My weekend ended late because Jameson stayed and played with me at work on Monday, which we officially deemed to be “Take your (Jame)son to work day.” He even sat quietly next to me, at my desk, designing my company’s new website and waiting hopefully for me to give him the lunch cue. I’m glad he decided to stay an extra day, especially after the notorious Jameson-Jenny quibble we had the evening before:

“My tongue scraper is so awesome. Have you ever scraped your tongue?”

“Ew. No.  I brush my tongue, though. Ew. Let’s not talk about that.”

“No, seriously. It is soo cool. I never knew how dirty my tongue was!”

“Ew. No, really. Stop.” I shudder. Body residue is just not my thing.

“You wanna see?”

“NO.”

“Oh, come on! Let me show you. It’s so cool!”

“Ahhhhh! No! I’m serious. Leave me alone.” I run into the bedroom. Jameson is chasing after me, tongue-scraper in hand. “Get away from me!”

“Why?”

“JAMESON. Stop it. I’m serious. That’s SO gross.” I lock the bedroom door.

Jameson scoffs.

“I only locked the door because I don’t want to see your dirty tongue goo! I don’t do things that YOU don’t like!"

Jameson scoffs again. “It’s not fair! You’re not a good friend! You NEVER do anything I hate!” I hear the bathroom door slam. End Scene.

One minute, we’re laughing two-decibels above appropriate laughter volume while wildly gesturing in the middle of Beijing’s crazy streets, and the next minute, we’ve each banned ourselves to separate rooms in my apartment, one pouting that that she is being forced into thinking about unwelcome tongue goo, and the other pouting because he never gets to be forced into thinking about other people’s tongue goo.

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