A massage did sound nice, so Cooper and I went to Brookstone and got chair massages. The manager said something about age limits and safety. Cooper farted.
After the massage we decided to hit the tattoo parlor. Cooper wanted to get a tat that had a deeper meaning for him. He ultimately settled on "I heart boob."
On Saturday morning we passed the guy from "Can't Buy Me Love." He has not aged well. Two more lawns, though, and Ronnie will finally be able to get that telescope. For laughs, we waited until it got dark, lit a paper bag of poop and put it on his front door step.
Smoothies and the mall? Nope. Black coffee and Lowe's.
Nothing like a little music to get the Coopster ready for nap time. Amy Mann sucks. Alice in Chains rules. Facelift. Bleed the Freak. So yeah.
Sure, the iPod has songs about female angst. It also has Metallica. And Metallica also rules.
Michelle made some food and labeled it for me, in case I got dementia halfway through the weekend and forgot the bowl of pureed orange stuff in the fridge was for Cooper. Instead of sticking to the menu we decided to free wheel it. Peas + carrots + oatmeal + tofu = a balanced dinner. Steak + potato = chest hair. And chest hair is what the ladies want.
Speaking of ladies, after dinner and drinks, Cooper decided it was time to make some booty calls. He tried texting the girls from daycare on his cell but couldn't get anyone to hit him back. Beotches.
Saw Ronnie again on Sunday. He was not happy about the flaming bag of poop.
