How'd they fit the body in the fountain, though? BECAUSE I TRIED THAT.
The bridal shower went wonderfully. Everything was beautiful and there were lots of games and gifts and decorations. I think. I don't really know. Because there was also this chocolate fountain on my counter with a gravitational field comparable to Jupiter and I couldn't seem to break free of the dark liquid siren song crooned by its marshmallow mermaids. I pretty much hung out there the entire time. I'm lucky I had the shower at my house because I had to change my clothes twice; FYI, regardless of what your frontal lobe bets your occipital lobe, that fountain isn't big enough to climb into.
And it's also hotter than you think-- I burned my shoulder pretty badly. I didn't get to bed until nearly one in the morning (I probably could have cut that down by a few hours but it takes a really long time to clean a whole chocolate fountain with your mouth) and then I got up at five to drive Randy to the airport. When I got home from that, right around dawn, I of course immediately crawled back into bed. Mere seconds later when I pried my sticky eyes open, the alarm clock read "12:06". Which, you know. I'm better at sleeping through an entire day than probably anyone-- and
probably hell, I'm just being modest-- but with every year I add to my repertoire, the guiltier I feel about sleeping past noon. So I dragged my chocolaty ass out from under the now sort-of-chocolaty comforter and down the chocolate-spattered hallway and into a kitchen that looked, seriously, like the nucleus of a chocolate apocalypse. Chocolate hand prints on the wall, chocolate footprints... there was actually a giant delicious chocolate streak on the floor leading into the garage that looked suspiciously like someone had dragged a chocolate-covered cadaver out of the line of sight.
I went to the refrigerator to get a Diet Coke, hump-shouldered, mentally tallying the hours it was going to take me to lick the entire house clean, trying to shrug off the sleep-in shame, when I saw the clock on the microwave. And then I remembered! The bedroom clock is
totally wrong! Randy keeps it wildly inaccurate on purpose to limit the number of jobs I lose and flights I miss! Oh, I felt so redeemed! My shoulders unhumped almost instantly. It wasn't 12:06, shit, it was 11:54! Goddamn! Wait, 11:54?? No wonder I was still so tired! My god, who am I, Superman?! It's not like I have any fucking fields to plow over here, I'm not a ROBOT, for Christ's sake. Obviously I shut the fridge and immediately went back to bed. It was hard to ignore all the roosters crowing, but I managed.
And it's also hotter than you think-- I burned my shoulder pretty badly. I didn't get to bed until nearly one in the morning (I probably could have cut that down by a few hours but it takes a really long time to clean a whole chocolate fountain with your mouth) and then I got up at five to drive Randy to the airport. When I got home from that, right around dawn, I of course immediately crawled back into bed. Mere seconds later when I pried my sticky eyes open, the alarm clock read "12:06". Which, you know. I'm better at sleeping through an entire day than probably anyone-- and probably hell, I'm just being modest-- but with every year I add to my repertoire, the guiltier I feel about sleeping past noon. So I dragged my chocolaty ass out from under the now sort-of-chocolaty comforter and down the chocolate-spattered hallway and into a kitchen that looked, seriously, like the nucleus of a chocolate apocalypse. Chocolate hand prints on the wall, chocolate footprints... there was actually a giant delicious chocolate streak on the floor leading into the garage that looked suspiciously like someone had dragged a chocolate-covered cadaver out of the line of sight.
