For the last week or so I've been sliding into this bizarre routine of swinging by the drive-thru window of Wendy's for a small frosty (I hear it's made of soy, which I don't really believe), stopping the car somewhere (Friday it was in the parking lot of the state tax office) and sharing it with Rosemary.
Then upon entering the house proclaiming, "This is not frosty on her shirt", when it very clearly is just seems to crack me up.
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Hey! Didn't you used to work at Wendy's? No need to answer, since I know darn well that you did. I remember that my brother thought your mom was really hot. Yeah! weird wild stuff.
That job allowed me to purchase the legendary '79 gold chevy malibu. So it was totally necessary and not at all embarassing or anything.
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