Archives for September 2013
Sunday 2 PM.
With this morning’s breakfast I’m only two cups into National Coffee Day, so by this afternoon I’m feeling guilty that I’m not doing my part to mark the occasion with the requisite enthusiasm. I find a half pound bag of Oso Negro organic medium roast coffee beans from the Janzen’s care package that we opened yesterday, and stuff a handful of them into my mouth, and chew. The grit is sticking to my molars and I have to get up off the couch and wash them down with warm water. I lament not having had the determination to actually make a proper pot, but the house is empty, there’s football on, and I really just want to act the sloth.
Fred emails me the tracking number for a shipment of Biscoff cookies he’s having sent to Pt. Roberts. I’ll pick them up this week when I go get the clear totes I’ve ordered from Seattle to package the Arts Umbrella bonbons in for their upcoming annual Splash auction. I send him a text and question his judgement.
Me: You trust me to pick up cookies?
Half time in the Denver game is over, and I’m caught up with the all the scores and highlights. I rock, paper, scissor myself to choose between ice cream with milk chocolate ganache or ice cream with dark chocolate ganache. I throw the contest and choose milk chocolate ganache, because the dark, coming out of the fridge, would need a few minutes in hot water to soften up.
I settle back on the couch for the second half. In a test of my physical sensitivity, I reach down under the cushion and find a bag of expired airplane peanuts. I rip it open with the manliest of gestures, and pour the contents into my mouth, and chew. The grit is sticking to my molars and I have to get off the couch and wash them down with warm water.
Lying around all day is exhausting, and I contemplate a nap. There’s still half an hour until the Sunday night game starts, and the dog is giving me the stink eye. It wouldn’t be a weekend in Vancouver without two straight days of rain. I spend about ten minutes fantasizing about a canine walking version of the Roomba, then get up, open the back door and send her out.
I shuffle back to the living room, and contemplate opening a bottle of wine, or taking a shower. I wonder to myself if this is how Matthew McConaughey spends his weekends. I’ll bet he does, but shirtless. I opt for neither the vino nor the ritual of bathing, and instead, settle in for another three plus hours of the NFL. I make a mental note to myself to be better prepared for the next important holiday, National Chocolate Day.