow...

...perhaps because everyone was busy trying to console the man sitting at the table next to us. He had just lost his wife or friend or someone. People kept stopping by to offer their condolences, to which he’d snap, “How do you think I’m doing?”

At one point I wanted to yell, “How do you think I’m doing? We ordered an hour ago and I haven’t seen a damn bread crumb!”

I did, however, see many vodka and cranberries. Which is why when we left the restaurant and ran into a man walking one of these



my drunken canine exuberance got the better of me. I leaned down to bearhug the dog and fell onto him. Not like splat; more like oof, I’m wobbly, I didn't mean to ride your dog. I couldn’t help it! He was so fluffy and smushy I wanted to steal him!

The owner took it well. He looked at me like I was a piece of shit and said, “Come, Fred-ear-eek.”

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Poor Chuck. The whole ride home that’s all I kept asking:

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Who names their dog Fred-ear-eek?

Then I fell asleep. There may have been the tinniest, most miniscule hint of drool.

May have.

And that is Le Evening du Dead Boeuf.

(Is it just me, or is the leather anniversary version more exciting? Or did you, um, stop reading after the whole granny vagina thing?)