State of the Bone

In the world of Bone Junior, mayo = heaven's nectar. I love it. I dip my fries in it and it's like sampling a bit of paradise.

But I didn't realize how much I loved it until last week, when I went to The Mayan Adventure with the girls. (Previously, the only reason I had to go to The Mayan was to oogle at the hot divers in speedos. But now that they serve American food, I'm more willing to go for the menu and not just the men).

I ordered a burger & fries with a side of mayo, "ca-CAW"-ed at the bird man who was getting ready to dive, and settled in for an evening of entertainment. The waiter brought us a basket of tortilla chips with sides of salsa and sour cream and I'd already downed 2 diet cokes.

I started happily munching away on chips dipped in sour cream, enjoying the scantily clad men who were jumping off the rocks next to us; when Elizabeth dipped her first chip into the sour cream and made a sour face. I didn't notice because I was too busy stuffing my own face with chips, but apparently it was a pretty sour face.

Elizabeth: Um (slightly gagging) That's your mayo.

Bone Junior: Really? (upon closer inspection, discovers that the perceived sour cream is, indeed, mayo). Huh, so it is! No wonder I loved it so much!

***
In other exciting news, McBicep came back into town on Sunday for a brief 24 hours before getting back on the road to California. We uncovered the Camaro with a flourish, where I proudly demonstrated how I'd kept it in perfect condition in his absence; how no one had walked within three feet of it all summer for fear of scratching it with the divets on their jeans pockets; how the mere sight of it's shiny red paint struck fear into the hearts of my roommates.

I told him all this with broad sweeping gestures, and right as I said, "See?? No dings or scratches or - - - " I promptly smacked my hand into the passenger door and cringed as my ring made a crisp 'DING!' sound when it hit the door. Leave it to me.

Despite that, McBicep took me for a ride with the top down. Unfortunately, that's not a dirty innuendo. He did, however, let me drive - which is a huge step because he loves this car almost as much as I love Elvis. And the plan is for me to fly to California at the end of August and drive back with him. And meet the family.

Urp.

Excuse me, I just threw up in my mouth a little from nervousness. Just call me Brundlefly.

Speaking of Elvis, today officially marks the start of Elvis Week 2007, and my bosom is filled with a longing to be back in Memphis. To distract myself from this longing, I fill my days with Gmail chats like this little gem, which took place after I emailed G a fradulent coupon to Blockbuster:

Bone Junior: Take this coupon with your special friend and enjoy a night of breathing eachother's buttery popcorn breath.

G: Can we just talk about how I almost wrote that very thing to you in my reply, but decided I didn't want to make you throw up in your mouth. Now i need some listerine- thanks...

Bone Junior: If you wanted to make me throw up in my mouth, just talk about picking out each other's eye sleepies and such.

G: Never mention eye sleepies again...if you do so, you will be dead to me. That is not a threat- it's a promise.

Bone Junior: What if I call them eye boogies? Is that better, worse, or the same?

G: What if i call them eye meat - would that be worse, better or the same?

Bone Junior: How about eye crusties?

G: In my opinion, there is nothing worse than the term 'eye meat'. This will be my last response - that is all.