But then my little brother redboxed Ironman 3, and I'm a sucker for a weeknight blockbuster. Of course I whipped out a wedding gift: The old. The faithful. Whirley Pop.
Perhaps the same Whirley Pop I used last night when the same brother brought home Saving Mr. Banks. Perhaps the same Whirley Pop that I used the night before that for the run of the mill Shark Tank viewing.
Perhaps I have a problem called popcorn, but if you still microwave yours then you have a bigger problem than I do. This baby does caramel corn and kettle corn and you never really have to clean it, it also will roast your coffee beans, but I don't know a lick about that because I'm not that hipster.
This post brought to you courtesy of my iDevice from a crib mattress on the floor of my bedroom as I lie next to a squirmy 7 monther who almost won't sleep without two feet nestled into my stomach and one hand gripping my shirt. I will soon summon my semblance of abdominal muscles to extricate myself from the tete a tete in a vain and at best halfhearted attempt to teach the baby some soporific independence. No judging. Martha climbed into her son's actual crib, if I remember correctly. A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do.
See you on the other side.