Misidentification

Oh dear. Oh dearohdear.

Just about a minute ago, Nicholas was sitting on my lap while I checked the latest comments on the blog, and he got very upset when I scrolled the page past a certain point -- in particularly, the picture of Alan Rickman as Jamie from Truly, Madly, Deeply. So I scrolled it back, knowing he likes to look at pictures and therefore not thinking much of it, and Nicholas pointed to the picture and said, very confidently, "Dada."

Well, this is certainly news to me. But really, I wonder who's going to break it to Hubby?

Strawberries are love

Speaking of Hubby (see previous entry), he just came home with a small basket of strawberries, which he said he bought from some cute little Mennonite girls at a roadside stand. Now, this is the ultimate sacrifice on his part, because Hubby hates strawberries. Which is something I've never, ever been able to understand, myself: how can anyone hate strawberries?

Of course I can understand not liking strawberries when they're overripe and mushy, or when they're not ripe yet, or when they've got worms in them, or something of that sort. But not liking them even at the peak of firm, juicy, rosy-red perfection? Apparently so. Hubby said that he ate four of them on the way home, "just to see," and "every one was worse than the last." He went on to say that if he were lost in a forest and had nothing to eat, he'd still bypass the strawberries until he was absolutely starving.

I think that's incredibly weird, myself. But it was awfully sweet of him to buy me a basket of something he personally hates. And I guess I can't throw stones here, because I can't stand coffee, and I'm sure a lot of people think that's just as weird...

Misidentification Redux

...so I told Hubby about Nicholas and his little case of Rickman-inspired misidentification, and I ended the anecdote with, "I was highly amused."

"I'll bet you were," said Hubby dryly.