And Here's To You, Mrs. Robinson...

A couple nights ago, Jethro and I took the girls to dinner at their favorite catfish restaurant. I prudently had the salmon salad and not-so-prudently, a margarita. They were on special. Afterwards, we decided to walk around for awhile. The restaurant to which we went is in a square by city hall and is surrounded by various retail shops and cafes. There is a huge fountain outside of city hall where the girls like to run around. There is also a Sharper Image store close by where Jethro likes to run around. We went in. There were massage chairs.

Now I'm finding it very difficult to get massages out of Jethro anymore. I don't think he cares to bring his work home with him, and I'm too easy to manipulate him sexually.

I succumbed to The Chair and let it do wonderful things to me.

Now these chairs (according to those who hawk them), are quite powerful. So powerful, in fact, that anyone under the age of 18 is not allowed to ride them for fear of them being brutalized and then suing the store. This came as a great disappointment to a young blonde 17 year old boy who wanted to have a ride.

YB: "I'll be 18 in like 3 months!"

Store Nazi: "No. If you get hurt, we're responsible."

YB: "Oh come on. I'm not going to get hurt."

SN: "Those are the rules."

Drunk Zelda in Shiatsu mode with one eye closed: "You can come sit on my lap, lil boy."

Store Nazi gaped in horror and YB giggled sheepishly and shuffled off to look at the paper mache Spiderman.

Dear Heaven, what possessed me to say such a thing? Next thing you know I'll be buying wii games and candy in bulk.

------------------------------------

Now for a deep, penetrating bitch session that will probably be erased in very short order. If it is gone I will leave my email address up for anyone who wants to read it.

jethrozelda@yahoo.com