Scram, Ceaser

Tonight it was discussed, over some Chianti and much bread and freshly shredded parmesan, that David doesn't really read the blog, and is Mistaville OK with that. PS: the title, Scram, Ceaser has nothing to do with tonight's post. It was spoken tonight, and I just felt like making it the title of this post.

For those newcomers: David=Mista Boyfriend.

For example, once in a post, long, long ago, I referred to David as my hero, my wrestler in singlette armor. Kidding. But he was my Rent A Wrestler (and still is...sigh). My for real. However, David thinks he 'lives the blog' and does therefore not need to read it. He and I have discussed this, and after agreeing that he would in fact read it, I backtracked and told him that I preferred that he did not read it. That way, I could write uncensored of any "you should say..." farfignugan. There. I said it. I told him not to read the blog. But should he listen?

Seperately, David conveniently commented on my outfit this evening as having a "feminine butch" touch. Yes. He said it. The whole thing started when David asked our dinner mates, Pregnant Patty and the Father how they felt about my new glasses. I suggested they made me look a little German. Pregnant Patty thought that I was on the way to looking like a German tourist if I only added red pants and purple boots to the black band t-shirt David got me as a souvenir from a concert he went to. I think I've almost looked like a German tourist for maybe my whole life.