coke and poop - what a combo!

Who would believe that my two most exciting events of today involved poop and coke? Who could further believe that I would breathe "poop" in the same sentence as my beloved coke?

Tonight, emma was taking a bath with her friend clara anne. As you know, emma sometimes has issues pooping in the bathtub. Well tonight, just like usual, she assumed the squat position and waited. (This is usually my cue to say "poopoo?" and in one swift motion, grab her and stick her on the sink - just to avoid the poop in the bathtub drama. Remember, I ALSO use this bathtub, so my intentions are not completely pure...) She just looked at me and said "peepee!" So - I grabbed her and stuck her on the sink. Two seconds later, I look down and yay! Her first poo-poo! We've been through this routine before, but this is the first "productive" time, so we were all really thrilled with emma's poo. All our guests that evening gave her a rousing round of applause, and emma was so excited to receive all our adulation she could barely contain herself!



Ok, so the coke story.

First, you need some background. I am a coke fanatic. I have a very scientific way I open any coke I drink, I have certain specifications for how already used bottles of coke should be handled and stored in the refrigerator, and I am quite particular about creating the perfect coke-drinking environment. And I don't mean "coke" as in "soda". No, no, no. I mean "coke" as in "coca-cola company", like "take-me-to-atlanta" coke.

Life here in asia has provided me with a dilemma. The coke here just not up to par - much sweeter than the American version, and has much less of what I can only describe as "bite" to it. Thus, I became a traitor to my true beverage love. I began drinking Pepsi (but ONLY in my asian country. I would never do such a thing in America!) The pepsi here seems more like Coke in the States, so at least I can rationalize it that way. However, for special occasions, I have even been known to arrange American-canned coke to be shipped to me from across the country, from import stores willing to ship to me. This is how serious i feel about my beverage choice.

Which brings us to tonight. My husband and two of his friends walked home from a delightful dinner at Pizza Hut while my friend Rachel and I (and our four thousand children) took a taxi back to my house. Right before we were about to go to bed, josh says to me, "hey rach...come look at something in the kitchen."

I walk to the kitchen as he proudly - and reverently - opens the refrigerator door. There, standing like the Statue of Liberty - calling to its tired, poor, and huddled masses longing to drink freely - is a beautiful, gleaming red can of Coca-cola. No foreign language is to be seen, only the small white sticker on the bottom of the can that exuberantly screams "IMPORT". Thinking it was too good to be true, I double-check. Atlanta, Georgia. My heart leaps within me and a contented sigh falls across my face.

My thoughtful and dear husband saw something that would make his wife's heart melt. Surely enough, it did. And I am the proud owner of that special red can.

Let's see how long I can make it last...