Last night, I noticed a show in the cable guide called ‘Burger Meister’. No shit. It’s a cooking show about making burgers. That night, the guy was making salmon burgers.
Just so you know, if you bump into that show, that is not Esteban. He will not own up to the Burgermeister title, and certainly wouldn’t be on a cooking show of that name, unless The Naked Chef, whom I think he has a boy crush on, hosted it. Naturally, any show with the title ‘Naked’ got Esteban’s attention, but now he’s hooked. It’s his goofy little lisp. I really can’t blame Esteban. I think he’s cute in an Eaton kind of way.
Speaking of crushes, have I mentioned my infatuation with my new boyfriend, the Starbucks guy?
He’s so dreamy. He reminds me of one of the Bare Naked Ladies. I love a linebacker type guy with khaki Dockers. (sigh)
I went through the Starbucks drive through again this morning and got my Caffe Mocha with a shot of vanilla (which, by the way, improves the initial acky coffee taste immensely) and he took my order over the speaker. ‘Skim or whole milk?’ He purred seductively. My little heart went aflutter, although it might have been from the close proximity to rocket propulsive caffeinated nectar. I actually quickly put on some lipstick before I got to the window and prepped up a good song on the CD player, so he would instantly be madly interested in my quirky taste in music, which would indicate that I am a very deep and tortured soul. Then I fluffed up my hair, put on my kicky glasses, and tried to look lascivious in my rearview mirror.
I got up to the window and saw him making my Caffe Mocha. It was so sensual the way he turned the little nob on the whatzit and steamed the milk. Then it all foamed over with passion and I swear on my drunken mama’s vodka gimlets that he groaned my name as it spilled over the top of the cup.
Although ‘Shit’ and ‘Weetabix’ do sound remarkably alike.
Then he played hard to get. He handed my drink to the Girl Baristas and turned away. She gave me my cup of love (without a cardboard cup condom thing, I might add) and said, ‘Thank you very much.’ with the ire of someone whose heart is breaking over the unrequited love of a cute Starbucks Guy.
She’s so totally jealous.
Today I’m doing the spa thing. I chickened out on the massage though. I tried to explain it to PoorYorick and he said I had nothing to worry about. So then I asked him if he had ever had a massage at the spa, and he said no, because he didn’t want to be naked. So, I asked him, how come it’s ok for ME to be naked and not him to be naked?
‘Because you’re cute and curvy.’ He replied.
Ok.
Like I can argue with that?
I still chickened out though, but I’m telling myself that I’m reserving the right to massage at a later date. I’m getting the manicure, pedicure, and high-octane facial today. It’s enough splurging for one day. I’m really interested in the hot stone massage. Maybe next week.
In preparation for my pedicure, I decided that perhaps my feet needed to be shaved. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t have hobbit feet or anything. I’m not freaky hairy, but there are a few blond hairs, which would look very inappropriate with cute girly toes. And I didn’t want my pedicurist to think I had scary man feet, as she would be close enough to perhaps see the blond feet hairs and pass judgment over my feet. And I didn’t want that. So I shaved them in the shower this morning.
I can’t believe I’m telling y’all this.
Anyway, because I’m not accustomed to the intricacies of feet shaving, I cut my toe. And I’m not having cramps, so I can’t even blame it on that. I cut my ‘This little piggie stayed home’ toe and it hurts like bejeezus now. Dang.
So that will look really nice. I’ll have to pick out a polish that doesn’t clash with my toe scab.
I came home from work last night and found every door on every cupboard in my kitchen gone.
And I made an important realization. We have entirely too much alcohol.
Seriously. If I had a digital camera, I’d take a picture of it. It’s disturbing. And betwixt all the Absolut, Blavod, Kahlua, and Malibu bottles, a single can of lighter fluid. I swear, it’s like a Malotov Cocktail factory or something, which I shouldn’t know how to make, but Steal this Book was required reading by the hippy activists my mom used to hang out with when I was young and impressionable. Abby Hoffman would be proud.
The reason for the wealth of vice in our cupboards is the fact that we really don’t drink, so it just accumulates. If alcohol went bad, we wouldn’t have this problem. I actually purchased that bottle of Kahlua when I was 19 years old in Nogales, Mexico for $5 and brought it back home, on my carryon, sweating over the possibility that I would be carded. It was the first bottle of alcohol I ever owned. There’s about two inches left. I should probably ditch that one, but now I’m nostalgic about it. I cling to it like a teddy bear from my childhood, which is appropriate, actually, and the alcoholics in my family would likely be proud.
Dear Mentos,
My god.
Please stop breeding your freakishly large European people who smile foolishly at any situation. Their teeth are very big and my cats are frightened. The blonde woman in your newest commercial looks as though she eats small children for breakfast.
And the beast shall reveal himself and his name will be Freshmaker.
I fear that my time in Purgatory will be spent with “do do do doo do do, doo-wahhh” stuck in my head.
Make it stop,
Weetabix
P.S. Seriously. Do you go specifically looking for actors with Marfan’s or something?
