I never expected events to turn like this when I first posted about Roseanne.
Truthfully, on that particular day, I felt completely devoid of writing material so I threw together a post on Roseanne and immediately started thinking about how we could coax the dog to dance for a future post.
But mere hours after blogging about the show, Netflix yanked it from its rotation. Which, honestly, made for great blogging. Anyways, we hate Netflix now.
But the plot thickens. The day after Netflix banished Roseanne, Roseanne Barr formally announced her Green Party candidacy.
Coincidence? I think not.
Ian's convinced the corporate wonders at Netflix are mad about Roseanne entering politics and thus dropped her show. I'm convinced my blog elevated Roseanne into the political stratosphere, making her a viable Green Party nominee.
As a candidate, Roseanne wants to end the money economy and establish a barter system instead. Which Ian and I would be fine with, since we will soon own chickens, eggs, and plenty of food crops. We also have a little white dog that Ian would love to use as barter.
Roseanne also wants to end the system of patriarchy in the U.S., saying, "Patriarchy is impotent and qualitatively unable to solve even the most
simple problems in the cosmos such as picking up their own socks or
placing a carton of milk back in the refrigerator after drinking from
it."
I can't think of anything more prolific than that. I highly respect any politician who explains or even notices man's incapability of folding towels or cleaning the bathtub.
Ergo, I feel it only right that Winiferd in the Burbs endorse Roseanne Barr as the Green Party candidate. And as for you, Jill Stein? Harley Mikkelson? Kent Mesplay? YOU ARE GOING DOWN.
Given my involvement with the political rise of Roseanne Barr, I'm hoping she'll hire me as her adviser. I will advise the following for her White House Cabinet:
Vice President
Dan Conner
Department of State
Aunt Jackie
Department of the Treasury
Monday, February 6, 2012
Thursday, February 2, 2012
When Netflix Ruined Our Lives
There once was a time when Redbox nearly ruined our lives. There was also a time when Netflix saved us, and was a shining beacon of light and goodness in a dark and malevolent world.
We strode forth, believing Netflix to be the pinnacle of entertainment. Then they did that greedy, ridiculous price gouge, where people who rented DVDs and streamed video saw a whopping 60% price increase.
We dropped the DVD rental and opted for just streaming instead.
We saw the cracks. We ignored them. We reminded ourselves that streaming video is the future.
We felt safe and warm inside, like how rich white men must feel when they wrap themselves in a blanket of exorbitant wealth and white male superiority. We were safe.
Last week, we began obsessively watching Roseanne reruns on Netflix. This is the big time, baby! This is the future!
Mere hours after posting about our obsession with Roseanne, Netflix yanked the show. Ian and I arrived home from work, frothing for an escape into the world of low wages and working-class stress (my God, it's like they know us!).
Instead we discovered Netflix, in all its corporate wisdom, had banished the show from its rotation. Gone. Kaput.
They took Roseanne away from us when we were in the middle of season 5. It was the television equivalent of Hitler invading France. Netflix was a bastard. A traitor. A Benedict Arnold. Shit was gonna fly.
Ian: "I HATE MY LIFE. I HATE NETFLIX. I'M GOING TO CALL THEM AND COMPLAIN. NO, WAIT. I'M GOING TO CANCEL NETFLIX. THIS CRAP ISN'T WORTH THE MONEY. SEE YOU IN HELL, NETFLIX."
I reacted by scouring the internet for full Roseanne episodes for free. You see, I am extremely cheap and refuse to spend money on most modes of entertainment. Much like healthcare, I believe television should be free and easily accessible.
Luckily I was raised with no cable, so I knew exactly how to react in such a dire situation: I hopped on Youtube and found full-length episodes of Roseanne.
We air-played the episodes onto the TV, breathed a sigh of relief, and embraced the electronic fuzz of our blessed picture box.
And all was right with the world.
Postscript: We'll probably ditch Netflix in favor of a Hulu subscription. If things get crazy, I'll post a suitably hyperbolic response.
We strode forth, believing Netflix to be the pinnacle of entertainment. Then they did that greedy, ridiculous price gouge, where people who rented DVDs and streamed video saw a whopping 60% price increase.
We dropped the DVD rental and opted for just streaming instead.
We saw the cracks. We ignored them. We reminded ourselves that streaming video is the future.
We felt safe and warm inside, like how rich white men must feel when they wrap themselves in a blanket of exorbitant wealth and white male superiority. We were safe.
Last week, we began obsessively watching Roseanne reruns on Netflix. This is the big time, baby! This is the future!
Mere hours after posting about our obsession with Roseanne, Netflix yanked the show. Ian and I arrived home from work, frothing for an escape into the world of low wages and working-class stress (my God, it's like they know us!).
Instead we discovered Netflix, in all its corporate wisdom, had banished the show from its rotation. Gone. Kaput.
Wut.
They took Roseanne away from us when we were in the middle of season 5. It was the television equivalent of Hitler invading France. Netflix was a bastard. A traitor. A Benedict Arnold. Shit was gonna fly.
Ian: "I HATE MY LIFE. I HATE NETFLIX. I'M GOING TO CALL THEM AND COMPLAIN. NO, WAIT. I'M GOING TO CANCEL NETFLIX. THIS CRAP ISN'T WORTH THE MONEY. SEE YOU IN HELL, NETFLIX."
I reacted by scouring the internet for full Roseanne episodes for free. You see, I am extremely cheap and refuse to spend money on most modes of entertainment. Much like healthcare, I believe television should be free and easily accessible.
Luckily I was raised with no cable, so I knew exactly how to react in such a dire situation: I hopped on Youtube and found full-length episodes of Roseanne.
We air-played the episodes onto the TV, breathed a sigh of relief, and embraced the electronic fuzz of our blessed picture box.
And all was right with the world.
Postscript: We'll probably ditch Netflix in favor of a Hulu subscription. If things get crazy, I'll post a suitably hyperbolic response.
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
When Roseanne Took Over Our Lives
The two major things happening at the Winiferd house are at once intertwined and incompatible. Brace yourselves for some heady stuff, people. This is about to get intense.
1. In the beginning of January, Netflix started offering every single episode of Roseanne. We realized this mid-January and have been steadily watching slews of episodes every night.
I'm a life-long fan of Roseanne. I can even forgive that last season, since Roseanne still offered us years of high-quality, cutting-edge comedy. Roseanne was way ahead of its time.
Even in 2012, Roseanne is way ahead of its time. No other show tackled issues of the working class, teenage sexuality, big corporations, and lack of a living wage the way Roseanne did.
Ian had never watched Roseanne. He had no idea what was coming.
I did. In college, I would stay up all night watching Roseanne reruns on Nick at Nite. It was a sickness.
So when Ian entered the world of Roseanne with his 9:00pm bedtime, I knew there would be issues. Deep issues. After watching six hours of Roseanne, we reach a manic point of internal conflict: FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY, WE MUST TURN OFF THIS SHOW; WE NEED TO SLEEP.
We struggle to rip ourselves away from Roseanne, or more accurately, Darlene and Dan. (BECAUSE YOU KNOW THEY'RE THE BEST CHARACTERS. YOU KNOW THEY ARE).
We stagger to bed far too late, reasoning that we've only lost about an hour of sleep. We'll be fine! Let's hit the hay!
2. Here comes the incompatible part: I have no idea why or how, but every single blasted animal living in our house innately knows when we go to bed late.
The night we go to bed late is the night Harvey scratches on the door frames until the wee hours, Spottswood pounds up and down the hallway, and Winnie barks manically at the wayward cats.
It's also the night Winnie needs three potty breaks in a matter of six hours. Dog, I thought you had outgrown this shit. And I'm not talking metaphorical shit. I'm talking literal shit.
We should rename the pets Roseanne One, Roseanne Two, and Roseanne Three, so we can remember the real reason for our lethargy and blame the culprit appropriately.
And you know how sleep-deprived people handle this situation? After a loooong day of feeling sluggish, they come home and watch eleven more hours of Roseanne.
Tonight will be vicious; I can feel it. This is the night Darlene leaves for art school, and you just can't rip yourself away from something like that.
We're only human. We bleed when cut.
Somebody. Anybody. Stage an intervention. PLEASE HELP US.
1. In the beginning of January, Netflix started offering every single episode of Roseanne. We realized this mid-January and have been steadily watching slews of episodes every night.
I'm a life-long fan of Roseanne. I can even forgive that last season, since Roseanne still offered us years of high-quality, cutting-edge comedy. Roseanne was way ahead of its time.
Even in 2012, Roseanne is way ahead of its time. No other show tackled issues of the working class, teenage sexuality, big corporations, and lack of a living wage the way Roseanne did.
Ian had never watched Roseanne. He had no idea what was coming.
I did. In college, I would stay up all night watching Roseanne reruns on Nick at Nite. It was a sickness.
So when Ian entered the world of Roseanne with his 9:00pm bedtime, I knew there would be issues. Deep issues. After watching six hours of Roseanne, we reach a manic point of internal conflict: FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THAT'S HOLY, WE MUST TURN OFF THIS SHOW; WE NEED TO SLEEP.
We struggle to rip ourselves away from Roseanne, or more accurately, Darlene and Dan. (BECAUSE YOU KNOW THEY'RE THE BEST CHARACTERS. YOU KNOW THEY ARE).
This family haunts us. They won't let us sleep.
We stagger to bed far too late, reasoning that we've only lost about an hour of sleep. We'll be fine! Let's hit the hay!
2. Here comes the incompatible part: I have no idea why or how, but every single blasted animal living in our house innately knows when we go to bed late.
The night we go to bed late is the night Harvey scratches on the door frames until the wee hours, Spottswood pounds up and down the hallway, and Winnie barks manically at the wayward cats.
It's also the night Winnie needs three potty breaks in a matter of six hours. Dog, I thought you had outgrown this shit. And I'm not talking metaphorical shit. I'm talking literal shit.
Do not be deceived. This dog has to doo doo.
And you know how sleep-deprived people handle this situation? After a loooong day of feeling sluggish, they come home and watch eleven more hours of Roseanne.
Tonight will be vicious; I can feel it. This is the night Darlene leaves for art school, and you just can't rip yourself away from something like that.
We're only human. We bleed when cut.
Somebody. Anybody. Stage an intervention. PLEASE HELP US.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Homesteading in the Burbs
Confession: Ian and I don't actually live in the suburbs, despite the blog's title. We live in a small rural community next to the burbs. ("Winiferd in the Small Rural Community" didn't have the same zing as "Winiferd in the Burbs").
Our house sits on a half acre of land, and with that much land, Ian and I have decided to try homesteading.
I grew up obsessed with Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books (I pretend Michael Landon's shitty show never existed). I always wanted to be a pioneer.
I also wanted to live in a sod house underground and give that prairie bitch, Nellie Oleson, a swift kick in the pants. Moreover, my translucent skin cries out for an omnipresent sunbonnet, but that's another blog post.
Anyways, Ian's obsessed with growing plants, and he and I both want to harvest our own food. Ergo, we've decided to try homesteading.
The Chickens
I suppose it all started with a talk on chickens. Ian listened to a well-known chicken farmer speak of the virtues of being a well-known chicken farmer, and then Ian stared at enormous hens for an hour. That night, we decided to buy four chicks in the spring.
Of course we'll eat the eggs. And of course we'll use the manure for fertilizing. But... should we eat the chickens? Like, fry them and dunk them in ketchup? Barbeque them? Braise them? Make nuggets out of them?
We went back and forth on chicken murder, until I made Ian watch Food, Inc, which made us grimace and feel queasy. Ultimately we decided we would try to slaughter at least one chicken for meat. "Try" being the operative word.
We're not sure if we can kill a chicken, so Ian and I are going to spend the next several months mentally preparing for the gruesome task.
Ian: "We could make Winnie kill her."
Laura: "Winnie will be terrified of chickens. She'll cower."
Ian: "The dog needs a purpose in life. She needs a job."
Laura: "Remember when you wanted to start a guinea pig farm and make Winnie herd guinea pigs? But she's scared of guinea pigs. Remember?"
Ian: "Yeah."
Laura: "Winnie was bred to sit in laps and get haircuts. She's not a real dog."
Luckily, we have a plan: when we buy chicks, we'll buy three for laying and one for eating. We'll name the meaty one Ethel. After about three to four months, we'll eat her.
From that moment onwards, all new chicks meant for eating will be handed the icy-death name of Ethel. Ethel will take on all the happy connotations of the Grim Reaper.
When the time comes to slaughter, I envision the two of us running with machetes raised above our heads and tears streaming down our faces as we chase a squawking Ethel.
Or we might have to get creative.
I, of course, will let you know how it goes.
The Greenhouse
Ian's currently building a greenhouse out of recycled materials, including old windows and doors he's found over time.
I help Ian by putting all my weight against the greenhouse windows as he hammers things together, watching the dog through the glass doors, and making cryptic comments about the weather.
Laura: "It sure is cold, Ian."
Ian: "It sure is, Laura."
The Seeds
We bought tons of seed for planting this spring. Ian and I are dreamy-eyed at the thought of growing our own food. I hope publishing this blog post will force us to to commit to homesteading.
If we get lazy or significantly less crazy, I'll stealthily delete this post, as I've done with other posts in the past. Ninja Laura strikes again.
Stay tuned, y'all. Will Laura and Ian turn off Netflix in favor of farming? Will we commit chicken murder? Time will soon tell.
Our house sits on a half acre of land, and with that much land, Ian and I have decided to try homesteading.
I grew up obsessed with Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books (I pretend Michael Landon's shitty show never existed). I always wanted to be a pioneer.
I also wanted to live in a sod house underground and give that prairie bitch, Nellie Oleson, a swift kick in the pants. Moreover, my translucent skin cries out for an omnipresent sunbonnet, but that's another blog post.
Anyways, Ian's obsessed with growing plants, and he and I both want to harvest our own food. Ergo, we've decided to try homesteading.
The Chickens
I suppose it all started with a talk on chickens. Ian listened to a well-known chicken farmer speak of the virtues of being a well-known chicken farmer, and then Ian stared at enormous hens for an hour. That night, we decided to buy four chicks in the spring.
Of course we'll eat the eggs. And of course we'll use the manure for fertilizing. But... should we eat the chickens? Like, fry them and dunk them in ketchup? Barbeque them? Braise them? Make nuggets out of them?
We went back and forth on chicken murder, until I made Ian watch Food, Inc, which made us grimace and feel queasy. Ultimately we decided we would try to slaughter at least one chicken for meat. "Try" being the operative word.
We're not sure if we can kill a chicken, so Ian and I are going to spend the next several months mentally preparing for the gruesome task.
Ian: "We could make Winnie kill her."
Laura: "Winnie will be terrified of chickens. She'll cower."
Ian: "The dog needs a purpose in life. She needs a job."
Laura: "Remember when you wanted to start a guinea pig farm and make Winnie herd guinea pigs? But she's scared of guinea pigs. Remember?"
Ian: "Yeah."
Laura: "Winnie was bred to sit in laps and get haircuts. She's not a real dog."
Luckily, we have a plan: when we buy chicks, we'll buy three for laying and one for eating. We'll name the meaty one Ethel. After about three to four months, we'll eat her.
From that moment onwards, all new chicks meant for eating will be handed the icy-death name of Ethel. Ethel will take on all the happy connotations of the Grim Reaper.
When the time comes to slaughter, I envision the two of us running with machetes raised above our heads and tears streaming down our faces as we chase a squawking Ethel.
Or we might have to get creative.
I, of course, will let you know how it goes.
The Greenhouse
Ian's currently building a greenhouse out of recycled materials, including old windows and doors he's found over time.
I help Ian by putting all my weight against the greenhouse windows as he hammers things together, watching the dog through the glass doors, and making cryptic comments about the weather.
Laura: "It sure is cold, Ian."
Ian: "It sure is, Laura."
The Seeds
We bought tons of seed for planting this spring. Ian and I are dreamy-eyed at the thought of growing our own food. I hope publishing this blog post will force us to to commit to homesteading.
If we get lazy or significantly less crazy, I'll stealthily delete this post, as I've done with other posts in the past. Ninja Laura strikes again.
Stay tuned, y'all. Will Laura and Ian turn off Netflix in favor of farming? Will we commit chicken murder? Time will soon tell.
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Dumpy, Lumpy, Tubby, and Squeaky
Dumpy, Lumpy, Tubby, and Squeaky,
Ate each others vomit weekly.
Dumpy was white and hairy and small,
And took hourly dumps that were ten feet tall.
Lumpy was smallest, yet pudgiest too,
And filled her cage with guinea pig poo.
Tubby was large, and by large I mean fat,
He slept all day, a lethargic cat.
Squeaky was thin with a feminine voice,
He liked fashion and ballet and boys of his choice.
New Daddy liked cats, he didn't like dogs,
Dumpy was one he wished to flog.
But Dumpy filled Mommy's heart with joy,
Despite Dumpy's dumps and the toys she destroyed.
Lumpy lived in a large wooden cage,
She was feminist, wise, and remarkably sage.
Tubby disappeared for days upon days,
He was too fat to run and too awkward to play.
Squeaky impressed with his elegant swag,
Mommy and Daddy both joined PFLAG.
All of these animals were encouraged and loved,
Petted and cuddled and snuggled and hugged.
Because they were Dumpy, Lumpy, Tubby, and Squeaky,
And they ate each others vomit weekly.
Thursday, January 12, 2012
Spottswood's Baby Pictures
Ian recently bought some computer hardware back-up... thing that I was completely disinterested in until he showed me that it could store all our photos, including his old photos from the past few years.
And those photos included baby Spottswood.
Ian adopted a tiny Spottswood after his family was killed by dogs. Baby Spottswood was a playful, independent, easy-going, and adventurous kitten.
I ask Ian often how such a rough and tumble kitten morphed into such a skittish and delicate cat.
Here's the world's most perfect cat when he was a kitten:
And those photos included baby Spottswood.
Ian adopted a tiny Spottswood after his family was killed by dogs. Baby Spottswood was a playful, independent, easy-going, and adventurous kitten.
I ask Ian often how such a rough and tumble kitten morphed into such a skittish and delicate cat.
Here's the world's most perfect cat when he was a kitten:
You guys, we can't help it. We both scream, "AWWWWW!" every time we see this photo.
Showing an early interest in shiny objects. He wants to wear jewelry, but Daddy thinks the other boys might tease him at school. Spottswood, darling, you were born this way.
A curious Spottswood inspects an indifferent CDR (may God rest his piggy soul)
A walking Spottswood. HOW AMAZING.
Fixated on a glass. His favorite drink is a Mimosa served chilled in a champagne flute. But we only give him virgin Mimosas. He's still only three, after all.
Mr. Harvard and his young protégé, Spottswood.
Playing Spiderman. Daddy was thrilled that Spottswood wanted to play super-heros... it's never happened since.
Baby Spottswood and fat Harvey
Spottswood has always been expressive. He plans to audition for his school's Wizard of Oz play next week. He wants to be Dorothy.
He's had an eye for fashion from an early age, although he usually prefers pink argyle.
Sorry for another picture post. But, lo, I am hungry and tired. And everyone loves a fuzzy baby, right?
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Ian's Baby Picture
Over Christmas break, Ian's dad made me a copy of one of Ian's baby pictures.
I cooed over it and declared Ian the perfect specimen of baby. That blonde hair! That olive complexion! Those blue eyes! Coo! Cooooooooo!
Ian: "Man, look at that face I'm making. I was trying to look sexy."
Laura: "Was that your sexy baby face?"
Ian: "Yes. I can still make that face. Look."
In other news, one of my coworkers reported seeing a model in a J. Crew catalog who looked just like me.
I never saw proof of this, so I can only assume the modeling executives received my portfolio and were overtaken by my cutting-edge photos. Therefore, they must have published the pictures immediately.
I haven't received my royalties yet, but once I do, I plan to purchase a French villa and some pants.
Ian: "Man, look at that face I'm making. I was trying to look sexy."
Laura: "Was that your sexy baby face?"
Ian: "Yes. I can still make that face. Look."
Ian: "Are you really going to post those? I look like a donkey."
In other news, one of my coworkers reported seeing a model in a J. Crew catalog who looked just like me.
I never saw proof of this, so I can only assume the modeling executives received my portfolio and were overtaken by my cutting-edge photos. Therefore, they must have published the pictures immediately.
I haven't received my royalties yet, but once I do, I plan to purchase a French villa and some pants.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Laura and Ian See Cougars On Separate Occasions and Ring in the New Year
1. Ian and Laura See Cougars
When I say Ian and I both spotted cougars, I don't mean we spotted older women prowling a nightclub. I mean we spotted large cats who could kill and eat us.
About a month ago, I was sitting at the table eating breakfast at 7:00 in the morning. As I gazed out the window, I saw an enormous golden-tan cat walking up the driveway next door. It looked like this:
Then I frantically tried to figure out how I would get in my car to drive to work.
Would I call in and say: "Hey, Mr. Boss, I can't come to work today. There's a cougar in my driveway." And he would be all, "God, Laura, couldn't you just fake sick? What, is there a shark in your bathtub, too?"
And then I tried to figure out how I would take Winnie out to potty.
Winnie has to pee every four hours, and she can only hold it for so long. Oh no, she'll explode. OH, CURSE THAT COUGAR FOR HIS MIGHTY JAWS AND LIMBS. MY BABY WILL HAVE NO BLADDER LEFT, AND WE'LL HAVE TO BURY HER EXPLODED INSIDES.
By this time, the cougar had stalked off. And then I felt weird, or maybe silly, and most definitely stupid. My internal dialogue ran like this:
"Laura, there's no way a cougar would just walk up the driveway. You were still asleep. The perspective was off. You probably just saw a house cat. Of course! It was a house cat, and my mind played a trick on me."
After giving myself a pep talk, I motored to work and later relayed the events to Ian, ending the story with, "but it was just a house cat."
Fast forward to last week. Ian was riding his bike on the Green Line early in the morning on his way to work. He thought he saw two house cats. Here's his internal dialogue:
"Hey! Kitties! Here, kee kee kee! Oh... oh shit. Those are cubs. And that's their giant ass mother. OH MY GOD, PEDDLE FASTER."
After a bit of Googling, we learned there have been a few cougar sightings in our area over the past few years.
So that's how we both saw cougars, and that's how I learned I wasn't crazy.
2. Ringing in the New Year
What can I say? Ian drank two beers, I guzzled orange juice, and then we put the union suit on the dog.
We both passed out on the couch at 10:00pm. Ian woke at 11:00 and dragged himself to bed. I decided that was too much effort, so I continued sleeping on the couch.
I woke at midnight, long enough to snap this photo:
Happy New Year, everyone!
When I say Ian and I both spotted cougars, I don't mean we spotted older women prowling a nightclub. I mean we spotted large cats who could kill and eat us.
About a month ago, I was sitting at the table eating breakfast at 7:00 in the morning. As I gazed out the window, I saw an enormous golden-tan cat walking up the driveway next door. It looked like this:
My heart leaped into my throat, and I froze. Then I jumped out my chair and looked wildly for Winnie, Spottswood, and Harvey to make sure they were safely inside.
Since animals that look like this would obviously live in the wild outdoors:
Would I call in and say: "Hey, Mr. Boss, I can't come to work today. There's a cougar in my driveway." And he would be all, "God, Laura, couldn't you just fake sick? What, is there a shark in your bathtub, too?"
And then I tried to figure out how I would take Winnie out to potty.
Winnie has to pee every four hours, and she can only hold it for so long. Oh no, she'll explode. OH, CURSE THAT COUGAR FOR HIS MIGHTY JAWS AND LIMBS. MY BABY WILL HAVE NO BLADDER LEFT, AND WE'LL HAVE TO BURY HER EXPLODED INSIDES.
By this time, the cougar had stalked off. And then I felt weird, or maybe silly, and most definitely stupid. My internal dialogue ran like this:
"Laura, there's no way a cougar would just walk up the driveway. You were still asleep. The perspective was off. You probably just saw a house cat. Of course! It was a house cat, and my mind played a trick on me."
After giving myself a pep talk, I motored to work and later relayed the events to Ian, ending the story with, "but it was just a house cat."
Fast forward to last week. Ian was riding his bike on the Green Line early in the morning on his way to work. He thought he saw two house cats. Here's his internal dialogue:
"Hey! Kitties! Here, kee kee kee! Oh... oh shit. Those are cubs. And that's their giant ass mother. OH MY GOD, PEDDLE FASTER."
After a bit of Googling, we learned there have been a few cougar sightings in our area over the past few years.
So that's how we both saw cougars, and that's how I learned I wasn't crazy.
2. Ringing in the New Year
What can I say? Ian drank two beers, I guzzled orange juice, and then we put the union suit on the dog.
This is how we throw a party.
We both passed out on the couch at 10:00pm. Ian woke at 11:00 and dragged himself to bed. I decided that was too much effort, so I continued sleeping on the couch.
I woke at midnight, long enough to snap this photo:
Getting buck wild on New Year's Eve
Happy New Year, everyone!
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