I was minding my own business and drying my hair this morning, when Joey waltzed (WALTZED!) into the bathroom.  There may or may not have been skipping and singing involved.  His perkiness level was through the roof.

He leaned over the sink and examined his teeth.

He looked at his eye.

He said HI HI HI HI HI to me.

Then he decided it was time to get on the scale.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” I asked him.  “You’re kind of a fat cow.”

Everyone knows this is not true, but I like to goad him about it every so often just the same.

Joey stepped on the scale and yelled, “ERROR?!  It’s giving me an ERROR?!”

“And what was I just saying something about someone being a fat cow…?” I mumbled.

“I am not either a fat cow,” Joey glared at me.

I raised my eyebrows at him, because that was the only thing I could think of on short notice.

Joey stepped off the scale and thought for a moment.  “I’m a fat bull,” he said.  “If you’re going to call me fat, at least get the gender of the animal correct.  I MEAN SERIOUSLY, what kind of farm girl ARE you?”

“Fine,” I said.  “You’re a fat bull.”

Of course, none of this is true at all.  Joey could eat an entire three-tier wedding cake all by himself and not gain any weight.  And right after that he could go to HuHot and eat 3 huge bowls and still be just fine.  And on the same day he could polish off a 24 pack of Mountain Dew, and then finally maybe put on a pound.

Lucky boys.

Anyway, I’m totally off track.

Joey finally got the scale to reset and stepped on to weigh himself.

The shriek and horror of the “IT WENT UP!?” wail that directly followed the stepping on the scale was priceless.  I smirked.

Welcome to my world, Joey Woestman.