postcard of Jacques French Restaurant, Chicago, ca. 1967
Company coming for supper.
Dining in high style, apropos of yesterday: taco night.
I'm providing the place & the dessert, & the rest of the crowd said they'd cook, since my birthday is coming up. I hope this means they'll also do the dishes. I really hate doing dishes. I'd rather let my cats groom my eyeballs than do dishes, most days. Even when there's a dishwasher in the kitchen, handling dirty dishes is still, to me, like chewing tinfoil.
Maybe I could win the lottery, and then I'd hire a bunch of those illegal immigrants who say they're only here to do the jobs Americans won't do. They could do my dishes, instead of marching around the town square (since there are plenty of teenagers willing to mill about, all hours, in the center of the community).
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