Fun with Fizzmos

Once upon a time, many, many moons ago, in the long lost galaxy of Myspace, in the land of Fun N Silly Contests, by a world over lorded by "Jean has Gone shopping", I won a contest.

Did I win this contest because of my poignant and sappy poetry writing skills? 

Did I win because of my technically correct and well composed photography?

Did I win because someone found humor in my well thought out and carefully arranged blogs? 

Did I win for my artistic drawings or paintings?

Did I win because of my dashing good looks or charming personality? 

So, you may ask, WHY did I win?

Because of a lucky guess.
 
That’s right! 
Sheer dumb luck and a limited choice of answers. Multiple choice. 

                                                        Yay for me.

 
The contest consisted of guessing which colors she used in her bathroom. When I entered the contest, we had just started reading each other blogs. I had no knowledge of her personal tastes. I took first prize with a lucky guess. I humbly apologize to all of her dear and close friends who may have felt cheated by losing to a total stranger.

So, you may ask, WHAT did I win?

                                     Fizzmos!



I had no idea what a Fizzmos was, but it sounded like something fun to drink or cuddle up with. It did not sound like something I would want to get stuck up my nose, so I decided to avoid that.

After learning of my win over all of her dear and close friends, who obviously know NOTHING about her, (Losers!) I anxiously awaited the arrival of my very own Fizzmos. After several days of sitting by the mailbox, in the rain, and almost getting run over by several trucks, I decided to wait inside until it arrived.

Of course it came the very next day.  The first thing I realized was; it was not a moose. The box was way to small. So my thoughts of starting a zoo where people could see a real live Fizzy Moose were placed on hold.

I anxiously ripped open the box, no thought given to the fact that she might be a terrorist sending bombs to unsuspecting idiots who think they have won a contest, thus single handedly, and one at a time, eliminating the world of infidel American schmucks.

Nothing exploded except my excitement. I won a contest and by God, Jean has Gone shopping, and the US mail, here is the prize to prove it!


I pulled the little ball out of the box and examined it. My first thought was that it looked just like a baseball, in fact, It was exactly the size of a baseball.  I was sure it would work well for playing catch, but I was also sure one whack with a bat and it would disintegrate into a poof of powder.

Putt putt golf seemed another fine use of the product. The ball was a bit bigger than a normal golf ball but my thinking was this physical discrepancy could only add a larger surface to hit. More surface equals better aim. This idea seemed to backfire when the ball got stuck in the first hole.

Closer inspection of the item revealed the words “White Chocolate Moose”. I was sure this would make an excellent hot drink. It did not.

Finally, in typical man fashion, and after trying all other options, I read the fine print instructions:
“For a yummy, creamy skin softening bath time experience, drop a fizzmos into your warm water filled tub. Watch as a million tiny bubbles whip into a white chocolate mousse fragrance delight.”

I decided to give that a try.

So now my creamy ass has been whipped into a white chocolate mousse fragrance delight by a million tiny bubbles!  Yummy!

Thanks Jean!

Miss Daisy driving me dinner crazy

We are usually in the car when the subject comes up.

Her: I’m getting hungry.

Me: Where would you like to eat?
Oh, anywhere is fine.
Well, how about Cracker Barrel? (as we pass one)
Nah, they are usually so crowded.

Olive Garden?
Nah, too heavy. Plus the wait is always so long. It’s just spaghetti. Why should that take so long?
How about the Texas Roadhouse?
That place is so noisy I can’t think straight.
How about the Long Horn or Logans?
No. I don’t think I want steak.

Applebees or Oh Charlies?
I can never find anything I like on their menus.
Fridays? Ruby Tuesdays? Next Thursday?
Don’t be silly. There is no such place as Next Thursday.

How about that Mexican place in the shopping center?
Those waiters are to mean there.
They are real Mexicans. I think they probably just have a hard time understanding English. What about El Toro or La Fiesta?
Nah. I don’t feel very Mexicany.

By now, I’m considering driving to Mexico and leaving her south of the border.

Arbys? McDonalds? Wendys?

I call them off as we pass them by.
No. No fast food.

We have just passed every restaurant in town and are getting ready to head out into the country where the only restaurants are grassy fields for cows (also known as Lawn Mooers, or if they are laying down; Ground Beef)
I pull into a parking lot and turn off the car.

Her: What are you doing?
Me: I thought I would save precious fossil fuels and do my bit to help save the planet until we decide where you want to eat.
You don’t have to get snitty with me.
Well, where do you want to eat?

Oh, anything is fine….