Why We Rarely Get Asked To Dinner Twice

A dear friend recently told me that she remembered this random story I had told her and burst out laughing while at work. And since I know where she works, I know that random laughter is very much needed. So just in case you haven't heard the story, and your day needs some random laughter, I give you the reason why Fireman and I don't go out much.

The fireman and I don't go out to nicer places very often. He says it's because my cooking is better than anything he could order in a restaurant, which is sweet, but I think the real reason is that most of the fancier places have things like Lemon Panna Cota with a Raspberry Orange Sauce, and he really just wants a piece of pie. Every once-in-a-while, though, we have friends, who apparently lack entertainment in their daily lives, and call us and ask that we accompany them to a nice restaurant. Such was the case when a couple we have not seen in a long time asked us to meet them at a steak house, about an hour from where each of us lives.

We had a lovely and delicious dinner, filled with wonderful conversation. Wishing to extend the evening, we adjourned to the supper club's bar for an after-dinner drink. I was sitting on a stool at the bar, with Fireman standing a little behind me. I was chatting away with my girlfriend, when all of a sudden I felt these weird little bites around my waist. What the hell? There they went again! Whatever it was was circling around and around me really fast, and biting as it went.

I started slapping at myself, trying to kill whatever it was, when out of the corner of my eye I see Fireman, pulling furiously on a thread like he is trying to reel in a 10 pound trout! The thread is neon orange. The same color as my underwear. It wasn't a rouge insect, hopped up on speed, biting me, rather it was Fireman unraveling my underwear!

ME: What the hell are you doing???

FM: You had a thread.

       I was helping.

ME: You aren't helping! Stop pulling! I'm going to be naked in a minute!

At this point Fireman has a ball of neon orange underwear thread the size of a softball in his hands, and is still pulling.

ME: Quit pulling. Just break it.

FM: I can't. It's like it's kryptonite underwear thread.

       Why are you wearing kryptonite underwear, anyway?

       I'll just tuck this ball into the back of your pants and you can fix it when we get home.

ME: It looks like I have a tumor on my ass! Take it out!

FM: Well, what do you want me to do?

ME: Do you have anything to cut it with?

FM: No.

At this point, he calls the bartender over, holds up the giant orange ball of underwear thread, and says, “Do you have a scissors or something, she wants me to cut this off.”

Of course bartender has no scissors. Apparently underwearectomies aren't particularly common in this restaurant. Instead, he comes back with a foot long chef's knife. I wasn't convinced that letting Fireman that close to me with a big knife was the best idea and, I would have asked my girlfriend to do it, but she way laying across the bar gasping for breath she was laughing so hard. I'm happy to report the string was severed, and no blood was shed.

FM: I don't know why you are so pissed at me.

ME: Well, lets see, you made me a laughingstock of the restaurant, embarrassed me in front of our friends, and destroyed my favorite pair of underwear.

FM: At your age I would think you should just be happy someone wants to rip your clothes off.