Feeling: sticky
Listening to: Dispatch - Here We Go
Reading/Watching: Gilmore Girls

Sometimes, it is just necessary to sit in the biggest booth in Jim's with grilled cheese and hot tea, wiggling every french fry to see if it's floppy, blowing bubbles from the little cannister we sneaked in my purse.

One of the waitresses noticed, I'm sure of it, but she kept about her business, like they always do on the graveyard shift. We were perfectly harmless, with our floppy fries and soap bubbles and sundaes made with roasted fudge (it wasn't quite burned, but it had this odd singed quality to it).

We had a bubble contest, but I could only make dozens of small bubbles, while Bri could only make one really, really big one at a time. She said it's all in how you blow. Which naturally sparked many many jokes, enhanced by references to floppy fries and the unwanted pickle on my plate.

When I did the inevitable and spilled bubble soap in my lap, just like previous incidents with Sprite, lemonade, and iced tea, we agreed it was time to go, once we could breathe through laughter.

Driving home, she finally gave me permission to say what I really think of The Current Male Hobby, and I told her the truth. And she didn't agree with me, but she didn't argue. She just looked sad. Which depressed the living hell out of me, because usually we fight tooth and nail over that kind of stuff.

In a last-ditch attempt to distract her, I blurted my fears about my latest incidence of male-related masochism, one that sneaked up on me. She fell silent, then said I was right to worry, and should try to get such thoughts out of my head as soon as possible, since it couldn't conceivably end well.

Which is hardly encouraging. Not that I wasn't thinking the exact same thing, but it's downright abysmal to hear it out loud.

I still have bubble soap on my pants. It's sticky.

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