So this morning, I woke early and waddled my achy self into the bathroom, where my groggy brain and fuzzy eyes saw a bottle on the counter that I not so clearly thought it read: Prego.
Now, in my mind, I likened this to being pregnant, a little nicky: preggers, prego, preggo, whatever. I chuckled and then went potty and while sitting on the toilet (’cause, guys, that’s how we ladies do it–yes, I’m jealous that you men can urinate and not touch anything nasty with your hands except your own penis, and, well, that shouldn’t be nasty–but, hey, I don’t know you, or your penis… so…)
Where was I? Oh, yes, I’m sitting on the toilet, and I’m wonder: Is the bottle pregnant? Are the contents pregnant? Does using the product make one pregnant?
Yes, these are the weird things I do when left to my own devices.
But I finally shook my head and realized that it didn’t say prego, it said Pergo.
It’s for cleaning Pergo floors–you know, the ‘fake’ wood floor slats that we have in our home. I love Pergo. It’s super easy to clean, super nice looking, not as expensive or prone to damage as wood floors, and with animals in the house, it keeps things cleaner and smelling better than carpet ever could. Really love Pergo.
Don’t love prego that much–that is, being prego. Or preggo. Or pregnant. Well, I mean, 18 years or so ago, maybe, but not today, no thanks.
Then I shook my head and said, “Man, prego… that would be a horrible name for a commercial product.”
Yup, horrible. It’s in there. I wonder what ‘it’ is…
Love and stuff,