I spilled mustard and horseradish from a hot dog purchased from a food vendor designed to look like a beached boat and spent the whole day smelling like the county fair. Weee! Mustard crotch! (Mustard upper-inner thigh just doesn't have the same ring to it.)
There he is. That's my guy. And, yes. I did get capture my own reflection in his welding mask on purpose. It's art. And I wanted to see what my shirt looked like.
Obligatory photo of Chuck making a photo. Dude goes nutso for old film cameras. I think we should take the idea and make it a lifestyle. Get a land line. Buy a Thighmaster. Maybe have a "Night Court" marathon?
Friday night=Wine, fashion mags, The Kardasians. I feel weird about Bruce Jenner. Like, maybe when I was 7, I first understood the appeal of twitch muscles. Or maybe I was just at an age where celebrities were first registering. Which explains why I've always thought he was married to Mary Lou Retton.
Another night when the label dictates the purchase. Cripes. What a cliche. I'm drinking the equivilent of chick lit.