I am not proud of this, let me just start off by saying that.
Last night around 10pm, P.J. and I were idly flipping through channels. It was ungodly hot in the apartment and nothing could keep our attention- not George Carlin, not some documentary on binge drinking (okay, it was The Soup), nothing. Until…a commercial for a Big Mac came on. We sat, wide-eyed and alert until it ended, then at the exact same moment said, “We should get a Big Mac.” Now, this is bizarre for many reasons. Among them- a) We never eat at McDonalds, b) certainly not late at night, c) I’m on a variation of the South Beach diet (which, up until last night was going VERY well, thank you), and d) it’s a BIG MAC on TELEVISION.
So, of course, we hopped on our bikes and rode to the nearest Mickey D’s (first we went online to see if the one closest to us had late-night hours…this was the extent of our insanity- we LOOKED UP AND CALLED McDONALDS.) There was something rather nice about biking at night with the hot breeze and waning traffic. I felt eight. Anyhow, we rode there saying stuff like, “I hope it’s not just the drive-thru!” AND IT WASN’T.
We headed back home (which proved trickier, as I am remarkably unadept at biking one-handed, especially if the other hand is gripping a cup covered in condensation. I spilled a good third of it but I didn’t let it stop me. Actually, that’s not true. I stopped a few times to readjust and it would have been quicker to walk.)
We ate the incredibly fattening and carby meal in our backyard (which was lovely with the breeze and tangled lilies and freshly mowed lawn) and talked about subliminal messages. We feel like we’ve been duped, or at the very least COERCED. And if it hadn’t been so delicious I may have made a formal complaint. I settled for a formal thumbs-up. It was so good.
Speaking of Big Macs, where does that third piece of bread come from? It doesn’t look like the top or bottom piece, and it’s too thick to just be extra bun. Are all buns that thick that they need a third piece to be sliced off? If so, are all the middles just going into the Big Mac pile? Should I get some money back for lack of bread?
On a completely unrelated but also a bit addictive note, I got a Roomba this weekend. I named him WALLLEEEEE (I haven’t seen Wall-E yet, but I’m just sure I’ll love it. How could I not? Have you seen his eyes? They’re binoculars, for crying out loud) and he is the best thing to ever happen to our apartment. I failed at letting him charge for the full sixteen hours (PJ in the next room: Are you taking him off the charger? Keely: Nooo….) because I simply couldn’t wait.
He started off in a spiraling pattern, scanning the room for boundaries, objects, and different brushes he’ll need (I kid you not). Within moments he had cleaned under the couch (which I guarantee had not been disturbed since we moved in two years ago) and popped a wheelie to get the sides of the cat scratcher. Another highlight was when he batted the area rug up (he had already vacuumed the top) in order to clean UNDER it. Are you calling me out, Wallee? Fine, you got me. I never lift the rug. (But now I don’t have to.) The cats hate him, but you know what? Life’s hard sometimes. And I crave clean floors.
Do you realize that I live IN THE FUTURE? I Skype with my family in Italy, Boston and all points East while my robot cleans my floors, leaving me plenty of time to be convinced by the television that it’s time to eat. Big Brother nothin‘, I’m stoked. And a little hungry again.
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