The new camera is digital. It is smaller, less expensive than mine and has better resolution, picture capacity-all the bells and whistles.
The first picture she took was of me. I pretended to stick my finger in my nose, the old bent pinkie trick. I tried it next and took a picture of Dawn. Neither one of us liked the results. Then early this morning, I snuck downstairs and took a bunch of filthy pictures of myself as a surprise.
We hired Jorge at the cost of a free meal in Soldiers Grove to be the designated driver. If our waitress hadn't been so lame, we'd have gotten tipsy. The motel/bar has a wood fired pizza oven. It's newly remodeled with a back room. I suggested a table nearer the server, since one tends to get forgotten in the back room.
The food was great. I ate an entire pizza by myself. A cheese steak pizza covered with roasted red peppers and swashed( my own made up word) with fresh chopped garlic. I also ate half of Dawn's fries. When we got home, I told Mandy the dog she could smell my breath for a quarter. Since dogs don't have a change pocket, I gave her a free whiff.
It was fun pretending Jorge was our driver. Taking a chance on getting plugged by his service revolver, which he carried with him in the old days when we rode mountain bikes down County Highway S, I quipped: "Home Jorge." He didn't laugh.
His new car,which cost 50 big ones, has a remote TV screen in the rear view mirror so you can watch the surprise on a person's face when you run them over. His dashboard is in keeping with the season with all sorts of red and green LED lights. He says he has things he doesn't use. The radio is connected to a satellite, the seats are heated, the upholstery-all top grain leather. Dawn asked him to slip on a DVD for her to watch Pulp Fiction from the rear. He said that was one option he didn't order.
We all piled out to have a slice of Marion's Boston Creme, two layer cake. I got a discount on the cake because it was second hand, intended for someone named Linda.
Marion is the cutest Amish daughter from the folks on the ridge. In summer's when the "girls" sell produce off the highway, Marion wears dark sunglasses. She looks like Marlena Dietrich with the head scarf and Amish gear. She knows she's yanking English people's chain by playing with their stereotypical visions. She's also the chief baker. In a typical year she'll bake three thousand pies. All without modern conveniences.
I popped a bottle of Barefoot Cellars bubbly, toasted Dawn ( Jorge refrained being the designated driver) and regretted eating the whole pizza. After opening her presents, the rest of the evening sputtered and fizzled. We're getting old.
I showed Dawn the workings of the 14X16 ceramic stone for baking French breads and pizza. She unwrapped the box containing a bamboo pizza peel and assembled the handle. Next year I'll buy her that ATV with the front end plow she's been wanting. Or, perhaps, a nice Kubota tractor with a scoop and blade for the rear.
Today, we're off to Lacrosse to buy her a few Christmas presents, since I gave her all her Christmas presents last night. It happens every year. Her birthday, Christmas, our anniversary, her sister's birthday, her parents anniversary all fall in the same week. I'm trying to figure out how to tell the dog that there's no St. Nick. The cat, being the smarter of the two, stopped waiting by the wood stove for presents. He knew no fat man could squirm down that six inch stove pipe.
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