I went out to breakfast this morning with the wife, wearing a sweater I pulled out of storage for the occasion. She gave me a New Orleans Saints jersey for my birthday, which is the equivalent of giving a deer a t-shirt with a target logo painted on it during hunting season. Still, it will be nice couture to wear while studying in the man cave.
Breakfast was at a little neighborhood diner down the street from us. We got there after 6:00 AM, so the place was packed. We got a tiny table about six inches away from a nice foursome who kept talking of old times, their favorite beers, and the amounts of particulate matter that accrues in a garage/woodshop of the course of a day of sanding. It looked a lot like this:
I didn't pay that much attention to their conversation, as I am wont to try to respect other people's privacy, but every time I closed my eyes (there was a college party next door last night, so sleep was a precious commodity), all I could picture in my mind was this:
The wife is tired of moving. I think one more move out of state will be all it takes. Somewhere they do not practice regional diction. Ah, the Midwest.
1 comment:
Anyone who puts a picture of the Swedish chef on his blog is ok in my book.
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