Not much happening unless you ask my nose. It's says a pork tenderloin in the crock pot is nirvana. My taste buds will have to resort to the Orbit bubble gum baby-in-the-womb #3 got me hooked on, because they'll be at work with me. They play a role in the high up ponytail, bubble-blowing at the customers, short shorts, actual bra wearing, eye-linered eyes staring act I play while making pizzas. It's my blond-envy expression revealed when I am at my finest: working at a job I've loved mastering.

I'm only cooking the darn thing because I bought and refrigerated it instead of froze it and it needs to be cooked pronto. My husband (you know, I call him Dada, so I think I'll do so here, as I have never liked the word hubby), Dada, has his night out planned for dinner and a meeting. He and I rarely go out to eat but there are girls he dines and converses with on Thursdays....

I was the first to admit that I prefer the company and conversation of the opposite sex, but he seconded that, and that's just the way we are. We are agents of restoring faith in people, representatives of the opposite sex. My theories become triple X at this point, so I'll stop.

I'll instead get lost in the smell of something I want but can't have. A healthy, steady discipline.