the number of mugs filled with coffee spilt by the respective parties:
cohen, in his entire 3.1287671 years of life: one (1), at the dinner table (i.e.: no big deal)
avery, in the last 3 months: four (4)
i now use travel mugs in my own home.
et cetera.
cohen: “zip up mommy in a pancake.”
cohen: “avery is funny. avery is funny. avery has a funny face.”
cohen: “guess what? i love you.”
me: “hey cohen, you’re so fine, you’re so fine, you blow my mind, hey cohen!”
cohen, looking at mommy: “what’s he talking about?”
et cetera.
cohen: “i sleeped with a cereal bar on my head.”
not kidding, that fruit goo was all caked on his forehead and in his hair.
et cetera.
with mandy being the optimist, and myself being a realist… we find it ironic, coincidental and hilarious that the names of our face soaps are:
mandy: “a perfect world”
me: “checks and balances”
i mean. seriously?
in general mandy is the optimist in our house, and she would classify me as the pessimist, while i would classify myself more of a cynical realist…
me: “i just don’t think we can afford doing all that.”
mandy: “sure thing, debbie downer.”
me: “that’s ricky reality to you!”
et cetera.
cohen has started to enjoy singing. namely christmas carols and nursery rhymes, but he’s branching out into singing pieces he’s composed himself:
cohen: “mommy, mommy, go away. come again another day.”
mandy: “cohen! it’s rain, rain, go away. come again another day.”
cohen: “no, it’s this one: mommy, mommy, go away. come again another day.”
mandy: “rain, rain, go away. come again another day.”
cohen: “no this! mommy, mommy, go away. come again another day.”
doesn’t that just make you feel that unconditional love all over?
et cetera.
mandy and i needed the gps unit for directions out to a work dinner.
me: “mandy, can you get the garmin out of your car?”
mandy: “sure.”
cohen: “give-a, give-a, give-a garmin.”
et cetera.
me: “cohen, you’re a monkey.”
cohen: “no, i’m not.”
me: “well then, what are you?”
cohen: “i’m cohen.”
well, naturally.
A conclusion is the place where you got tired of thinking. – Arthur McBride Bloch
not enough keggers end this way.