Hello Sweetie Dahlings. I trust you have all been well.
Whew. I've been gone a while, eh? Sorry bout that. I could continue to use a computer explosion as a convenient shield but the truth is:
a) Yahoo for computer explosions when it means getting a brand new system that is one billion times faster! Yahoo for 512 MBs and supa-speed! Vroooommmm.
b) The real reason for my absence can be explained in 3 easy words: The Longest Yard. I figure if a bunch of pimply virgins can line up for a nerd-fest called Star Wars, then surely Adam Sandler's new riot deserves at least as much. So, armed with an arctic sleeping bag and 13 days worth of Cheetos, I camped out in front of the movie theatre. I had some interesting conjugal visits and made better friends with a pigeon than I ever thought possible (and no, he was not using me solely for the benefit of cheeto dust!).
And yes, it was worth it. The makings of a great date. Of course, there was some stuff both before and after it that also made for an interesting evening...
Like the first ice cream of the season! It's been many months, so many in fact that I forgot that I placed an embargo on Dairy Queen for its dismissal of the Reese's Pieces Blizzard. Bastards. Jason likes the strawberry cheesequake one, but I hate cheesecake almost as much as I hate strawberries, so I had a small dipped cone instead, prompting Jason to declare that my new nickname should be Small Dipped Cone for the duration of the summer. If I ever become a rapper, I am so getting my ass kicked.
Then we saw someone we used to go to high school with, and the man is balding. Badly. At the ripe old age of 25. And he's using hair gel like mad to make it up, which gives the effect of Charlie Brown, because you can't just stick up your 2 strands of hair and have us believe that you've got a whole head of the stuff. Jason added a further dig (still having all of his hair firmly in place, thank you very much): "Wow, his woman is looking a little rough. Look at those tattoos." Yes, he was quick to correct himself: "Well, her tattoos are gross. Yours are nice." This is true. Note to everyone: roses, barbed wire, butterflies and eagles are definite DONTS.
Next, as I was standing in line to pay for some overpriced "beauty" products, the woman in front of me started gushing about how lovely my hair was, and what a stunning colour at that. This is not unusual, in fact, I have well-rehearsed answers for all of the typical questions (where do you get it done? what's your natural colour?). Only when I was leaving the store did I remember that my hair is blonde. Just blonde. Hardly worth getting excited about. Usually the questions are prompted by shades of blue or magenta. But blonde? Yup, that freaked me out.
It so freaked me out that it took my mind off more pressing matters, such as the fact that I had planned on it being dark when we went out, and here we were tramping through artificially lit stores. The problem was, I was wearing a skirt that requires a slip, but I wasn't wearing a slip. I hate slips. But with any light before or behind me, my pink and white checked underpants were definitely visible. Not as visible as when I sat down in the theatre with my knees open as heck, but still. God, I hate sitting like a girl. I can never be royalty because I cannot keep my legs crossed at the ankle. For shame. I was so distraught over flashing my bits to the greasy guy who kept looking back for another view that I never ate my Swedish Berries! How do you even know if you've been to the movies if you didn't eat your berries?
Wipe your tears away. Do not weep for me. We had wild monkey sex when we got home, and that more than made up for it.
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