I have a new obsession. Well, its not exactly new. It's just a new twist on an old obsession. You see, I need something to drink every day after work. And since people that immediately drink wine after work are called alcoholics, I turn to iced coffee for my fix. But here is the twist -- I've been making it myself. When I make my coffee every morning, I now make an extra few cups. I pour the hot coffee in a Nalgene, dump in wayyyy too much sugar and plop it in the fridge. That way when I get home I have a little pick-me-up. It just needs ice and a splash of cream. Otherwise, I fall asleep for 4 hours after work. Not that that would ever happen. It certainly didn't happen today.
The Canadian doesn't have a sweet tooth. No. It's a whole new level. It's more like a sweet mouth. He has to have some sort of dessert every night. Since we are desperately trying to watch our waist lines (well I am, hence he is too) I've busted out the old school pudding. It's quick, it's cheap, and one box makes four nights worth of goodness. He loves it. Yes, he is a 10 year old.
Our guest bedroom is actually my closet. We live in a very old house and old houses lack two major components: closet space and outlet plugs. Because the closet is so small in our bedroom I use the guest bedroom closet as my own. I keep all my stuff in there, including my dresser. It is where I get ready in the morning. As I said, there is also a lack of plugs. AKA - there is 1 outlet for the entire room. I have added a multi-plug to it but its full of my hair dryer, flat iron and printer cords. There is just no room for a clock and Lord knows I need to know what time it is if there is any hope of me making it to work on time. Enter, Big Ben. I love him. He's funny. Seriously, how many people have an old school clock with bells these days? He even makes the tick-tick noise so you constantly think the house is going to explode.
We were walking to breakfast the other day and decided to meander through the park. Summer is coming to an end but the flowers were still full of color and the leaves are just starting to change. But the best part of the walk? The fountain. I love it when high school kids find funny ways to entertain themselves. If I had grown up next to a park with a fountain I totally would have filled it with bubble bath every weekend.
I have the best father-in-law in the world. Not only did he come over to help The Canadian paint the front of our house this week but he also donated a bottle of his home-made wine to the Keep Kate Sane Foundation. I just love it when he does that. In fact, I'm enjoying a glass right now as I type. Therefore, you are also reaping the rewards of his wine making skills. If I didn't have a glass of wine in me this post would be a lot shorter. Or it wouldn't exist at all.
My official Run for the Cure shirt came in the mail today. They must be feeding the huskies good food because the dog sled team sure got it here fast. My sister made the shirt for me. In her words, she chose "the most offensive pink color available". Plus, it has inappropriate language. It's perfect.
Two days until the Race! Get your game face on. Bust out the pink. Many thanks to all my sponsors!
On a final note, I have a tumor on my head. I know you can't really see it. Neither can I. Hence the reason I was frantically trying to take a iPhone photo of the back of my scalp. Two big bumps appeared on Tuesday (document that so I can tell the doctor when my head explodes). One is smaller and doesn't hurt. The bigger one, adjacent to the smaller, hurts like a...like a...well, I can't think of an non-inappropriate word. You get the idea. It feels like a goose egg and it hurts like a goose egg should hurt. But I can't seem to think of a recent time that I hit my head. Maybe I hit it so hard that I blacked out and that is why I can't remember. It's causing me problems. Maybe that is why I slept so much today. Maybe it wasn't the lack of iced coffee. Maybe it was my tumor taking over my head.
Someone please remind me to go see a specialist if its still there next week. Not that I'll need reminding. My mother will be here. Surely she'll notice my huge tumor. She is a nurse after all. And if her nursing skills aren't enough to recognize my pain, I'm sure my incessant complaining will bring it to her attention.
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