We went back to the house so Deb could change shoes and I took the opportunity to check mail because our Internet access at work was down for the latter half of the day and I'm compulsive about such things. Gotta have my fix. What if someone signed my Guestbook and I didn't know about it? What if someone made a comment that I couldn't let stand unchallenged? And what if the person I'm having a luscious online flirt with sent me something? Gah! I must know!

By the time I've checked my mail, Deb has folded laundry, planted a garden, taken a second shower, gotten her walking shoes on, and built an annex on the house. I'm like, "Why aren't you in the bedroom naked?" She's all, "I thought we were going to walk the dog first." I'm like, "Duh. Oh, yeah." It was even more witty and urbane than I've recollected. Like a lesbian Nick and Nora in the southern suburbs we are. The point is, my attention span-slash-train of thought is pathetic.

We walked the dog first.

Then Deb went up to the attic, got naked, and we had a blast. At one point I had to go downstairs to tell Angel that, although we certainly appreciate her telling us that there's a cat outside by barking directly at the attic door, it wasn't really one of the need-to-know barking agreement scenarios that we'd discussed and she needed to lie quietly in her crate for a while. She said, "Oh. Okay," and settled into the crate without me really asking her to. When I got back upstairs, Deb was stretched out on her stomach in stunningly erotic repose. Her body, built for comfort as it may be (her words), is so naturally athletic. Her back and ass and thighs all exude strength in form. Ungh.

And Cin, it's "Ungh." Stop writing "Ugh" in my Guestbook. People will think you're grossed out. You're not grossed out are you? :) [Take note: rare Badsnake smiley inserted to make sure Cin knows that I am teasing her with only the friendliest of intentions and please don't come kick my ass.]

After attic romping, I'm busy telling Deb that an acquaintance told me that the Brake Pad had been hugely crowded the night before and we might have to go to an alternate restaurant. Deb's all, "I thought we were going to Sundown Cafe." I'm like, "Duh. Oh, yeah."

Reality: 2; Badsnake's memory: 0

Sundown was wonderful, not crowded at all. We got to try a chocolate creme broulee and mock a table of people who were so full of their own importance it was ludicrous.

Badsnake [after finishing the broulee before the coffee arrived] to waiter bringing coffee: Dude! Slow on the draw with the coffee.
Waiter: I'm sorry it took so long. These people just ordered a $40 pitcher of margaritas and I had to figure out how to ring that up.
Deb [in commisserating tone]: Because of the tequila they wanted?
Waiter: Yes. I told them that Cuervo is usually the best we will use in the margaritas.
Deb [incredulous yet amused]: What did they want? Patron?
Waiter: Yes. Exactly.
Deb [giggling]: What a waste.

So these people who insist on nothing but the best just insisted on shelling out forty bucks to take the finest tequila made and have it mixed with a bunch of lime-ade, thereby ensuring that they could not taste the difference between the Patron and any cheap-o tequila. Hint to you mixed drink drinkers: Once you mix it with soda, or tequila mix or daqueri mix or whatever, you can't taste the difference in liquor quality. Neither does the quality of the liquor contribute to the hangover factor. Deb, my resident liquor expert, swears this is true.

And tonight Deb and Jake may or may not leave for Columbus, depending on how long it takes for Jake's job to metaphorically screw her today. She's been having a rough time at work lately due to circumstances beyond her control. She didn't get home until 9:30 or so last night.

I have to decide, if they do leave, whether to lie in wait for Sara to get home and jump her when she hits the door, or plan a more sedate evening and put off the lie-in-wait attack plan until she gets home from work tomorrow night.