We were having a ‘picnic’ dinner on Friday night. Picnic dinners are eaten on a blanket spread in front of the TV. Usually, but not always, in conjunction with Family Movie Night. Friday we were having a loaf of fresh bread, some fancy cheese, hard salami, and fresh fruit.
I’d eaten about 5 or 6 slices of the salami when I noticed a pile of little rings on my wife’s plate. I got a sinking feeling.
“Are those casings from the salami?” I asked.
“Yes.” She looked at me. “You weren’t eating them were you? They’re plastic.”
D’oh! That explained why the salami was so chewy.
I was running errands on Saturday with my six-year-old son. We were driving up Cedar Mills Blvd when we passed a fellow on the sidewalk. He was dressed like a Goth and/or Freak, with a black shirt, black jacket, black and red plaid skirt, and black stockings. His hair was long and stringy, and obscured a pallid face that may or may not have had makeup on it.
As we drove past my son says from the back seat: “That guy looks half dead!”
Out of the mouths of babes.
There’s something very creepy about being able to open the side door remotely.
Our first trip in the new van, I was reading the Owner’s Manual, which is my job, and got to the section on the ignition system.
“Was there a little metal tag on the keyring that the keys came on? A metal tag with numbers on it?” I asked.
“..Yes…” my wife said, “Why?”
“Don’t lose it. The keys have a microchip in them that talks to the ignition. If you try to start the van with a key that doesn’t have the right microchip, it locks up the engine. If we don’t have that number, we can’t order replacement keys from the manufacturer.”
“OK.” said my wife. “I’m pretty sure I haven’t emptied that trashcan yet.”