journal entries:




email notify list:





check out:

This is disgusting and horrible and you really shouldn't look.


Outtake from the photo session.










Friday, February 3, 2006

One of JB's many idiosyncrasies, which span an oddball spectrum from Pandas: Hatred Thereof to If It Technically Can Be Rolled Into a Tortilla Then By God It Is a "Burrito", is the fact that he never picked up a coffee habit. Not in high school (which is when I started drinking coffee, sitting in a diner with friends ordering one plate of fries and cup after cup of crap-ass coffee that we doctored with thousands of creamers and sugar packets then set up camp for hours on end, gosh I bet those waitresses loved us), not in college, not for years afterward, not even when we moved to Seattle where you cannot walk a half block without smacking directly into a green Starbucks sign.

This is not the sort of thing that gives you pause when considering marriage, exactly (although his indifference with regards to The Simpsons certainly did), but all throughout our relationship JB has acted slightly superior when it comes to my fondness for caffeine. Oh, I'm sure he'd deny it, but I know a lip-curl when I see one.

Coffee was gross, coffee gave you bad breath, coffee made you a weaker person for your dependency; this, by the way, from a man who in the not-so-distant past has been known to put a wad of CHEW in his mouth. If one was to ponder too deeply as to the roots of JB's distaste for coffee, you really have to look no further than his dad, who drinks tea, MANLY TEA, and loves to say things like "How can you drink that shit?" when it comes to the bean variety.

Well, the worm has turned, my friends. It started out fairly innocent: a chai tea latte every now and then. Then more often. And one day when JB's brother was visiting, JB watched him order a vanilla latte at Starbucks. Now, I personally have ordered possibly a thousand and five vanilla lattes in front of JB, but it took his brother drinking - MANFULLY - a latte of his own to prompt JB: "Hey, can I taste that?"

It's a slippery slope once you start on the Starbucks. You know they add an extra pump of crack to those things, just to keep you coming back and shelling out four damn dollars for a drink without a second thought.

Now JB drinks coffee - not Starbucks, not vanilla-flavored, but regular drip coffee - in the mornings, just like the hooked-through-the-bag junkie he is. I'm so proud, really. When I pour his cup, and pour one for myself, I remember every day to tell him how much I love him, and how being a sanctimonious bastard will always, always bite you in the ass.


I plan to watch the Superbowl this weekend, which is not to say that I have suddenly developed an interest in sports, because, ha ha, NO, but apparently the Seahawks are going to be playing, which seems to be some kind of local big deal? Also, I like watching the ads.

Last night on the news, in between the ridiculous footage of our local reporters just sort of standing around in Detroit going "Hi! We are in Detroit! Which is where the Seahawks are going to play! Hi!", there was a very dire weather report saying a big storm was on its way, predicted to be different from all the weather we've had lately, which you could describe as "Rainy, except sometimes also showery". High winds are expected, and I hope you will forgive me for the tiny mean urge I have for the power to completely go out, city-wide (well, except for hospitals and places like that, I am not a total animal), riiiiight in the middle of the game. Just - blip! All the TVs go dead. Haaaaaaaaa!


Actually, there would probably be some kind of horrible riot and I would feel so bad that I even suggested such a thing and I TAKE IT BACK OKAY?



In other news, there is no other news. This week just blew on by, and today I must ready the house for dinner guests, which means I should probably work on ridding the kitchen floor of its Patina O' Crud, and maybe put some toilet paper on the empty roll in the bathroom (don't worry, there was a Kleenex box within reach) (CLASSY), and let's not forget the hour or so of staring hopelessly into my closet before mentally shrugging and putting on formula-stained jeans.

To help you move on from that mental picture, here are some photos of the Boy (which I will never tire of sharing so I sure hope you aren't too sick of them yet):


My friend Sarah knitted that sweater. It has Peter Rabbit buttons near the neck, which yes, ARE the cutest things ever.
(Where is his right foot? It is a mystery.)




He laughs - for his pants, they are filled with poop.

« back ::: next »