Yesterday, I drove "Whitey", the white corvette to work while Harry took my Escape to strip it back down to stock. I bid adieu to my Playstation 2, my dvd player, six disk changer, and pop out head unit and hopped into the pretty white car with the dangerous roof insert.
After work I picked up Harry, made him ride in the "bitch seat" and went to Chili's. We had a great meal and finished it off by fighting (literally) over every last scrap of a molten lava cake.
Walking back to the car, Harry, chivalrous gent that he is, gets my door and then opens his own. Here is where I digress to tell you the thing about my car I don't like : the seatbelts are not fat girl friendly. I struggle like a floudering fish for a good four minutes every time I get into the gorgeous automobile.
So there I am, reeking of Fajitas and gyrating like a ten cent hooker on the red leather seats. I swear, for such an expensive car - these belts SUCK! I can't get it around my fat ass! Darnit! FIT! Wiggle a bit more - won't go 'round my FAT- "HELP ME, FAT ASS!" I yell. And then stop when I've realized that I've just called my much skinnier than me hubby a lard butt. "With my seatbelt? Help my fat ass with my seatbelt?" I meekly add to my outburst.
He is in the middle of leaning over the armrest to assist me and just shakes his head.
"My fat ass. Not yours." I'm beating a dead horse here (or dead bush as I so lamely commented to my bud Johnny last Saturday morning - yeah - I'm so cool I invent my own phrases).
We're driving out of the parking lot now, and he just keeps shaking his head while I keep repeating "It was mine! I meant mine - I have a large butt...not you - me - my butt's big..."
He looks at me at a green light. "That," he says trying not to crack up, "better make your blog."
And it did.
Hi babycakeshead! My fat ass loves your skinny 'un!