Mr. Wizard Is Dead

Remember that clueless Asian kid who used to hang out in his lab? Can you imagine how hard he's taking this?!?! That kid used to get emotional learning about dry ice...

Here in my blog, boy, I'm gonna shake you down

I know, I know. Eight-days-in, yet this is the first blog of June. Well, it's been a whirlwind week at work so LAY OFF! (I don't know why more people aren't catching on to my blog...I'm such a gentle, charming soul.)

So, as I said, it's been an ass-kicker of a week at work, for me and the ol' ball & chain. My husband had a killer week, too.

*ahem*

Anyway, having been roughed up by life, yesterday evening we decided we needed a pick-me-up so we hit the gym (behold me, for I am a ethereal and saintly). Continuing our fit of responsible adulthood we followed our cardio with a White Castle run. Under dusky skies, no less (I personally feel that White Castle, like any bar with black walls, should never be seen by the light of day). Every item we shouted through the White Castle speaker--dented within an inch of caving in from numerous "nudges" by 3am drunks--was preceded by terms like "sack" and "mounds." (Must be the metric system.) Once our car smelled like the stuff they dump out of grease traps in college towns after closing time, we headed for home, noshing away.

We switched on the XM to set the mood for eating a week's worth of calories in 15 minutes. Before long, we were singing along to fuzzy 80's soft-pop in gluttonous glory, earning stares from passersby (because that's what you get when you do silly things in convertibles). It went a little something like this:

"Almost para..." *munch, munch, swallow* "DIIIIIIIIIIIISE. We're knockin' on heaven's..." *gulping crinkle fries whole* "...door. Almost paradise! How could we ask for more. I swear that I can see forever..." *cramming teeny-tiny burger* "...iiiiiiiin your eeeeeyeeees. Paaaaaaaaaaaaaaaradise." *swallow*

When the song first came on, we agreed to toss the pop ballad establishment on its ear: I'd sing Mike Reno's part while he sang Ann Wilson's. It was magic. Our harmonies soared, hand-in-hand, with our cholesterol.

By the time we pulled into the driveway, half-devoured sacks in hand, I was showing my hubby that I do, in fact, know every word and nuance of Gregory Abbott's sultry seductive "Shake You Down" ("Eeenie, Meenie, Minie, Mo...c'mon girl let's start the show!") and we had totally forgotten our lousy weeks. Until this morning, that is, when we made the day less-than-stellar by starting it out by sweating tiny onion slivers in the shower. Oh well. It was blissful while it lasted.