When I was a little kid my family used to get a cabin in Minnesota each summer for a couple of weeks of vacation. We went to the very cheesy Paul Bunyan Land (which appears to have the EXACT same rides as when we went 20 years ago), swam in a lake, fished for tiny Blue Gills, got mosquito bites the size of silver dollars and watched the dog jump off the dock 84,000 times a day. I remember that on rainy days my dad would brown hot dogs in butter on the gas burner and we would make Jiffy Pop (I am sure we ate other things but other than those tiny Blue Gills I have NO IDEA what). For those of you with deprived childhoods, Jiffy Pop was a little aluminum pan of popcorn that you heated over a stove or (for the daring) flame and it popped up into the foil making a bizarre shape. The popcorn was good I suppose but the fun was in trying not to burn the fuck out of the bottom and watching the weird as thing happening under the little foil tent.
So last night my belly looked exactly like a thing of Jiffy Pop. A little burst on this side, then it moves to the other, then everything goes wild at once. It was surreal. So I call J in because this isn't what people describe--I can't see like a defined elbow or anything moving around, it just looks like homegirl is in there doing the Cha-Cha like she is on fucking Dancing With The Stars. I have to admit that I was a little afraid the belly was going to pull a Jiffy Pop disaster and split right down the center with all the action. But I want J to see this, because frankly it is really kind of gross and I don't feel like the grossness should be experienced only by me.
And she stops.
Damn her. Messing with me already.
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