How much do you know about tattoos?
So I'm at Target with Amanda yesterday, and I spot a guy.
Shut up. You keep rolling your eyes like that, they're gonna fall out of your head.
He was totally my type, blond and buff, but what *really* caught my eye was the BARCODE TATTOO on his THROAT.
And of course, because I didn't have on my glasses ( oh, all right, *and* because he was hot ), I admit that I was staring. Perhaps intensely.
Of course, he looked up and caught me. Which could have been so much worse, but really? It was okay. I just smiled, perhaps with some embarrassment, and he gave a tight little grin and we both fled in opposite directions.
So I scurried up the aisle, shoving my cart before me, and was squawking to Amanda about the tattoo and the blond and the hotness and THE OMG ARMS ON THIS GUY!!!!
She wanted to know about his *ass*, and I yelled, "I don't *care* about his ass, look at his *arms*!"
And that was when I turned the corner and slammed my cart RIGHT INTO HIS.
He was in. The next. Aisle. Over.
THE ENTIRE TIME.
He. Heard. Everything.
*facepalms*
OMGWTF WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?!?!?!
Ahem. Probably because I have *no filter* between brain and mouth, that's why.
It's a toss-up as to whose face was redder with mortification.
Now, if this were a happy ending, Blond Guy of Hot Arms-itude would have plunked *me* into his cart along with the bedding he was buying . . . but no, that's not how it happened.
Instead, he pretty much turned tail and ran. I bolted across the drive aisle and hid in furniture.
Of course, the ironies of life being what they are, we kept crossing paths. By the third time this happened, he'd pulled out his cell phone and had it glued to his ear.
I was reduced to wondering, in a particularly loud voice, if the correct plural of "ottoman" should be "ottomen".
Kill. Me. Now. No, really -- I mean it. I'm ready to die of my humiliation and abject misery.
Well, at least I bought a spiffy new computer desk. And I even put it together myself!
Well . . . I was allowed to screw in the legs. Amanda did all the rest, because she knew that I would get thoroughly pissed off at the directions and would end up pitching the whole damned thing down the stairs in a fit of frustrated rage.
I also bought this and some of these, because I put the computer desk in what used to be the linen closet, and the linens are now under the bed -- after I raised the bed with those riser-things.
My bedroom is a disaster area, but it *is* progressing nicely.
So . . . like I was saying? Does anybody know why that guy had a fucking BARCODE tattoed on his throat?
And does it make a difference that he also had some kind of eagle emblem inked on the inside of each forearm?
Come on. Inquiring minds want to know.
Shut up. You keep rolling your eyes like that, they're gonna fall out of your head.
He was totally my type, blond and buff, but what *really* caught my eye was the BARCODE TATTOO on his THROAT.
And of course, because I didn't have on my glasses ( oh, all right, *and* because he was hot ), I admit that I was staring. Perhaps intensely.
Of course, he looked up and caught me. Which could have been so much worse, but really? It was okay. I just smiled, perhaps with some embarrassment, and he gave a tight little grin and we both fled in opposite directions.
So I scurried up the aisle, shoving my cart before me, and was squawking to Amanda about the tattoo and the blond and the hotness and THE OMG ARMS ON THIS GUY!!!!
She wanted to know about his *ass*, and I yelled, "I don't *care* about his ass, look at his *arms*!"
And that was when I turned the corner and slammed my cart RIGHT INTO HIS.
He was in. The next. Aisle. Over.
THE ENTIRE TIME.
He. Heard. Everything.
*facepalms*
OMGWTF WHY DOES THIS ALWAYS HAPPEN TO ME?!?!?!
Ahem. Probably because I have *no filter* between brain and mouth, that's why.
It's a toss-up as to whose face was redder with mortification.
Now, if this were a happy ending, Blond Guy of Hot Arms-itude would have plunked *me* into his cart along with the bedding he was buying . . . but no, that's not how it happened.
Instead, he pretty much turned tail and ran. I bolted across the drive aisle and hid in furniture.
Of course, the ironies of life being what they are, we kept crossing paths. By the third time this happened, he'd pulled out his cell phone and had it glued to his ear.
I was reduced to wondering, in a particularly loud voice, if the correct plural of "ottoman" should be "ottomen".
Kill. Me. Now. No, really -- I mean it. I'm ready to die of my humiliation and abject misery.
Well, at least I bought a spiffy new computer desk. And I even put it together myself!
Well . . . I was allowed to screw in the legs. Amanda did all the rest, because she knew that I would get thoroughly pissed off at the directions and would end up pitching the whole damned thing down the stairs in a fit of frustrated rage.
I also bought this and some of these, because I put the computer desk in what used to be the linen closet, and the linens are now under the bed -- after I raised the bed with those riser-things.
My bedroom is a disaster area, but it *is* progressing nicely.
So . . . like I was saying? Does anybody know why that guy had a fucking BARCODE tattoed on his throat?
And does it make a difference that he also had some kind of eagle emblem inked on the inside of each forearm?
Come on. Inquiring minds want to know.