Ten years and counting. And aren't we gosh darn cute?

Dinner last night was fabulous, but let me back up a little.

Yesterday morning as I was getting dressed, I pulled a bra that I hadn't worn in a while out of the bottom of my underwear chest. It's got wide straps and it's made by Champion. I thought, "That looks fairly comfortable. I'll try that one again." I should've known better when it started bothering me before I even left the house.

By 11 a.m., it was causing me lower back pain and nausea was setting in. I took it off in the ladies room, but I really felt like I needed to lie down for a bit to get rid of all the nasty killer bra of doom symptoms.

I told my boss Terry what my problem was and asked if I could have the afternoon off. Sure, he says. I love working here.

So I went home, threw the bra away, took some pink bismuth tablets for my upset stomach, slept for two hours, and felt completely better.

Luckily, I had a chiropractor appointment that afternoon. I went in and described my problem with the bra to the good doctor. Oh, yeah, she says. It was causing spinal subluxation which can lead to the nausea. She told me to go braless as much as possible, and that cultures where women didn't wear bras don't have the huge rates of breast cancer that we do.

Then she went on to say that it's the same for men.

Chiro: "And Badsnake, it's the same for men. In cultures where men are pendulous [here she makes this swaying movement with her hand, wrist up, fingers down, to indicate swinging male genetalia], they don't get testicular cancer or have prostate problems either [she's speaking very enthusiastically now]. We were meant to be pendulous [more illustrative hand motions]."

Keep in mind that my chiropractor has been known to consult pet psychics by phone. But I think she has a point. To take several pounds of your body weight and try to suspend it out from your chest, away from your center of gravity, does nothing but stress your back. I don't know about the cancer thing.

She recommended I try some of the newer sports bras that aren't of the "uniboob" variety as she called it. You know, the ones that are just one wide strap across, instead of having individual cups for each tit, so they make you look like you have one huge boob roll across your chest.

And I told her about my jammed thumb and asked her to give it a feel since she's an extremeties specialist. She asked me how I jammed it.

Bad: Uh, well, you know, got a little carried away during rough sex and ..."

She put her hand on my shoulder to stop my explanation and said, "That's okay. I just needed to know if you'd done it swinging a sledgehammer or something."

Bad [inside voice]: "Well, if that's what I'd nicknamed my dildo, I kinda did."

Hee. Hee. Anyway, all better now.

Until I find a couple sports bras I can live with, I'm going to wear undershirts instead of bras.

Back to the dinner. It got changed from Thursday night to Wednesday so that we could still have family dinner together. Sara had made plans to do some local political thing last night. I told you I have to stay on my toes when it comes to scheduling.

Deb and I went to Oscar's in College Park. It's a wonderful little restaurant with ambience and food to die for. One wall is brick. The renovators of the storefront that became the restaurant discovered a huge, old-fashioned Coca-Cola advertisement mural under the paint and plaster and were able to preserve it. There's also a lot of blonde wood and lots of chi-chi little table appointments and nice muted lighting. And lots of service staff.

Three guys do nothing but dart around the restaurant filling water glasses. There's a hostess, your waiter, your food bringer-outer, your food taker-awayer, a bartender, a manager, and of course the kitchen staff.

My appetizer was pumpkin filled ravioli with white truffle oil; Deb had garden greens with feta cheese. For entrees, Deb had the steak, which kicked ass, and I had baked salmon with three-mustard sauce that kicked equal ass. Dessert was peanut butter creme brulee with jelly cookies and a little drizzle of, basically, essence of raspberry (no seeds or other shit, just pure, red, thick, tart raspberry syrup-like stuff). Oh, my god, so good. We were there for about two hours.

We got home, went to bed, and Deb read to me. What a wonderful life.

In other news, Jodie Foster is pregnant again. I swear I used a condom every time. Except that one night when we ... Nevermind.