Don't Touch the Blue Button, Please
For a second, I thought he had said, "don't touch the blue baboon."
But when he repeated it, with the polite addition of a "please," I realized he was talking about the giant pulsating blue button stuck on the middle of the console.
"Well that's a stupid place for something you're not supposed to touch, isn't it?"
He just shrugged. Which was annoying. He was also chewing carrots in an annoying fashion. Which is to say he was chewing the carrots, little baby ones, and not concerning himself with keeping the result of his chewing in his mouth. Carrot shards lay strewn about nearly every surface in the tiny little room. Including the blue button.
It being in my nature to not like carrot shards on my things, I felt an ineluctable pull to wipe them off. He sensed it, too, and simply raised his eyebrows, as if to say, "what I said about touching the blue button. Remember."
So we sat there, for an hour or more, not touching anything, carrots flying around the room like we were stuck in an informercial product that really sliced and diced the crap out of carrots.
Until finally I just let go and slammed my hand down on the button. This was not a good start to the relationship, as it turns out.
disclaimer:
So we're there. On the Right Coast. As it were. Lacking sleep, sure. Running around like proverbial chickens with our height shortened by a conspicuously head-sized amount.
So there.
Buy Something:
Tshirts & clothing: The Sane Magazine Shop at Cafe Press
- New designs coming soon, so these limited edition shirts may be worth bazillions of dollars soon!
A Book: Fenway Fiction
See you next week, probably.
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