Call me Ricky

Mrs Schwartz and I went to a local mall today for random shopping, etc. Afterwards, we stopped at Maggiano's for some classy italian food. We were at one of the ritsy malls, and Maggiano's is a pretty ritsy restaurant.

We finish our meal. I ask for a box, to go. It's a ritsy enough place, where the waitor takes your leftovers away, boxes them up, and returns them in a neat little bag with a string handle. While I'm awaiting all this pomp and circumstance, Mrs Schwartz excuses herself to the powder room. I pay the bill and see her waving to me just outside. We walk to the car.

Just as we're getting into the car, she looks at my bag of leftovers and stops dead. She holds up her own string-handled bag.

It turns out, she left the stall in the bathroom, saw the fancy leftover bag on the bathroom counter, and somehow made the connection that it was hers.
Yes, she stole someone else's doggy bag.

I wish I could have been there when this poor woman came out of her stall and discovered that someone had stolen her bag.

We made a hasty escape. As we were pulling into the liquor store parking lot to stock up on booze for Sunday, she starts getting frisky and leans over to me for some smooching. After a few moments of passion, we both notice the overwhelming smell of garlic and clams.

She had, in her passion, stomped the hell out of my leftover linguini with garlic and clam sauce, pouring sauce over the $136 skirt and blouse set that she had JUST purchased.

As I type this, I'm eating store-bought potato salad.

I'm married to Lucille Ball.