Nathan’s favorite thing lately is to answer the questions he poses himself, like, “Who wants a hot dog? I do!” And then he raises his hand like I’m supposed to take that information and go, well, since this simple majority wants a hot dog, preferably from Target, and let’s drop everything for what sir desires. Would sir like to play with my iPhone again? Set a passcode that your mother can’t unlock? Turn off the airplane mode your mother set and then proceed to call everyone from her address book? WHATEVER YOU DESIRE, SIR.
During a morning session at a work retreat this week, the facilitator asked everyone to name a place where they would like to return and I chimed in with one of my favorite places: Disneyland. I love Disneyland so much. I got to see my family and I wept like a baby when we were dropped at LAX. But then the rest of my colleagues chimed in and all of their answers illustrated their cultured experiences, places like South American and Italy. So I sunk in my seat, having had this what-I-must-have-sounded-like conversation play in my head:
So why Italy?
“Oh the beauty, the history and the landscape.”
And Mona, why Disneyland?
“Oh, they have air conditioning in the bathroom. And all their bathrooms are so clean! Did you know you can buy a hot dog for six dollars? But it was so worth it because it was the length of my arm. And I ate it all!”
I was having lunch with a friend yesterday when I realized that the salmon wrap I had just eaten halfway was made of SPICY DEATH SAUCE. My face reddened and I panicked because it felt like my mouth was filled with what Satan’s ass must taste like, because let’s be honest, I don’t think the dark prince would have a mellow spot on his body. And I didn’t want to act like I was going to die, even though I thought that would happen, because that would be the lamest episode of CSI ever. I can imagine Horatio Caine examining the crime scene and and needing more than one piece of chalk to make my gargantuan body outline and then sighing because there’s no way to jazz up dead body when the cause of death is LUNCH.
I was listening to a commercial about skin care and the announcer said something about “rules for skin” but I didn’t hear that. Instead I heard, “WILL’S FORESKIN” and was disgusted that women would feel so desperate as to rub manskin into their faces. I do that already, but that’s because I’m married, not because I’m trying to combat wrinkles. It wasn’t until I looked up the website and realized this was not about balls. Story of my life.
I have two new reviews up at my review blog!
I update you on my progress with EA Active Sports for the Wii (spoiler: it’s awesome!).
Also I made out with a Swedish car. It was awkward since there were people around, but hey, I have to make my entry into the Swedish-Loving-MILF market somehow, right?