Life on Bored

Last Saturday, at Millionaire Mattie's insistence, we boarded her Volvo and headed to the Business District. Now, there's this ongoing ad campaign about people having thought-provoking conversations aboard a Volvo. This, I felt, was our chance to prove that we were shoo-ins for such a spot. After all, we had the prerequisite Volvo and the prerequisite number of people for a successful dialogue (i.e. two). Sadly, although we were probably in her smooth ride for about two and a half hours total -- heading to the CBD and back -- I must say, nothing particularly thought-provoking was said.

Scene 1. Me and Millionairess Mattie, looking for some clothing warehouse in the suburbs.

Me: Was that it?
MM: No.
Me: How about that one?
MM: No.
Me: Was that guy hot?
MM: No.

Scene 2. Me and Millionairess Mattie, looking for parking.

MM: Where do we go?
Me: I've no idea.
MM: I think we go down here.
(After going down a ramp,)
Me: Wow. I've never been here before.
MM: Was that guy hot?
Me: Where?

(However, a lot of things said did make us giggle like teenage girls.)

The point? There's no truth in advertising. And a Volvo has nothing to do with anything. Except it has a lovely sunroof. And an awesome little thingamajig that tells you how much gas you have left in your tank in terms of kilometers. (Leave me alone. I drive a '91 Lancer.)

Anyway, the excursion was had so that Mattie can dish about her "non-boylet". "Non-boylet" as (1) he hasn't come right out and declared his no doubt less-than-holy intentions -- you see, Mattie, on top of being rich and totally clever, also happens to be hot; (2) she hasn't come out and revealed that she saves his text messages and reads them back to me; (3) she's too married, too proper and legally unable to promote him to full-fledged "boylet" status. (I, on the other hand, simply wanted a free dish of some sort. I got my wish and dined on wild mushroom risotto at Bizu Patisserie.)

Anyway. Later on, after deconstructing non-boylet's text messages at our alfresco table, Mattie ordered some chocolate souffle thing that gave me a splitting headache because it was just too-gosh-darned-rich. For the first time in my life, I didn't finish my dessert. I can't believe I let chocolate defeat me.

O o O

Is it just me or is Michael Bublé getting semi-hot? I'm beginning to semi-regret not rising from my swivel chair and shaking his then-chubby hand. Bleh.