Been a while since I prattled endlessly about an entire weekend, hasn't it? I think it's about time to do that again.

Last week Sister had some vehicular difficulty. Something about a blown transmission on the freeway. It kind of ruined her day. Several days, even. And she had on her work schedule a shift at another office fifty kilometers away. So Friday I stepped up to the plate and took her back and forth to work.

At the end of work on Friday, I stopped by my house to pick up Girlfriend and The Kid and we made our way north to the bustling urban metropolis of Chicken Creek. Considering it was Sister's birthday weekend, we took her out for pizza on the way home.

Every time I visit Chicken Creek (Sister picked this name, not me… I'm just sticking with the theme), I drive past a certain pizza restaurant. Until last Friday, I'd never stopped. Part of me wishes I still hadn't stopped.

The pizza was pretty good, but the service sucked, the prices were too high, and the atmosphere was… very Canadian. (To my few Canadian readers: not that that's a bad thing.)

This place, Armando's Pizza, is the most northern looking restaurant I've been in. Ever. Even restaurants in Ontario don't feel as northern as this one did. Everything in this place is some shade of brown. Everything that could possibly be made of wood, was. To be fair, it's highly polished and lovingly maintained, but still. I shudder to think of the number of trees who gave their lives to cover every surface in the joint with a layer of shellacked pine.

Those few things that weren't wood were either stone or covered in a reddish sort of carpet that just screamed "roller rink snackbar." In fact, large portions of the place spoke of roller rinks, in voices of varying volume. Sometimes retro can be pretty cool, though. I must confess that I spent a dollar on the old Tron arcade machine in the corner. And I had a damn good time with it, too.

After wasting a little time and a little money on the arcade machines we dropped Sister off at her place and scurried home so I could see our new additions: two new cats. Specifically, two adult female spayed and declawed cats. Girlfriend's pal Tinkerbell is moving away shortly and she won't be able to take her two cats with her.

So, gleefully, we inherited them. Tink stopped by while I was still at work, so the cats were busy getting settled in while we were out. As soon as we all got home, we sat down to play and pick out new names. Apparently Tink had named them Kit and Maude.

Wow, do those names suck. The new names we chose are Mittens and Bubbles. Together they will probably be referred to as The FishieKitties.

Which reminds me of something else I've been thinking about lately. Why don't I have a small team of Tossed My Salad Dancers? That would be cool.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's the blog you hate to love and love to hate, it's Tossed My Salad! With our host, moderator, and village idiot The Fish! And introducing the Tossed My Salad Dancers!"

I need dancers. Need them. You can paste your resume into the comments.

Update: I can't believe I forgot this part. While we were eating our pizza, The Kid tried to show us something he learned in school. His kindergarten teacher has been teaching them some sign language and he tried to show me and Auntie Sister what he'd learned that day. He started by crossing his hands on his chest, then he moved his left hand to his hip. He finished off with a two-handed gesture that looked like he was pantomiming an airplane taking off.

I don't remember what this set of hand signals means. I was too busy laughing my ass off because he looked like he was trying to get me to steal second base.