Coffee Totally F***in Rocks!

Within a few minutes of drinking my first cup of coffee this morning, I was busy drafting out a vision, or rather a lingering memory, of last night’s pee dream.  You know, the realistic and worrisome, but partially waking, thoughts you get when your bladder is full and it’s telling you to get up before it demonstrates to you and your wife how much closer you are in life to wearing Depends than to the night-time pullups your kids wear.

Last night’s episode was about what I would be like, how I would react, when I finally admitted that I had a brain tumor (I don’t, fyi).  Would I pull my kids out of school to spend the two remaining months of my life with them, or would I embrace a life of “letting myself go” by swearing off clothes, personal hygiene, and personal dignity?  Would I be a reluctant bastard screaming at the gods, or be accepting of the reality that I would be never feel what sex is like in my fifties, sixties, or seventies?

Then I wrote down some thoughts about Boba Fett living in the northern suburbs of Atlanta, taking his little Fetts to private school and then hunting down a drive-through sausage biscuit. Next came the Heisenburg Uncertainty Principle of Parenting, in which I determined that both the whereabouts and attitude of my children cannot be accurately known at the same time.  I also made a note about the uncertainty of this Uncertainty Principle – that once you discovered this truth, it would no longer apply.  A sort of “opposite day” in Quantum Mechanics, thereby giving rise the Opposite Day of Quantum Parenting hypothesis.

I wasn’t done.

Under this I also wrote:

  • A list of my favorite Christmas marches, including Bizet’s “Farandole,” of course, but also “Carolan’s Concerto” as performed by The Chieftains and The Belfast Harp Orchestra.  Although not a traditional holiday tune, the Concerto sounded Christmassy this morning as I whistled it while completely stripping and re-decorating the tree
  • “the pipsqueak terror?”
  • “basket of sundry goods to the Jewish mafia”
  • And, finally, what I can now only decipher as “Xmas mauphes.”

how-about-a-nice-cup-of-shut-the-fuck-upAfter returning from taking the kids to school, I began searching frantically through the kitchen for my notebook, which I eventually found in my pocket.  But during the search I noticed inside the sealed glass jar where I keep the coffee grounds was a two-tone brown of a dark shade atop a sediment of tan, like a wholly uninspired attempt at sand art.  I realized I had forgotten to blend the caffeine and decaf grounds that I normally brew, instead going pure and uncut.

And now, I’m going back to bed.


Just The Right Word

Anyone who has read even the small sample of writings here has likely noticed some colorful language. I feel it necessary at this early stage to provide an illustration to explain at least one reason why.

A few times a month I stop by a local breakfast place after dropping off the kids at school (Here, I mean this more literally and not figuratively.  The figurative might indicate that I just sat on the toilet – a variation of “dropping the kids off at the pool.” Just felt I had to clarify this for some of you people – you know who you are).  As usual, the owner was working the counter and he asked one of the servers, as he went to refill a carafe, “is that coffee already grounded?” Then he wrinkled his brow and asked, rhetorically and to no one in particular, “is ‘grounded’ even a word?” It was my lucky day because the rhetorical question is the only way I know how to join a conversation.

And to make this opportunity even sweeter, his question was about language, about which I fantasize being the next Strunk or E. B. White, even though I don’t even know my colon from a participle in the ground.

So I whispered to him, as he passed by again, “hey, whenever I don’t know the right word, I just use ‘fuck.'” He looked at me but didn’t say a thing. And then my brain told me that I’d just suggested to a successful businessman that he ask one of his employees, in front of a dozen or so customers, “is that coffee already fucked?”

Maybe he didn’t hear me, but I never did get that hot cup of freshly fucked coffee to go.

Grocery Store Chronicles – Part 1

Looking over the grocery list I’d scribbled out while driving, I figured that I didn’t need a cart.  Surely I could handle these items with a basket and a free hand:

  • Pack of Pull-ups,
  • 6-months Napkins (apparently I felt it was necessary to specify the length of time, though I have no idea how many napkins this would be),
  • 2 boxes Juice Box,
  • 2 boxes Popsicles,
  • 2 boxes Cracker Packs

Ah, Starbucks.  Right inside the door.  The conversation with my wife just moments before about a friend who’d quit coffee while on a 10-day vegan detox had given me a headache, so I grabbed a small (Tall) coffee, had a sip, placed the cup in my basket, and started my stroll through the store.

After putting the variety packs and then the juice boxes in the basket, I began to sense my mistake.  But my lack of interest in making the wise choice – returning to the front to get a cart – won the day, so I continued my spree.

As I weaved around another aisle, I saw some marked-down leeks back over in Produce that I just couldn’t pass up.  Oh, and some fire-starter sticks, which also created a strong demand for some firewood, which I ran back outside the store to grab.  Perhaps I thought I would start a fire in the mudroom sink when I got home (to cook the leeks?), because we don’t have a fireplace.  Again, I passed up the opportunity to exchange the basket for a cart, and I dashed back inside.  Who the hell set off the alarm?  Probably some moron who’d left the store before paying for their stuff.

Anyway.  Wow, this coffee sure is strong. And it was hot, too, as I felt it splash through the slats of my basket and onto my leg, shoe and floor.  Jeez.  Where’s the cleanup folks when you need them.

After alerting the butcher about the mess out there, I made my way through Dairy and Frozen and decided, finally, to correct my mistake.  I put everything out on the floor to survey what I had, shoved the wood under my right arm, and decided that the juice boxes and crackers would be the easiest to kick along the floor up to the registers.

I made it to Self Check-Out and began picking out the long splinters that had poked through the firewood sack, through my shirt, and into my ribcage.  And it was then, and only then, that it hit me.

Holy Shit! I have completely forgotten how to put on a t-shirt!  I mean every frickin’ time I’ve put on a dark-colored tee lately I get this embarrassing deodorant smudge.  And as I walked past the Lotto machine while carrying something like eight plastic grocery bags (I had forgotten the enviro-bags that I keep in the front seat of my car for this exact reason) I noticed in its reflection how big my man-boobs had gotten.  Damn, girl!

And I forgot the milk, the reason I went to the store in the first place.