Patrick and I just got back from visiting my parents in Connecticut, where we celebrated my dad’s birthday. I gave my Dad a pair of Gus & Amanda (& Finding Nemo) Swimmies with the matching ring, and he was like, why would you get me swim toys in a box custom printed with your likeness? What am I supposed to do with these?
So I think I need to explain this again: I DID NOT HAVE THE SWIMMIE BOXES CUSTOM MADE.
If I were going to have an item custom made with my image, why would I pick children’s swim aids? It makes no sense. And why is that the only logical explanation people can come up with when they see this box? Am I so unattractive that THIS COULDN’T POSSIBLY BE REAL? When my friend Molly bought these for some kids in Gus’s class as birthday presents, were the parents thinking, “Why would Brendan’s mom have a pair of Swimmies custom made with a picture of Gus and his ugly mom on the box? This must be a re-gift.”
Anyway. Over it. Moving on.
I have a sore throat. But it’s not a real sore throat. It’s the most half-assed excuse for a sore throat ever, and I basically hate its guts because it reminds me so much of myself.
It’s like, “Well yeah, I am a sore throat. But I also work in advertising. So, you know.” I’m like, come on. What happened to your dream? YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO BE TONSILLITIS! REACH FOR THE STARS.
Need coffee.
Am back.
We took Patrick to the Central Park Zoo on Saturday, where I made a touristy ass of myself in the petting zoo, screaming PATRICK, LOOK! LLAMA LLAMA RED PAJAMA! LLAMA LLAMA RED PAJAMA while not two inches from my enthusiastic yap was a sign that said “Alpaca.”
So I think I need to explain this again: I DID NOT HAVE THE SWIMMIE BOXES CUSTOM MADE.
If I were going to have an item custom made with my image, why would I pick children’s swim aids? It makes no sense. And why is that the only logical explanation people can come up with when they see this box? Am I so unattractive that THIS COULDN’T POSSIBLY BE REAL? When my friend Molly bought these for some kids in Gus’s class as birthday presents, were the parents thinking, “Why would Brendan’s mom have a pair of Swimmies custom made with a picture of Gus and his ugly mom on the box? This must be a re-gift.”
Anyway. Over it. Moving on.
I have a sore throat. But it’s not a real sore throat. It’s the most half-assed excuse for a sore throat ever, and I basically hate its guts because it reminds me so much of myself.
It’s like, “Well yeah, I am a sore throat. But I also work in advertising. So, you know.” I’m like, come on. What happened to your dream? YOU ALWAYS WANTED TO BE TONSILLITIS! REACH FOR THE STARS.
Need coffee.
Am back.
We took Patrick to the Central Park Zoo on Saturday, where I made a touristy ass of myself in the petting zoo, screaming PATRICK, LOOK! LLAMA LLAMA RED PAJAMA! LLAMA LLAMA RED PAJAMA while not two inches from my enthusiastic yap was a sign that said “Alpaca.”
I googled the difference between llamas and alpacas, and learned that they are basically the same thing, except alpacas are cuter and softer and nicer. You know, scientifically speaking.
Then I did it again with the sea lions. SEALS! SEALS! I LOVE SEALS!
Then I did it again with the sea lions. SEALS! SEALS! I LOVE SEALS!
Then we saw a polar bear named Gus.
And Patrick’s favorite exhibit:
The digger.
And my favorite exhibit:
And my favorite exhibit:
Slow and steady, people. Slow and steady.
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