It's My Kind of Town
Some of you, Gentle Readers, may have been wondering what happened to Jack, and why I haven't written a story about him for a while.
He was here for a weekend in November, and we had a wonderful time — at least I thought we did — but nothing storyworthy. Well, that isn't exactly true. No blogworthy stories, let's say. Some things belong in the yellow vinyl diary under my mattress.
Many things, in fact.
Now this could only happen to a girl like me, and only happen in a town like this, but in the last email message Jack sent me, he wrote, "I'll call you sometime."
Meanwhile, there's a city that digs my kind of razzmatazz, and it has, all that jazz. So that's where I'm going. Because this guy did call me.
So may I say to each of you most gratefully, as I throw each one of you a kiss: Merry Christmas from Postmodern Sass.
* * *
In Chicago, Postmodern Sass remembers the shampoo but forgets her hair dryer. She and Dave drink lots of German beer and Sass discovers her Schwäbische roots, then they ring in the New Year Hogmanay style.
He was here for a weekend in November, and we had a wonderful time — at least I thought we did — but nothing storyworthy. Well, that isn't exactly true. No blogworthy stories, let's say. Some things belong in the yellow vinyl diary under my mattress.
Many things, in fact.
Now this could only happen to a girl like me, and only happen in a town like this, but in the last email message Jack sent me, he wrote, "I'll call you sometime."
Meanwhile, there's a city that digs my kind of razzmatazz, and it has, all that jazz. So that's where I'm going. Because this guy did call me.
So may I say to each of you most gratefully, as I throw each one of you a kiss: Merry Christmas from Postmodern Sass.
In Chicago, Postmodern Sass remembers the shampoo but forgets her hair dryer. She and Dave drink lots of German beer and Sass discovers her Schwäbische roots, then they ring in the New Year Hogmanay style.
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