Well, That Was Awkward

My Potential Roomate has now become Roomate, at least for the month of September.  I thought you’d like to know.  Mini has adjusted well to living with me and my felines.  She has doggie toys in every room of the house and feels secure in coming to my room for a middle of the night snuggle.  The felines have adjusted well to two added beings.  Murphy ignores that quivery dog while he stretches out like a mini sultan on my bed and Seamus still just looks at her with disinterested interest.  Both kitties hit Roomate up for food when he comes home, all meowing and fluttering their eyelashes.  We are going to have the fattest animals on the planet what with their begging and Mini snatching every single crumb that falls onto the floor.  Last night she darted under my feet to catch a hunk of shallot in midair.  Only after she chomped on it one good time did she realize that shallots are kind of gross for dogs and abandon it in a slobbery mess for me to discard.

Me, I like Roomate because now I can hand out “Boy Jobs” and keep the “Girl Jobs”.  He takes out the trash and listens to my hot water heater when it makes funky noises.  I dictate how the pantry is to be organized, lie around on the couch reading books, and hang my undies in the laundry room.  In short, we get along fabulously. 

Last week, Roomate asked me if I could help with a favor.  He prefaced it by saying it was an odd request which of course made me immediately say yes.  I’m a big fan of saying yes before I even know what I’m agreeing to which has more often than not gotten me into trouble.  But Roomate so faithfully takes out the trash without being asked so I trust him.  Trust is always based on faithful garbage carrying.

“Will you measure me for a mountain bike?” he asks.  “Sure”, I say, figuring I’ll just whip out a yardstick when I get home, mark his height with a pencil against the wall, and be done with it.  Not odd at all. 

Then he sends a link to a video on how to properly measure one for a mountain bike.  Y’all, this is a process, a lengthy one.  Still, it’s fine.  I was rocking along looking at pictures and diagrams of how to measure when I run across this one. 

Oh my.  It appears that I have found the odd.   

Before you get your panties all in a twist, thinking that I’m going to be all up in a stranger’s business with a measuring tape, you should know that Roomate is my cousin.  However, now that I have typed that in black and white, I’m not sure if that makes the measuring better or worse. 

Anyway, last Wednesday night Roomate trotted around the house in his bike shorts (really? who invented those?) and I measured (nearly) every measurable part of his body.  I figure he’s already seen my underwear that lives in the laundry room and we share a washer and dryer so it can’t get any worse than that. It is obvious that he trusts me to bandy about a measuring stick while he holds a level in his nether parts.  We spent a lot of time with that measuring tape and the level, making notes in a notebook and figuring numbers.  Turns out one of his arms is longer than the other and that I am quite the expert with a measuring tape.   It also turns out that you can only awkwardly giggle for so long before you just get tired of being awkward and stop with the giggling already and just get the job done.   

His mountain bike arrived yesterday.  We’ll see how well I did.

For those of you who want to ask if I am for hire with the measuring, the answer is no. As if . . . I reserve that sort of thing for men who are related to me and who take out the trash.  A girl has to have standards. 

The Sweetest Story and a Hopeful Wish

A while ago I mentioned that when I found a philanthropy I would let you know about it.  This is me, letting you know about it – mission accomplished.  I have a new volunteer activity and we all know it wouldn’t be mine if I didn’t have a story to go with it. 

Those of you that know me know that I have a tender heart, sometimes ridiculously so.  One thing that gets to me (as it does many others, I have learned) is watching people eat alone, particularly senior citizens.  It feels sad to me, to see someone shuffle into a place and sit down for a meal all by themselves.  I do know that some people relish that, and that some of it is just perceived loneliness.  Still, it would be a lie if I told you it doesn’t make me cry on occasion. 

A few months ago I was in my little café and I saw an older man alone, having dinner.  He suffered from a curved spine and thus, he hunched.  Maybe he was thrilled to be away from a nagging wife or rambunctious grandchildren, just able to enjoy a meal in peace, but the picture that I saw was a man crouched over his food, alone and seemingly miserable.  Yes, it was the spin that I put on it, but it just broke my heart.  I cried and whimpered over it for a couple of days, and then I had a conversation with Jane about it. 

You know what?  You should have conversations with friends about these things instead of bottling them up.  You know why?  Because often your friends have answers!  Jane works at a non-profit community center for active seniors and lo and behold, their supper club leader had just retired.  She offered me the position, did my background check (I passed – as if) and brought me in for the driving test (I passed). 

Once every month I will leave work early, drive over to the senior center, load up the 15-passenger van with people and take off to various locations for dinner.  I’m so stoked about it! 

Two months ago was the first dinner.  The location was chosen before I ever signed on.  We had nine people show up for Suzy Wong’s House of Yum.  Nashville natives know that Suzy Wong’s House of Yum serves very tasty food and they also know that it is located directly in between two gay bars.  I should clarify: Nashville natives younger than 65 know this.  My group did not.  I dropped them off at the door, they entered the restaurant, I parked the van and went in to find them looking around in bewilderment at the décor asking questions like, “What’s that next door?”  I am merely the organizer and the chauffeur.  I let them wonder alone. 

This month we went to the Old Spaghetti Factory.  Apparently this was a favorite as the van was packed.  Again, I dropped them off at the door, they entered the restaurant, I parked the van and went in to find them safely ensconced at our table in the back.  Unlike the last visit where they ate like birds, plates were cleaned, wine was ordered and a grand time was had by all.  Our table was pretty long and I only got to converse with people on my end but I noticed that we had added some new people to our little party, a couple of men which is slightly unusual.  And I noticed that one man had a certain aura about him, a little something I call Swagger.   

Swagger. This man had it in spades.  He held out the chair for the lady on his right.  He served her first.  He was Dressed.  He had the solid white hair, the pinky ring, the pressed short sleeved dress shirt, the pants with the tabbed closure, and an air of class.  I was fascinated.  I wondered briefly if there was a romance a-brewing between him and the woman on the right.    I think I flushed a little because the lady next to me patted my arm and asked, “Honey, are you alright?”

After dinner we all packed up in the van, full as ticks, and meandered our way home.  It was about 7:00 – dinner comes early at the retirement center.  The man and his lady thanked me profusely, and then walked off to his car where he held the door open for her, closed her in and then motored off.  I was certain – it was a romance.   

In typical Jimmie fashion, I yapped about that potential romance to all my friends.  I told them all about the Swagger, breathless and with flushed cheeks.  I certainly was hopeful for them.

On Saturday I wandered into my café.  I plopped my stuff down and wandered off to get some tea.  As I was wandering around procrastinating (I love writing but sometimes it will not just come already!), and who do I see?  Swagger and his lady.  I promptly went over to their table and sat down for a good chin wag.  Here they get names: 

Jimmie: Hi guys!  Remember me?  I drive the van for the Supper Club.

Judy:  Well, hi darling.  We remember you.  I’m Judy and this is John. 

John.  Hi.  <swagger>

Judy:  We like to come into this café.  It is where we first met, first starting dating. 

I knew it!  Never doubt me, people.

John:  <swagger> 

Jimmie:  Oh!  I was so hopeful that I was right.  I wondered if you two were dating.  I just love it!

Judy:  We are and we are madly in love. 

John:  <swagger>

Here they make google eyes at each other.   

Jimmie:  <swoon>

John:  I’ve never met anyone like her.  I’m so blessed. 

Jimmie: (once she recovers from her faint on the floor) You guys have made my day.

Y’all, John is 72.  Judy is probably 63.  They are GORGEOUS together.  They are like teenagers in love.  Every look is special.  Every sandwich they eat together is special.  They get dressed up in three-piece suits and heels and lipstick and go to church together.  What a hopeful, beautiful story.  This will go down in history as one of my all time favorites and I’m so happy that I get to be a tiny part of it.   

I so look forward to next month’s dinner.  I look forward to interacting with all of these people:  the woman widowed six years ago who told me that yes, it is very hard to eat alone; the other woman who said that now she is active in the community center but for a while she just wallowed in depression; the twinkly man who talks excitedly about his son and his grandkids and wonders if they would like a plate to go.  I’m excited to see where the romance goes.  I’m excited to see if another one will brew. 

Mostly, I’m excited to be able to invite someone I see eating alone out for our monthly excursions.   I hope I run across the man with the curved spine again.  I would love to take him out and hear his story too, in the company of new friends. 

A Birthday Letter to Phranke From Seamus

Hai. Person.

Next time you come over, you can pick me up.   

Bring food.  Also peas.

The end.

Food, I Loves It

This morning at the gym I amended my no-eating-raw-cloves-of-garlic requirement for the men I date to encompass not just potential suitors but everyone around me.  If you feel the need to ingest an entire head of garlic and also bathe in another entire head of garlic for any reason at all and not just in the name of “good health”, go away from me.  Please do not stand next to me at the gym.  Please do not use equipment next to me at the gym.  And for the love of all that is holy, please do not excessively sweat next to me at the gym.  If I can taste how you smell by simply working out next to you, we are not gonna be besties and I will most likely barf on your shoes.  The end. 

Okay, that isn’t the end.  I don’t know how I thought I could get away with being so stingy with my words.  I have lots of words.  I want to use them.  Today I want to use them to talk about weight loss and more specifically, the food part of weight loss. 

I am passionate about food.  I love it.  Most of us do.  There is a rare exception and his name is Pee-tah.  Do you need a refresher on him?  From a previous post: 

Pee-tah:  Pee-tah belongs in my heart.  I can’t imagine life without him.  I’ve almost seen him naked and we are still friends!  That is true friendship, right there. 

Pee-tah is tall and thin and has been known to forget to eat.  I don’t understand that.  I also don’t understand when he says things like, “I wish we didn’t have to eat.  It’s such a waste of time.  If I didn’t have to eat, I could get so much more done.”    I just stand there frowning at him with a blank look on my face.  It’s like I understand the possibility that people like this exist, yet I cannot fathom that one of them is in front of me.  I do not recall a time in my life when I forgot to eat.  Not once.  Ever.  I had to probe deeper, naturally, because I am a curious creature who is fascinated by cultures other than my own.  Even though he was born in North Dakota, clearly Pee-tah is not of this world and more specifically not indigenous to America, the nation of excess. 

Jimmie:  Don’t you crave foods?  Anything?

Pee-tah:  Not really.  Maybe my spaghetti . . . 

Jimmie:  Do you have comfort foods?

Pee-tah:  <pause> I like ice cream, I suppose. 

Jimmie:  When was the last time you had ice cream?

Pee-tah:  I don’t know.  Maybe a few months ago? 

Jimmie:   If all foods had the same nutritional value, would you change the way you eat? 

Pee-tah:  Sure.  I would eat more fast food. 

Jimmie:  Right! Because it tastes good!

Pee-tah:  No.  Because it’s cheap and easy. 

See ?!  I don’t get it! Doesn’t this seem foreign to you? 

Unfortunately I am nothing like Pee-tah.  I love food.  I love going out to eat with my friends.  I love the salads at Panera.  I love talking about new recipes with Martie.  (While we are on the subject, let me say that Martie is an excellent cook and can make up all sorts of yummy recipes. I can follow one excellently and maybe make a modification or two, but Martie can just create stuff out of thin air and a jar of olives.  It’s amazing.)  I love trying new stuff and searching out unusual things to sample.  Eating can be fun, and it’s a nice way to spend time with your friends or to celebrate or to commiserate or to just do on a Friday night. It encompasses just about anything.      

Unfortunately I am nothing like Dammit Todd either.  Remember how I said it was no fun working out with Dammit Todd because he can kick your butt at any workout no matter how long you have been doing it and how little he has?  It’s enough to make you want to hate him.  He does have a redeeming quality and it’s that he likes to eat.  He likes to eat a lot and believe you me, for such a fit guy, he can put away the food.  Give him a bottle of ketchup and watch him work.  He’s methodical and serious about food and if he has a plate of ribs, its best to hold off on any conversation which would include him.  It’s also best to keep your hands on your own plate as he never learned to share.  I like that he’s creative when it comes to food.   Lynnette once witnessed him make a cookie/cake sandwich.  A hunk of cake between two chocolate chip cookies and he was good to go.  He probably ate two of them.  That sounds great, right?  Like you would love to be friends with him because of that, right?  WRONG!  He never gains a pound.  He eats a bunch of crap and he drops a pants size.  I eat one brownie and go run three miles and I gain two pounds.  I do hate him a little. 

Honestly, I relate more to Quan who says eating is his favorite part of the day. 

Because I love food (unlike Pee-tah), and because I cannot eat whatever I like without gaining weight (unlike Dammit Todd), I have found myself with more lumps than I want and I am unhappy with the quantity and magnitude of those lumps.  I need to make more of a change than just running  and going to the gym.  I need to change my lifestyle, permanently.  I am beginning Weight Watchers again.  I’ve used the program with great success as long as you count losing a ton of weight and then gaining half a ton back and then losing ¾ of a ton and then regaining a few more pounds a success.  I’ve been round and round with this weight and I’m sick of it.  I’m ready to do this once and for all. 

I’m telling you this for three reasons.   

1.)  If you see me eating cheesecake you can come take half.  I’m not into deprivation – I think that is dangerous.  But I am into eating less and making better choices and sharing my cheesecake and half my small bag of M&Ms.  If you come take a bite of my cheesecake and I stab you with my fork, you should know that I am not following the plan and you should just go ahead and take that cheesecake away from me altogether.  Sharing is encouraged and I’m planning on being held accountable for this lifestyle change. 

2.)  I need you to not tempt me.  When I’m on this program, I’m on. You cannot get me to cheat, to taste a cookie, to even smell a single chocolate chip if I have not planned for it. But when I’m off, I’m really off.  It only takes one thing trigger it.  One unplanned chocolate covered strawberry.  One sneaky Pop-tart.  One single solitary donut and I’m off the rails like nobody’s business, going to The Cheesecake Factory frequently, purchasing M&Ms in the medium sized bag.  . . . . okay fine, the large sized bag, and eating peanut butter like crazy. 

3.)  I will want to post losses and stuff here so you might see that from time to time.  Encourage me and never tell me that I’ve lost too much. I have a goal in mind and it is a healthy one, a doctor recommended one.  I am in no danger of being too thin, trust me.  And we will all like me with less lumps. 

Feel free to nag me or to join me.  (Why come no one nags me?  I’m great at nagging and I do it often.  I don’t get y’all.  I’d be all over the opportunity to nag you.)

For real now, The End. 



Again With The Testosterone

Hello all!  Have you missed me?  I’ve been very busy and absent and thought you might like an explanation as to why. 

Two months ago I started planning an appreciation dinner for our clients at work.  We do this every year with great success.  To begin, I put in the request for creation of the invitation with our media group and gave them a very specific deadline.  I scoped out a couple of restaurants and got preliminary pricing and menu selections.  Two days before the invitation deadline and a week and a half before the dinner itself, the powers that be (namely, my boss) changed the entire game plan and suggested a cookout.

I was fine with it.  I like spontaneity.  I can go with the flow.  So I called the media group and all the potential restaurants and threw a monkey wrench in all their plans as well as mine, changing the entire dance which made everyone very happy and certainly made me some new friends.  Big fun. 

I was given a budget and told to “make it happen.”  Again, I’m good with that.  I like the challenge.  I did allow that the last time I had to grill something I lost most of my eyebrows so if the group wanted to actually serve meat, they could either grill it themselves or explain to the clients that “cookout” really means “crock-pot chicken”.  No less than five of the men in the group said to me, “Well, you know, I am the Grill Master.” 

“Great,” says I.  “Now who’s gonna help me cook the rest of it?”

You know who is the Potato Salad Master?  Me.

You know who is the Baked Bean Master?  Me.

You know who is the Salsa Master? Me.

You know who is the Shopping For Food, Shopping For Alcohol, Pasta Salad, Brownie, Cobbler Master?  Me. 

Now that you understand the Established Boundaries, a timeline for you:

One week prior to Cookout

Jimmie goes to Sam’s to check prices on every possible grilling item available. She communicates with Boss who is on vacation in Belize (lucky dog).

Six days prior to Cookout

Jimmie goes to Kroger to check prices on beer and other assorted groceries.

Five days prior to Cookout

Jimmie does comparison price checks on beer and other assorted groceries at Wal-Mart at 8:30 am.  Thank the Lord her skirt was not tucked up into her underwear as she was cruising the beer aisles before 9:00 am or she is certain she would have ended up in your email chain under the title: “People of Wal-Mart”.

Four days prior to Cookout

Jimmie begins purchasing supplies, namely meat that must brine for 24 hours before being smoked for 12 hours (thank you helpful co-worker who took care of this portion of the show).

Three days prior to Cookout

Jimmie starts the salsa recipe, with much mixing and chopping and opening of cans.

Two days prior to cookout

Jimmie picks up Boss at airport after his vacation (lucky dog) and does the big shopping trip to purchase all supplies including beer, wine and salt shakers.  It was the first time in Jimmie’s life she needed a grocery cart to hold all of the alcohol she purchased.  Classy.  Jimmie also makes brownies, macerates the peaches, and cooks the blackberries into a syrup. 

One day prior to cookout

Jimmies freaks out a little and then begins cooking in earnest.  Potatoes are boiled and marinated.  Bacon is cooked. Onions are chopped. (This ought to tell you how much she cares about this company and how they appear to the client.  Jimmie HATES onions.)  Brownies are iced then iced again.  (Sounds odd but you want to do this.  So Good!)  Boss asks if he can invite extra people. Jimmie has mini stroke and adds another pound of potatoes to her recipe.  Jimmie cooks and prepares until 11:30 pm.  Her hands are raw and dried out from washing them so many times and her dishwasher is most likely running on its last legs.  Jimmie sleeps well for a few hours.


Jimmie awakes at the crack of 6:30 and leaps out of bed to immediately begin preparations for the evening cookout. She finishes the potato salad, the cobblers, the baked beans and the salsa.  She enlists help to set up the bar and the tables and chairs (thank you Felix!), buys 120 pounds of ice for the tasty beverages, and makes lists of stuff she forgot.  Meanwhile, Boss again asks if he can invite extra people.  Jimmie has stroke of greater magnitude and immediately rushes to the store to buy fixings for a pasta salad as no way does she have enough food.  At 3:00 she jumps in the shower and at 4:00 realizes she has time for a much needed pedicure.  She rushes off to get that done, her first break of the day, and on her way back, Boss calls.

Boss:  Did you seriously go get a pedicure?

Jimmie: <Silence>

Boss:  You are kidding me, right?  You know there are half a dozen people waiting for you over here. (Editor’s Note:  The half a dozen people were two hours early.)

Jimmie loses her mind for three and one half minutes, screeching things like “Do you want me to quit!  Because I will!”  And also things like, “I have a knife in this car you know!  Plus all the food is in this vehicle and if you don’t want me to turn this mother around and give it all to the homeless you had better change your tune, boy!  I cannot BELIEVE you have the absolute GALL to tell me I cannot take a one hour break!  I have worked my ASS off for you people <breath> and I will not take this crap from you!” And then possibly things like this, “You can just serve your clients a bunch of charred hunks of meat for all I care!  Scum sucking leeches! <ragged breath> I hate you all!”  Also, possibly there were some epithets and foul language, unbecoming to a lady. 

Boss:  <Silence>

Jimmie: Huff.

Boss:  Um, I was just kidding.

Jimmie:  Oh.

One hour prior to the cookout

Jimmie arrives with a truckload of food and begins to unload.  The men, all five Grill Masters, stand outside next to the massive man grill (picture below) which holds about 100 pounds of charcoal, crowing about their grilling prowess, swilling beer and generally grunting and peeing on stuff to establish dominance.  They grilled precisely 36 hamburgers, 48 sausages and three packets of onions.  Jimmie choked a little on the testosterone overload and her ovaries shrunk two sizes that day. 


A resounding success.

So that’s what I’ve been up to lately.  What about you guys? Anything new? 



The Story Of Mini: A Guest Post

I really have so many things to write about and for various reasons they won’t seem to just come along already.  Probably it is laziness and lack of discipline.   

What will come easily is the story of Mini.  That dog is hilarious.  Potential Roomate is on a trip and I promised to take care of Mini like he would in his absence.  That means coming home at lunchtime in order to let her outside as her bladder is about the size of a walnut.  (Turns out walnuts can hold a decent amount of liquid as evidenced by the stain on my carpet left the day I didn’t make it home in time.  Yay.)  It also means snuggling with her at night and sharing my cherries with her.  It means introducing her to the neighbors and letting her burrow under my blankets.  She is a burrowing dog, my gosh. 

After we established some ground rules for staying at Jimmie’s house, I had a chat with Mini and told her about this here blog.  She said that since Murphy and Seamus got to write guest posts, she wanted to write one too.  I let her.  Turns out we share everything in this house.  Food, (both dog and cat), my bed (with both the dog and cats), the bathroom affection in the middle of the night (both dog and cats) and my blog.    Following is Mini’s essay. 


Things that Excite Me! by Mini

Girl! She excites me! When she comes home! 

(Editor’s Note:  Mini spends a lot of time being excited when I arrive.  Really, a lot.  She expresses this excitement by running up and down the stairs and occasionally barking at me as she tries to climb my leg.  Then she peals out for the front door and back to me, back to the door, back to me, at least 10 times before I can walk the five steps to the door and get it open to let her outside.)

Oh, licking!  I love that!  I like licking Girl when she talks, right in the mouth!

(Editor’s Note:  Combine the dog kisses right in the mouth with the fur Murphy leaves on my lips when I talk and I know you want to make out with me, right?)

The Hose!  I love the Hose!  I want to destroy it!  I don’t know why!

(Editor’s Note:  Mini also spends a lot of time being excited about the hose and the water that comes out of it as I water my scraggly tomato plant which has given me exactly four oddly shaped tomatoes.  She snaps at the water, getting it up her nose and in her ears which she later hurks up and scares the snot out of me.  She sprints from the spigot to the plant over and over again until I finally turn off the water.  At this point she takes the end of the hose in her mouth and drags it around the yard.  This dog weighs maybe seven pounds.  She cannot jump into my bed because at regulation-size, it is too tall for her.  She does the scrabble, scrabble, scrabble to get enough traction to jump onto the couch.  She struggles with the tiniest of tasks, yet she has defeated the hose.  Oh, Victory, thy taste is sweet.  And wet.)

My squeaky toys!  When Girl comes home! I run up and down the stairs squeaking my toys! 

(Editor’s Note:  Pic below.  That is all.)

Cats! I want them!  All mine!

(Editor’s Note:  Murphy and Mini have come to a truce.  They no longer hiss and lunge and squeal and quiver.  They do occasionally sniff the general area where the other has been and Mini is still a great fan of licking the carpet infused with his fur.  They both have established a spot on my bed; however, those spots couldn’t be any further away from each other.  Seamus regards her with . . . I don’t even want to say indifference because he likes to look at her.  But he doesn’t seem to show any interest in his looking at her.  It’s weird.  Yet I can find him on the floor next to the bed every night just looking at her. Currently, as I edit this, I have all three animals on the bed with me.  Mini is snoring stuffed up under a blanket.  Murphy is wound up on a pillow on my stomach.  And Seamus is lying next to me just being next to Murphy.  He is vigilantly eyeballing me in case I decide to pet him in which case he will bolt under the bed.  But he wants to be next to Murphy so he endures me.)

Car! I want to ride in it!

(Editor’s Note:  I got nothing here.)



Surprisingly, Seamus also had more to say.  He is usually the quiet one so naturally I wanted to let him have a go at this again.

Guest Post by Seamus.


I might like dogs.  They have food and I can eat it. 

 The end. 


In other completely unrelated miscellaneous odd news, Sammie (Nanny School?  Remember Sammie?) has gotten some sort of ladybug infestation in her dorm room.  This dorm houses about 8 or 9 other females and of all of them, Sammie is the only one with the ladybugs.  Probably there is some perfectly logical explanation for this yet I am stumped as to what that could be.  I should do some Google searching to see why she is the lucky beneficiary of the tiny red bugs, but you read above about laziness and lack of discipline, right?    Anyway, Sammie has scored an interview with Very Important People.  I hope it goes well for her.  I choose to think that the ladybugs will bring her luck.  I hope the position that she wants is the position that she gets and that the Very Important People treat her well and with respect and take her on lots of fancy vacations and give her extra spending money for those vacations and that at least one of those vacations is on the beach.  And one is in Europe so she can have chocolate croissants for breakfast in the streets of Sienna and possibly make out with Italian boys named Luigi who are not gross.  Good luck again, Sammie!  You have worked hard and you will make an excellent nanny.   I’m sending you a mixed tape soon, eighties-style.  You’re welcome!


One Of The Many Reasons Why I Luff Dammit Todd

Dammit Todd and I went to see the final Harry Potter movie.  We, of course, got there in time to watch the previews – the second best part of every movie.  Apparently there is a new Taylor Lautner movie coming out and the storyline is at least intriguing.

After the movie, Dammit Todd and I discussed seeing the Taylor Lautner movie.  I was Pro, he was Indifferent.   

Jimmie:  The story looks good.  It will definitely draw the Twilight crowd, because, you know, Taylor Lautner . . .

Dammit Todd:  Yeah, I guess so.  He runs around shooting up stuff, supposedly looking hot and being a badass.  I can see how the girls would like that. 

Jimmie:  You know, there will probably be a few instances where he takes his shirt off.

Dammit Todd:  Sure, there will be a few instances where he’ll take his shirt off and he’ll probably make out with a hot chick every few minutes.  <Sigh> The story of my life . . . . . 

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