I'm a Baked Potato

Yes, I know that was all kinds of wrong, but I couldn't resist. The photo is over 10 years old as Danny has long since moved on from playing with Mr. Potato Head. He loved those Potato Heads. We'd sit on the floor of his bedroom giving them silly faces and sinister voices. "Hey kid, tell yer ma she's really hot." He'd fall apart laughing every time. I hadn't thought about them in ages until we made a quick run to the supermarket and saw this...

It brought all sorts of questions to mind (some on the disturbing side). Why is the potato in bed? Does he have the flu? Should he be concerned by all the tins of chili surrounding his bed? Why is he reading a cooking magazine? So many unanswerable questions.

"Pssst, hey kid...yer ma is really hot."

Anyway, I'm still a bit sick so maybe I'm missing something?

In good weather, we have a favourite evening walk that runs about a mile and a half. Past the college, beyond the hotel, and through the parking lot of the bank with the reflective glass walls. I like this route because there's a very tall set of stairs between the bank's parking lot back up to the college. Danny gets irritated when I start humming the theme from Rocky, but if you're going to run up stairs like that, isn't it only right to have a soundtrack? Anyway, a couple of years ago when I started running seriously, I would run up the other way and meet up with Danny by the bank. Catching a look at myself in a puffy reflective jacket and leggings I joked that I "Look like a baked potato." From then on, when we chose a route for a walk he asks if we are doing "The park, or the potato walk." You could look like worse things than a baked potato.

Once, years ago I asked someone a question, (I've long forgotten what it was) and they misunderstood me (thanks, Chicago accent) and began laughing. It turned out they thought I said, "I'm a baked potato." Perhaps I'll come back in another life as a potato...and then some kid can jab plastic pieces into me and snarl, "Hey kid, yer ma is really hot." 

Truth be told, I prefer mash, but don't say that around the sleepy spud at the grocery store-don't want to traumatise him.

Sweet dreams, Spuddy Buddy.