I met up with Wanted for a movie tonight. Prior to the show we were talking about our weekend plans and she informed me she had work tomorrow. “Don’t ask me what I’m doing,” she said. “Do you not like to talk about it?” I asked. “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just that I don’t know,” she replied. “I like that you’re open to anything,” I told her and added, “I looked for you at the dentist office but all of the pictures were covered – all you can see is the headline.” “I told you I’m allergic to that, right?” she asked. “Yes, you did, and I think that is classic,” I replied.
Every now and again, Wanted does modeling work. There is a good chance she is the woman in that picture frame you bought several years ago, with the intention of using, but it sits on the shelf with her in it. Which, I understand, she is beautiful. Well worth keeping her in the frame on the sheet of paper with the UPC code. The thing I like is it isn’t an endorsement for her, it is just a job – she’ll even promote things that cause her to an allergic reaction. Brave. I’m hoping the spot is for something saucy, like Ragu.
In addition to not worrying about what she endorses, Wanted is also not afraid to order the largest popcorn, “We get one free refill,” she told me as she approached with the largest popcorn they sell. We placed the tub of popcorn between us and started eating. “I just love popcorn, but I keep dropping it down my shirt,” she told me. “Your boobs must be hungry.” I told her. “Very hungry. I’m sure I’ll find tons of it later – in my boobs and in my purse,” she advised.
Luckily, I only ended up with one popped kernel in my milk duds. I started calling my boobs ‘milk duds’ last week, or maybe it was at the Milk Carton Kids’ concert, because they don’t produce any milk and I’m currently rockin’ a little tan; hence, ‘milk duds.’ In addition to my lactation station not working, my computer is also broken – yes, BioMom, know when I say and do this it is true. The good news is, my computer not working actually makes my duds ‘work.’ I just bend over ever so, squeeze my milk duds together and, in a raspier the better sexy voice say, “my computer’s not working,” and then hope that a boobcorn doesn’t fall out.