Mr. Macadoodle and the debatable necessity of pants

On this particular Saturday afternoon, I find myself in the kitchen, dancing to ridiculously girlish songs and cooking dinner at the same time. I shan't say a word about what I'm wearing so as to uphold My Public Image, lest future employers or Cecil Himself read this blog. But let me just say this - are pants really necessary at a time like this? My old roommates know all about that.


So here I am simmering and swaying and possibly sans pants in the kitchen. Husband is shaking his head and threatening You Don't Want to Know if I don't put on a BYU shirt in the next X minutes. To him I say "hellloooooooo, I'm simmering here!"


This afternoon is a time of deep introspection as well. The object of my introspection is Mr. Macadoodle. Mr. Macadoodle was named three seconds ago when I decided he needed a name if he were going to be a worthy post on my blog.


You see, Mr. Macadoodle is a bag of popcorn. He lived and loved and snacked with us for four whole days before we found him a better home.

Mr. M,

You were delicious. 

Please don't be mad at our separation.

It was made with nothing but the best of intentions and a lack of storage space.

May your kernels live to get stuck in the molars of many a generation.

And while I have you here, what is your opinion on wearing pants?

Sincerely,

Still Picking Kernels Out