Honey, I can’t. It’s ski season.

A guest post by Courtney Chaffee “Honey, I can’t. It’s ski season” is a sentence that haunts me six months a year. It’s a sentence that irritates me, makes me happy and tests my patience all at the same time. This sentence is uttered to me more times than “Honey, have you lost weight?” “I love you” and “Why can’t we hang the antlers in the living room?” I figure all famous people have their tag lines, and this is Scott’s. Paris has “That’s hot” Schwarzenegger has “I’ll be back” and Britney has “It’s Britney Bitch.” Scott likes to think he is a celebrity, so this one is his.

See, my husband Scott is addicted to skiing. Addicted may not be a strong enough word. It’s all the matters to him. He wants us to plan the birth of our children around the ski season. He figures I can get pregnant in January. That way I can ski the next couple months and have the child in October and will be able to ski in November when the mountain usually opens for the season. Apparently, childcare is at the bottom of his list of priorities, or maybe he has a pack of wolves on retainer that I am not aware of yet.

Most people in Seattle wait through the nine months of grey.They look forward to the three months of blue skies that Seattle has to offer, when Seattle looks like a preview of heaven. These three months are the most dreadful to Scott. He tells me he tries to “keep his head down and trudge through.” While most people In Seattle suffer from a lack of vitamin D, too much seems to put Scott in a coma.

Between Thanksgiving and Easter, I am not allowed to plan anything. These are the months that I am sentenced to a life of being cold, tired and eating nothing but chili at the lodge. Every Friday we are to leave directly from work, retreat at the mountain for the weekend and not come down until Sunday. You could consider this a mini life sentence.

While to some this sounds like a wonderful life, to me I “keep my head down, and trudge through.” I had never skied until I met my husband. I grew up in a family where if there was a heavy frost outside on the ground we would hunker down and survive on cheese and crackers until it warmed. Hurling ourselves down a mountain with a couple of planks under us would be something we would do right after joining the circus. Scott told me, “I like you, but if this is going to work out, you are going to have to learn to ski.” These should have been clues to the imminent torture I would soon endure.

So here I am, doing the best I can to be supportive and a good sport about this addiction that so many people have. I have learned to ski and do enjoy it. I am supportive and quiet through the season, BUT I CANNOT STAY QUIET ANYMORE.

For La Nina has reared her ugly head at me, and I for one am not taking it! Too many Christmas parties I have missed out on because “Honey, I can’t, it’s ski season.” Too many Valentine’s Days I have been neglected because “Honey, I can’t it’s ski season.” And too many times my body has ached due to ski boots, falls, or hiking. One Christmas Scott gave me an I.O.U. for new granite countertops. Unfortunately, the birth of our Lord and savior Jesus Christ falls in ski season, so it was once again “Honey, I can’t right now, it’s ski season.” My Christmas gift arrived in June, after begging, pleading, and threats of hiring the most over-priced crew I could find they went in. One ski season, the electricity went out in the bedrooms in our house. Once again, “Honey, I can’t it’s ski season.” I was forced to wear a head lamp while getting ready in the morning. It was the only way to navigate through the closet in the morning and get dressed. This went on for almost a month until I threatened to leave him for a hotel with electricity.

This ski season was supposed to end in April... APRIL 17 to be exact. The ski season was unfortunately extended due to record snowfall (boo), and Scott has tried to ditch the family on Easter, cancel my trip to Maui in the beginning of May and revoke his RSVP to two weddings all in the sake of “Honey, I can’t, it’s ski season.”  And they are predicting this ski season to go to July. Let the battle continue.

When Scott Chaffee leaves this earth, his tombstone will read, “Here lies Scott Chaffee, beloved Husband, Son, and Friend. Honey, I can’t, It’s ski season.”

THIS IS ME HATING MY LIFE

Here is Scott saying “Keep bringing it, La Nina.” Also, a rare photo of Scott wearing his wedding ring.

Peninsula Party for Anniversary Weekend 2011

Happy Anniversary, Amanda Renee!!!

Amanda and I celebrated our first anniversary last weekend on the Washington State peninsula, a place where few tourists venture because of its distance from Seattle, but unquestionably one of the most beautiful places in the U.S. Seriously, where else do you see sea, land and mountains so dramatically (reference the picture above)?

As you can see below, we started our trip traveling from Tacoma to Hood Canal, where I had a speaking engagement, and drove up the east coast of the peninsula on Highway 101.

We stopped at Mt. Walker to take in the views of the North Cascade and Olympics on one side and Seattle and Mt. Rainier on the other. It was like taking the vantage point of the Olympics when they stare back at you in Seattle.

We spent the night at Port Townsend, and Amanda loved the town so much that she has since begun a housing search there. Not like that'd ever happen! Still, I'm all for wishful thinking and vacation homes. We stayed at Palace Hotel, a former brothel, that I'd highly recommend.

Then we took a ferry ride over to Whidbey Island.

We stopped on Whidbey Island to enjoy Fort Casey, where I used to have soccer camps as a youth!

From there we continued north and stopped at Deception Pass to hike around and walk on the bridge. Very cool!

As you can see from the photos, the weather was spectacular all weekend... until we got to Bellingham. It was overcast and rainy. Nevertheless, we drank well, ate well and concluded a great anniversary celebration!

Landscaping Like a Lemming

Amanda and I have had some big visions for our backyard, which looked just short of a landfill when we first bought the house. I had already done the tilling and landscape shaping, so this weekend (a few weeks back now) was all about filling in the beds. My objective was to shovel four cubic yards (Read: back pain) of dirt from the blue-tarp throne in front of my garage to various garden beds in my backyard.

The dirt was literally crap. We used the City of Tacoma's own TAGRO -- "a blend of City of Tacoma Class A Biosolids—the EPA’s highest rating— highly screened sawdust and other gardening elements." Did you read "biosolids" in that sentence? It's nothing new to use "manure" in your yard, but when you have to market "biosolids" you're not talking manure. You're talking about people poop. Upon learning this fact, Sergio freaked out and protested the use of crap in the yard, which the cat rebutted by using a nearby flower bed as a toilet. Point goes to the cat.

Regardless of the mix or the smell -- oy, the smell -- the TAGRO was dirt cheap (get it?!). I paid $50 to have the crap (get it?!) delivered to the house. That's easily one-third the price of dirt with less quality crap in it. Whoever said Tacoma doesn't have competitive city services doesn't know about how the city delivers crap for cheap!

I don't know much about lemmings except for the video game, but what I recall is that the lemmings all followed each other back and forth in a monotonous way and would follow each other off a cliff if you'd let them. That's what the work felt like, Amanda and I walking back and forth from the dirt pile to the backyard, shoveling and dumping, shoveling and dumping.

It took a full day, but we got the job done and in plenty of time to get some planting done, including in Amanda's new planter box!

Catching Up on the Last Couple Months

I've realized that I'm way behind on posting photos since my birthday, so this is my catch-up post. I turned 28!

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Simon the Dog has been at our house so much that a neighbor asked me why he hadn't seen him lately, thinking he is actually our dog.

Jackson and Riley had a baby!

My birthday party was CRACKIN! as you can see by this wild picture below.

promotional rate balance transfer

Scott found his calling at Rock Band guitar.

Fabrizio looks like this 90% of the time.

We've been working a lot in the yard and I planted a Weeping Cherry. Not sure that's the scientific name.

My wife still looks great in the morning without any make-up, so nothing's wrong with the world... until she see's that I've posted this photo.

Tacoma, Step Your Morning Coffee Game WAY Up

Every man has a breaking point, and I've reached mine. I cannot get a good Americano served to me before 7 a.m. in Tacoma. It's ridiculous. File this story under "First World Problems" and "High Maintenance Espresso Consumer."

Over, oh, the past month or so, Amanda and I have sought to get an Americano from the many good coffee shops within a half-mile of our house. We live in Tacoma's "most concentrated neighborhood for java," according to the News Tribune. We probably have 10 easily-accessible coffee shops, not including Starbucks, within a 2-minute drive. The problem is that few of these are open before 7 a.m. Who are these lazy owners who don't open their shops when people need caffeine the most -- in the MORNING?! I want to punch all of them in the face.

Last week, we tried going to the new Bluebeard cafe. Thankfully, they were open early. The Americanos were excellent, but the service was S-L-O-W. If you want to take five minutes to crank out a double tall espresso on a Sunday at 11 a.m., fine. But if you take that long on a weekday morning at 6:30 a.m. to pull shots, you might as well throw a closed lane into my commute because I've missed my bus connection in Seattle by the time I've paid for the drink. Speed is an essential part of service in the weekday commuting hours, and I will sacrifice taste is it means I'm not late to where I need to be. It's not like I'm asking for a complex drink. Pull the shots, add the water and send me on my way in two minutes. I'll go back to Bluebeard, but only if I have time to watch the sunrise.

Before Bluebeard, we went to the the tried-and-true Starbucks drive-thru across from the middle school, but even THAT sucks in Tacoma. How is that possible? It's Starbucks, where I don't expect the best drink but at least good consistency. I ordered an Americano, and guess what I got back? A soy latte. WTF?! Thanks for the speed and price break on the more expensive drink, but it's not what I ordered. Where is the competency in pouring the right drink in the right cup? Now, I go to the Starbucks in Bellevue frequently. Then know my name. They know my order. The service is phenomenal. In Tacoma, they can't keep my simple drink straight.

I know it can't just be a workforce talent issue in Tacoma. My and Sergio's favorite coffee spot, Satellite, is excellent. They pull shots with the best of them in Seattle - Fiore and Vita - and serve beans from Stumptown. It's a great cup of coffee and a great experience all around. Of course, I confirmed today that they're not open before 7 a.m., so I have to wait for the weekend to get the best. Amanda suggested we head down the street to the coffee bar outside of Stadium Thriftway. OK, it's a Thriftway. There has to be a standard of coffee here consistent with the food product in the store.

Wrong. After a 15-minute wait to ensure the way-too-hot Americano didn't destroy the inside of my mouth, I gave it a taste and the shots were burnt. It totally ruined my morning. Not that drink in particular, but the notion that I can't get a worthwhile Americano in Tacoma from corporate, chain or local shops.

I bitched about how bad the Americano was for the better part of our commute to Seattle - 45 minutes - and suggested aloud a number of solutions to the problem, the best being the idea that anyone pulling shots in Washington State should be licensed to do so. The idea of getting bad coffee in this state is bad for tourism at the least and bad for our caffeinated economy. If hair stylists need licenses, it's not a stretch for baristas to take a day class and get licensed. Am I wrong?

Amanda kept quiet while I vented, but she didn't hesitate to communicate in other ways:

Wives are good at reminding their husbands that compromises are necessary, so I'll make this one. Tacoma coffee industry, I'll improve my outlook and attitude and you start opening earlier and pulling a decent shot!