everything flows downhill

Quick aside-- today I'm thankful for the fact that tomorrow there will be no blog because the Queen and I will be sitting closer than we've ever sat before at a Josh Groban concert!! (Pretty amazing-- and pretty amazing that we actually found anyone to babysit the boys overnight!)

Anyways, I realized to my great chagrin about a week ago that I had something in common with Scott Hansen, the gentleman who hosts the NFL Red Zone on Sunday afternoons. No, it's not that I make tons of money and am recognized across the world of sports. (I can only dream.) Rather, it's what he said when he was on a local radio station here in town this week. "I went to Syracuse," he said, "and majored cum laude in broadcast journalism. Then I spent ten years in my field honing my craft to get where I am now... and you know what the universally most asked question I get is? It's this: 'Scott, you're broadcasting with no commercials for seven straight hours through an entire day... when do you go to the bathroom?? Really, that's it! I've reached my dream job and the only thing that people are interested in is when I take a leak?"

I think I've hit that nirvana. A full ride scholarship to both high school and college, five years in college honing my writing craft (and skipping a few nonessential classes-- I was decent at both), culminating in a B.A. for English Literature, and what do I do? I'm a carpenter/ homebuilder, and when I do write, it's 85% potty humor. Yeah, I think I've arrived.

Without any further buildup, tonight's potty humor: Saturday was a relatively stressful night, and to celebrate surviving it, Rachel and I decided to do something we hadn't in forever (really? get your mind out of the gutter) -- watch a movie. At home. It sounded blissful. It wasn't. We watched a movie that looked tremendous right until the final five minutes, which made me so mad that I literally punched our window blinds. Rachel took exception to my churlishness, and thus we launched a good old-fashioned 11:00pm argument. You know, the kind where you aren't actually fighting about anything; you're just exhausted and the person happens to be there to fight with. Enter Judah, therapist extraordinaire.

He started fussing, and we both looked at each other in surprise before I grumpily said I'd go get him-- he never wakes up at night. When I picked him up, he seemed happy to see me, like I'd rescued him from a horrible situation.

Never ones to let a little baby get in the way of a good argument, we started verbally jousting again, when I interrupted Rachel with a "what the heck?" Judah's pajamas had literally just sprayed me from three different spots. That's right, folks. Our little peacemaker had just fire hosed me through his PJs. We burst out laughing so hard that we never did get around to finishing the argument. I guess I'm thankful for that too.