The Latte Manifesto

Life with B. is neatly categorized into two modes of operation. Pie Season, and Not Pie Season. In Pie Season, you can eat whatever you want, and lots of it. For B. , this means Pie, preferably the pumpkin variety. It goes something like this: Once or twice a week, he lands in the kitchen with a twine-tied box from Fat Apples and a sneaky grin on his face. We have the following exchange:

B: (positively reeking of impending triumph) Guess what I got?!?! Me: (rolls eyes) B: A PIE!!! (proudly displays the pie) B: (six to twelve hours later) I ate all the pie. Me: (wondering if I can squeeze any more pork products into my daily food routine, simultaneously noticing that my internal organs feel like they are wrapped in brie) Knock yourself out, baby.

“Not Pie Season” mode isn’t nearly as much fun. It consists mostly of me explaining to people why B. won’t eat something delicious.

People: Why isn’t B. having any of that triple chocolate fudge bacon buttercream cake? Me: It’s not Pie Season. People: (knowingly) Ohhhhhhh.

We are searching for manicure scissors at Long’s. After a few minutes B. announces that he’s going to wait by the checkstand. As we part ways, I pass a woman in the hair dye aisle. She doesn’t look up, we don’t make eye contact or acknowledge each other in any way. The following exchange ensues:

B: Hurry up. Me (smartass): I will NOT hurry up. Hair dye: You take your time, girl. Me: You know it. Hair dye: Men should always be kept waiting. Me: That’s right. Me: (took my time)