Cokebaby, the husband
I’ve been thinking lately about how I don’t have a clever online name for my husband. Everyone else seems to have one for their web-shy mates.
So, without further ado…I’d like to introduce my husband, Cokebaby.
No, he’s not a cocaine dealer. There’s actually a kind of funny-in-a-sad-way story behind this running joke. When we first moved to the province, my sister-in-law was a host to students involved with Katimavik. At the time, we were renting out a basement apartment in their home so we wound up hanging out with the students at dinners very frequently. Most of the students were from Russia on exchange with Canadian students.
It was at one end-of-year celebration when we found ourselves in a low income part of the city. Growing up in lower-upper class neighbourhoods, I never really experienced anything like it before besides driving through urban areas of the States with the windows rolled up. OK, it wasn’t like that. But there was definitely a discrepancy between the tires as lawn ornaments and the Russian caviar we were consuming as appetizers.
While we were huddled around eating the fancy hors d’oeuvres, an infant passed through room wearing nothing but a diaper and a tee. He held out a bottle–not a sippy cup, but a bottle with the plastic nipple on the top mind you because that’s how young he was–and it was filled, by what we can only assume was the mother, with Coke. As in the cola.
And because my husband has for years been addicted to the substance, he will henceforth be known here as Cokebaby.
That is the story of Cokebaby. No word of a lie.
P.S. I don’t actually think it’s funny to feed babies cola.