Uh, Wednesday, I Guess.

After a trifecta of Wednesdays, I hit bust.

This Wednesday involves ice cream. And bordeaux. Duh, I'm not totally lame. The chocolate part of mint chocolate ice cream is working nicely with the bordeaux, and the bits of cork complement it nicely as well. I always turn the worm once too many times. That is not a euphemism.

ReadBecca doesn't talk dirty. (Saying fuck a lot doesn't count.) So when ReadBecca works herself up to leave an admittedly half-assed inarticulate voicemail offering a particular service generally acknowleged the world over to be a desirable one, it's a red letter day for her. The letter might be red to match her face, seeing as how the voicemail was not returned.

One the one hand, ReadBecca is having a massive I-carried-a-watermelon moment and on the other hand, ReadBecca thinks it's hilarious. I'm all, OH COME ON! It's been nearly six years and now I can't even give it away. I'm sitting here smiling, shaking my head and thinking what a ridiculous thing this is to have happen. You'd think I planned it. I mean, I did think about it all day before I made the call, but I didn't practice the actual words. I never thought that it wouldn't happen. Funny. I never see it coming.

These are my actual life and times and they are so stupid. It's chick lit. With a pastel cover and some long-lined cartoon chick with a pink martini. Ok, I just looked up at the TV and saw some chick with gold bling in her mouth that said UPGRADE. That is possibly the most pornographic thing I have ever seen, and I've been to a strip club that only had a jukebox the strippers had to put quarters into to have something to gyrate to. That's not in the chick lit section. It's in the back with the bongs.

Hey, guess what. This year's beaujolais nouveau comes out tomorrow! Wooooooo!