Since the return from NYC, life has been summertime slow. It’s also been simmering hot, but I promised last winter, the Winter of All That Was Snowy and Horrifyingly Awful Cold, that I wouldn’t complain once it got hot again. So I won’t even comment on how my eyebrows nearly singed off when I went outside to water the tomatoes on Friday, because I’m not one to break a promise. It’s too godawful hot, anyway.
Anyway, the summertime fun. Aura discovered a love for all things Lego a few weeks ago, so there has been a lot of this:
And after I stepped on an errant Lego piece and swore for the 51st time, a brief respite for this:
(That mustache piggy is so cocksure. He needed to be taken down a peg or two. Aura and I took care of him, rest assured. I don’t want to go into detail here, but let’s just say he won’t be coming around Bomb Birdie’s parts any time soon.)
Other that all that, there is very little nothing new. Since there may be a few of you who doubt this (Doubting Population: 0), I’ll prove it by telling you that today we went to Costco and there was not a free sample in sight. I know this because Aura and I looked. A lot. Combed aisles, one might even say, if one were kind of a mouthy jerk.
There was one moment when we thought we saw the gleam of a sample cart at the end of the frozen food cases (“Popsicles!” Aura yelled hopefully. “Something cheesy and fried!” I followed up optimistically.), but it turned out to be, well, another frozen food case. You’d think they could at least make those suckers consistent in size, if they’re going to be too cheap to hand out free samples. It’s almost as if Costco is intent on dashing a
thirty-three-four-year-old’s hopes. Child haters. I sense a campaign. Let’s get that going. All those c’s in “Costco,” it’s like a child-hating-campaign acronym waiting to happen.
To make up for the disappointment, or at least mine, we bought one of those memory foam bath mats. Wiser women, women with an inkling of what Having a Life means, would have perhaps filled the gaping hole left by the absence of Hot Pocket samples with a nice sweater, or possibly a bottle of lotion. Not I. But LOOK:
It’s like standing on heaven. Wait. Somehow that sounds bad. Maybe like standing right outside heaven? When you know you’re a shoo-in but still have to wait the traditional five days, or whatever? Anyway, something like that. Your feet sink and smush in and get all huggy feeling. Watch. I’ll make a footprint for you.
Adam just read that over my shoulder and did this little frisson of disgust. He seems to think that this is a post not worth posting. But just look at me clicking Publish and racing upstairs to go stand on my new bath mat. I won’t even give him a single chance to try it out himself. I’ll hide it, leaving him the old, ratty mat, the one with all the pulls and snags and dirt. He’ll be sorry. VERY SORRY. IT’S MEMORY FOAM, FOR GOD’S SAKE.
You should have seen the line of other guys just dying to marry me.