Small Pleasures = Great Joy

Life is good. February is Cold. Superbowl Sunday is Funday. Go Colts.

Here's what makes me happy and what hopefully will help get me through the post-holiday cold days (winter without the charm) till the months are finally warmer.



Extra foam in my morning latte at Belly General Store. My girl takes pride in having the best foam around. Its passionate coffee making. Don't judge. After letting her know her status as the best latte maker this side of 285, she went so far in her gratitude as to draw an "L" with chocolate over the massive amounts of foam. Overpriced coffee doesn't sting the pockets so much when you go where everyone knows your name -- And takes the time to drizzle it out in sweet dark goodness.

Cookie dough ice cream. Straight out of the carton. A shared spoon.

Climbing on the roof just to take in the scenes of an early February afternoon. The things you missed doing when you were young CAN and SHOULD be made up at some point in your life. Even at 24. And even at 40 degrees farenheit.

Making the last cup shot at beer pong; basking in the glorious look of defeat your opponent takes on when chugging that last warm cup of bad beer. Being as unhumble as possible when they do so.

The 700 Club Christian News of the World. Unbiased coverage at its finest.

My Memory Foam mattress topper. Pure Beech silken t-shirt sheets. Feeling like you could sleep for days and knowing that you wouldn't miss all that much.

Ostrich burgers. Medium rare. Seriously -- you'll never wish for fatty beef again. Rare. Well done.

Good champagne on a Saturday afternoon for no reason other than SEC basketball on T.V. and the need for something to wash down supreme pizza and breadsticks.

The Blotter in Creative Loafing. Feeling better about my life compared to the man in tan shorts lying across Peachtree Street, drinking Mr. Bostons, and telling the officer, "I'll kick yo ass. 'Cause I'm from Macon, man." Suddenly, my life path doesn't seem so twisted and the days don't seem so cold.

Television smashing with a pink hammer in a darkened parking lot. Who knew the explosion that could happen from just a little crack to the screen? My God! As I stood there in my hooded gangster sweatshirt, next to the dumpster, holding that girly hammer over my head, I felt the exciting rush that must make vandalism the sport that it is.

Music with soul to it. Rhythm. Blues. A bass line. Black, white, red, and yellow soul. No discrimination. Case in point: Amy Winehouse -- White, British, and more soul than James Brown's loafer collection.

A crackling fire and rearranging the living room so as to sit as close as possible to said fire and the television at the same time. Perfection.

The list goes on.




I really haven't missed living in Los Angeles till most recently. I forgot that winter doesn't just mean a 10 degree drop in temperature, causing you to wear long sleeves to the beach and sweaters at night. In some places, winter means ice picks to the car windshield and numbness to the extremities. Yes, I realize that this is Atlanta. Not Nova Scotia. But Whatever. Im over this season already. Wake me up when it's April.