The Burrow

That's the number of years TBG and I have been married. I'm typing this on Sunday night, and it was a Sunday night when we drove away from G'ma and Daddooooo's house, with cans tied to the back bumper and Just Married written on the windows.   We were starving.  There was lots of food at the wedding, but we were too busy dancing and talking and hugging to eat.  Sister, my attendant, had been charged with keeping me fed.  Unfortunately for both of us, the whiskey sours caught up with her before dinner was served; neither of us ate at all.  By the time we untied the noisemakers we hit upon a plan - dinner before anything else. We drove to Motel on the Mountain, a lovely-from-afar resort up on a mountain which I passed and lusted for every summer as Daddooooo drove us to Lake George for vacation.  We should have done our research.  Two weeks after we checked out the place closed for a total renovation.  The arachnid in the shower added to the am...

Aunt Jemima is going away. A 26 year old with a gun and a taser and a partner and a badge kicked a dying man after shooting him in the back. John Bolton saved the evidence he should have given during the impeachment hearings for a book he's leaking today.  A friend has Valley Fever, not Covid.... and somehow pneumonia and a hard to treat fungal infection feels like good news. Trump fans are lining up now before going inside tomorrow night to a masks-optional scream-a-thon. Johnny Weissmuller is swinging on vines with Jane, as TBG wonders how Tarzan manages to stay clean shaven.  I'm going to turn on the grill and ponder that last one for a while.