You'll be a man someday, but for now...

Thanks to J's Uncle Bobby, I, as well as all of you out there (J, I am your wife and we are bonded eternally by law and by the Lord above and you cannot divorce me for publishing pictures of you in a bunny rabbit outfit, ok?) can see what my precious husband looked like as a youngster all ready for Halloween, or for just hanging out at home having a good time. Bobby pulled me aside on our recent trip to Connecticut and handed me a white envelope, explaining that he had some blackmail material for me. There was no way in hell I was going to deprive my friends and the world wide web of this. My Justin. I couldn't love anyone more.

She doesn't want a Rolex

This morning I called my parents to chat during the interminably long drive to Siler City. I was greeted by my father's half-Irish-half-Chinese "Helllooooooooooooooo," which serves to ward off any telemarketers (so that they might think they've reached the wrong house, that couldn't be the voice of one Fred Rotondaro, could it?) Once he'd confirmed that I was, indeed, his daughter, my father told me all about how my mother was "abusing" him because he'd forgotten to buy milk. I could hear her in the background, asserting that buying the milk is "his job" and that she'd asked him to do it, and he hadn't. Later on in the conversation we got to talking about things I wanted for Christmas. My dad put me on speaker and said he was holding the phone up over his head as he lay in bed so that my mom could hear me clearly and talk to me as she moved from bedroom to bathroom, getting ready for work. I asked my father what he wanted for Christmas and before he could fully answer the question my mother loudly interrupted, clearly not over the horror that she'd met upon attempting to have a decent breakfast, "MILK. Cara, I want milk. I want your father to PROMISE ME THERE WILL ALWAYS BE MILK."