Today, there is not one cohesive thought. Today there are only fragments.
- Yesterday morning I woke up with a wicked cold. Knowing that he was going to have to jet off for a business trip at 4:30, Kellan surprised me by coming home early afternoon with bagels and a movie. The man gets me–if there is a way to this girl’s heart, it is an onion bagel from Breuggers. I would eat one every single morning if only all of my pants had elastic waistbands. Though truthfully, for a good onion bagel I might be enticed into throw away all of my jeans in favor of Kellan’s sweat pants. Yes, and amen. Husband for the win!
- My little black desk is scheduled to arrive today! Is it wrong to be this excited about a piece of furniture? All I know is that if it is, I don’t want to be right. Unfortunately, I am so high on Dayquil that it is anybody’s guess as to what will happen when those unsuspecting delivery men show up. I’m liable to introduce myself as “Je m’appelle le croissant”, and ask them to stay for a spot of espresso and coq au vin. Which might prove to be disappointing, given that the closest thing to coq au vin in my fridge is shaved honey roasted deli turkey that was on sale for $4.69.
- Since we’re making lists, I’m finally ready to talk about the fact that the last time I got home to North Carolina, my Mother impishly confessed that she has a growing list of baby names that she’s keeping “just in case you need them”. Actually, I’m not ready to talk about that. I’m not ready to talk about that at all.
- Let’s talk about Darrell’s dessert instead. It’s three layers of decadence topped with chocolate pudding. [It is also Paula Deen approved, as all good desserts ought to be. A proper dessert will always make you feel like you are doing something very, very wrong, and chocolate supreme certainly qualifies!] As I stood watching my candy-apple red kitchen aid whip chocolate pudding into submission on Tuesday morning, I started laughing alone in my kitchen remembering how Ian used to absolutely detest pudding when he was a little boy. [It was a texture thing, which my sage nine year old self disdainfully believed to be painfully idiotic.] Naturally, I used to chase Ian around the house with spoonfulls of the stuff because CONFRONT YOUR FEARS YOU WEAK TODDLER. It’s PUDDING, not Vietnam! This is a technique that an abnormal psych class at UNC would later teach me is called immersion therapy, so really, I was ahead of my time. One fateful dinner, I coerced Ian into eating a bite of pudding by covering it in whipped cream and then confidently announcing that it was “a special new dessert that he’d never had”. He lit up like Christmas and asked for seconds, only to be shattered when I gleefully [and admittedly, a bit maniacally] told him that he’d just eaten PUDDING. Ha! You DO like it! Cue ugly cry. Totally worth it—I’ve never felt so righteously vindicated.
And with that, I’m off to make the delivery men a snack. Deli turkey with a side of Dayquil? That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.