My husband is one of the thirty people in the entire Midwest that have never been to California. 2007 is our year for change, so he is determined to broaden his horizons and do some California Dreaming. As with anything that the Rainman does, he has been researching a possible California trip nine ways to Sunday. Speaking of which, what exactly does that phrase “nine ways to Sunday” mean? I’ve always wondered that. I digress though.
So the Hubster has been pouring over the maps and glued to the Internet for days trying to determine exactly where in California he would like to go. This morning as the snows pelted the frozen Midwest tundra he made his decision.
“Los Angeles” he simply pronounced over breakfast.
“That’s great” I said with jubilance, as I ticked off the various bloggers I could meet up with. “Lets see,” I droned, “We could take Juanita and little Kat out to lunch, maybe do coffee with Xanax Mom, and we couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have a café au-laite and muffin on the beach with Secret Agent Josephine and Baby Bug and we absolutely have to do lunch with Neil’s Penis.”
“Whoa” the hubster commanded. “I have no problem with meeting up with Cats and Bugs, or even drug dealing mothers or whatever a Xanax Mom is, but I may have to draw the line at hanging out with some guys penis.”
“It’s okay” I assured him. “Neil’s penis writes in the first person, just like Neil, so it’s all good.”
“Hmmm” he pondered. “I wonder how much Neil’s penis eats.”
“We could always ask Sophia” I said dryly, “but I’m pretty sure Neil’s penis has an insatiable appetite. Bring lots of ones just to be on the safe side though.”