The other day, the girl refused to go out to pick up the Pizza until she had propery dressed up. (We live in a delivery dead zone—more than Milwaukee, but not quite Wauwatosa.)
She quite insisted on wearing all matching pink clothes, a smart pair of “rock star” sunglasses and selected pieces of her fanciest jewelry.
I kept telling her to hurry up so we could eat, and she kept telling me that we couldn’t just go out wearing any old thing; “What if someone sees us, dehdeh?”
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