As I was finishing up my Slim-Fast, Sean said, “I’m hungry.” I looked over to find him sitting curled up in his chair with his arms wrapped around his legs and his chin propped on one knee, smiling at me with the universal cutesy look that says “Aren’t you going to make me something?” He was so adorable that I just started giggling at him. Finally I remarked that we had hotdogs. “That could work,” he said, but neither of us moved. I was thoroughly engaged in whatever I was reading–probably celebrity gossip or something, I don’t know why that intrigues me so much–and finally he got up. I figured he was going to cook himself some hotdogs, but he came back in the room with his keys and said that he was going to go “pick up something”.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I’m going to go pick up something.” He always does that. Repeats exactly what he just said. I didn’t say “What?”, I asked him to elucidate. :> Fortunately, he tacked on, “A burger or something. And I’ll get Paul’s [omitted in case Paul happens to read this, not that he won’t find out in an hour and half anyway] while I’m out.”

“Okay,” I said, and turned back to my oh-so-exciting reading. I probably should have gone with him, but meh, I had just had my caloric intake, and besides, he didn’t act like he was assuming I would go. Checkers is just across the street anyway, so it wouldn’t have been that interesting to ride along. I guess.

I’m telling you all of this because after awhile of sitting here smelling Sean’s delicious lunch/dinner, I finally decided to nick

  • one french fry
  • for myself. I know, I know…I’m incorrigible. I was thinking about cheating and not writing it in my blog…but that would be unfair to you, my readers, my glorious public. No, I shall be honorable. Justice shall prevail! And stuff.