Lately, I’ve been experimenting with combining two different blends and it seems that anything Boca Java works with anything else. I’ve determined that the Moroccan coffee is best undisturbed and should be in its pure form. This morning it’s 2 Peet’s coffees: “Major Dickinson” and “Sierra Dorada” since it’s not as strong as the others. Does anyone else blend their own coffee? What works? What’s good?

It’s official. Not only does McDonald’s offer their new premium blend (which they need to define as “tastes like ass”), but Dave over at Blogography agrees: Ass Coffee should be seen as such.

Thanks, Dave! I’m pretty sure they’re going to contact me soon to be a spokesperson for their coffee and then I’ll be rolling in the dough. I can see it now: “If McMocha Likes Our Coffee, So Will You! (ba-da-bop-ba-baaaahhh) She’s Loving It!”

You, in the meantime, need to stop working so hard and come over and play on the X-Box360 with Kennimus.

I’ll make snacks. You like butter, right?

Right.

Just not butt. Or Ass Coffee.

I’m going to save money and not have Starbucks for a while. I’m going to finish the Peet’s, free Starbucks from the Thai place, Moroccan coffee and the Boca Java until it’s all gone. Today, a combination of Peet’s Sumatra and the Moroccan has heightened my senses and made me go all abuzz so I was searching the internet for something and found something else and determined that I would SAVE MONEY FOR THIS. Let me just say: Hello beautiful.

alternately titled: Why Alarms, Socks, And Pizza Will Be The Death Of My Husband

Life with Kennimus isn’t mushy all the time. There are some things that most assuredly bother me. Most of them, I let go. I hold on to the ones which grate on my nerves (like hearing styrofoam come out of the freezer - sweet Jesus, if you have any mercy whatsoever, make it stop!) until my body is forced to react in a barrage of cuss words or I throw a teacup/spoon/iron/laptop/hammer at his head. Whichever comes first.

He is, I believe, the funniest person I know. Mostly, it’s his ability to laugh at himself. He can no longer make fun of me because I know I’m a dork and will call it before he gets a chance to do so. However, since Mom-101 is one of my new heroines and asked me to stop all the mushiness, I thought I’d go ahead and let on that Ken. Is. Not. Perfect.

To wit: Ken fails to turn off the alarm. Every. Single. Morning. It starts at about 5:20 and he hits snooze repeatedly until I kick him. Every. Single. Morning. We start our day with a kick and when he’s good and ready he decides to turn it off and get up. This isn’t normally a problem during the school year when I, too, have to crawl out from under the covers. But during the summer? When I don’t have to get up? WHEN I CAN ACTUALLY SLEEP IN? No. He does not alter his routine. This is why the kicks get more forceful this time of year. I’m hoping to leave a bruise soon.
Incidentally, the man can wake up at 5:00 a.m. no problem whatsoever when he has an early tee time for golf. How fair is that?

He also wears two pair of socks. Every day. TWO PAIR! I know! How can someone live at that degree of nonsense? It really doesn’t become a big deal until, at the end of the week, I notice that there are 20 socks lying on the floor outside his closet door.

A friend of mine and I were lamenting over the fact that our husbands are well-liked and how people seem surprised to learn that they have annoying habits. Hers is a well-respected oralmaxofillial surgeon (which, surpisingly has NO Wikipedia entries on it, but loosely refers to dental surgeon) and when people say, “Oh, Eric is soooooo wonderful blah blah blah” she retorts, “Yes. The man is a genius and completely intellectual and even sensitive enough to play the guitar. But would it kill him to pick up his underwear off the floor? When you think I’m a lucky woman, just remember this: I pick up 365 pair of underwear off the floor each year. Glamorous, ain’t it?”

I would counter that I pick up 10,220 socks every year.

Ken has had to take on the cooking and cleaning (which I will just not go into at this juncture so as not to have him quit speaking to me for the entire weekend) since I started classes last year and does well. When he wants to do well. He has made some impressive dishes of chicken kabobs and steaks on the grill, but on a normal, everyday it’s my-turn-to-cook for him, he will make pizza. That’s not what irks me because, quite frankly, I can make something for myself or I eat out somewhere with my classmates in the evening, but it’s that for some strange reason no matter what type of frozen pizza he has bought, there is ALWAYS ONE SLICE LEFT. What is wrong with that one fucking piece of pizza that no one will touch it? And why can’t any of the testosterone-laden species of my house ever eat it or pitch it? It sits on that cardboard circle on the counter in the kitchen and no one wants to throw it away.

That single slice of pizza will be the cause of the next thing I throw at him because it makes me perfectly bonkers to look at it.

I would throw socks since there are so many around the house, but they don’t hurt as much.

I realize that I have too much energy and get up as the ass-crack of dawn. It’s now 7:24 and I have been to the grocery store to get lunch for my afternoon class (it was my turn), gotten dressed, and stopped at the drive-thru coffee place for some chai. I really should have some caffeine BUT I CAN QUIT ANYTIME I WANT TO and it’s rather subdued weather so I went with a skinny chai. I’ll be tired later. I see an obligatory 10:00 diet Pepsi in my future.