In keeping with the spirit of only writing about myself and my lukewarm anecdotes, I felt the need to share this weekend's ongoing coffee ... fucked-up-ness.
By now, no one needs the backstory about how God hates me and I'm allergic to everything, including dairy, so I gave up coffee four months ago, but I still drink one on Saturday mornings so I can clean like a madman all day until I am felled by a raging panic attack right? We all know this part? Okay.
So just this past Friday evening, Reilly and I were shopping, and she looked at me and said, "Mom, tomorrow is Starbucks Saturday!" Naturally my first thought was "Thank God she still knows the days of the week," as we've been pretty slow in getting back to lessons since the holidays. But my next thought was what a sweet little tradition we've got going, and how nice it is that Todd started it, since he tends to keep his heart of gold under several layers of brick.
Each Saturday, once we greet each other, Todd will tell me what he needs to get done before running for coffee. So yesterday, I eagerly awaited the report, as I was dying to take back my house after being sick all week. Waiting... waiting...no report. Finally, I crept over to Todd, disguised as a church mouse, and meekly asked when he might be going for coffee. (You see, on Todd's list of favourite people, I fall somewhere in the neighborhood of 57th, out of 58, so I try not to be too needy, apart from the $1,000/mo. insurance I require, the $500/mo. meds I must take lest I kill someone, the $300/mo. therapy I attend in hopes of someday learning how to have one conversation that doesn't confound/offend/enrage the other person. There's also the allowance he generously gives me, the gas tank he keeps full, the car he keeps purring like a kitten, the lame-ass food I have to have in mass quantities (ie-Ramen), and the fact that he hasn't thrown my heathen ass to the curb for various crimes against humanity. So you know, I don't want to seem too entitled to my Saturday coffee.
But yesterday, he rather dryly said he wasn't going to Starbucks. "Um, wha?" He had this and that to do, and Starbucks wasn't on his route. (Correct me, but, isn't there a Starbucks on every corner of Deliverance nowhere? What routes are left in the United States that don't have that sickeningly addictive green circle peering out nearby?) Surely you can't blame me for tearing off my church mouse suit and donning the duds of a fearsome bitch scorned and denied her ever-loving caffeine! In reality I have absolutely no leg to stand on here. In fact, I have two perfectly good legs (albeit with cankles), with which I can drive to Starbucks myself, in my afore-mentioned well-running vehicle, to purchase a coffee. But, but, I don't shower before I clean, and I know if I leave the house with greasy slutwhore hair (thanks Pam!) I will get pulled over, or worse, recognized by someone who hates me. (Yes, they're out there--shocker!) So I really can't.
I moped and retaliated by doing only a cursory cleaning job. (This is pathetic and ironic because I don't clean for Todd's benefit, he thinks the house is fine and I should basically shut the fuck up [only in Christian language] and find a hobby because I'm too obsessive about cleaning. God, the nerve right?) It reminded me of a time, this makes me laugh so hard, a couple years ago, after B had gently advised me that wearing as much mascara as I did, with eyeliner, didn't help my problem with dark circles under my eyes. That less is more. So I'd started wearing mascara on my upper lashes only, and I ditched the eyeliner. I felt naked, but she swore it brightened up my face and minimized the dark circles. And I trust her. So one time when I was psychotic and living with them in Monmouth, B and I had succumbed to the stress and had ourselves a little row about something or other. The next morning, to drive my point home, and show her, I put as much mascara and eyeliner on as I could without tipping over. This was meant to hurt her deeply of course, lol. So my retribution cleaning yesterday reminded me of my mascara attack on B years before, and I had to chuckle at myself.
Wait. (Wakes from coma.) How did I get from coffee to mascara madness? Oh well, no one's forcing you to read this.
So I woke up this morning before dawn with a lot on my mind and a big day ahead and my solution to that is always to compile a list of the least-favoured, most obscure, worst household tasks, and jump up and do them. I mean, what a high, honestly. It's my meth. This morning I was definitely going to need a jolt, and I knew better than to look to Todd for heaven's sake. So I sulked all the way to kitchen to brew my own Premium Starbucks Roast Espresso, but failed to break his heart. I got the old machine brewing, and bustled around, rejoicing in the steamy hiss that marks imminent caffeine infusion. At some point I glanced over and noticed I'd forgotten to place the caraffe under the spout, so not only did 75% of my coffee end up under the floorboard, a cleaning job I loathe, but I was fairly fucked as far as caffeine went, since that was the last of our coffee. (I mean, we had more in the refrigerator, but it requires grinding, and who am I, Cinderella?) It only took 95 exaggerated sighs to pique Todd's interest. I explained what happened, and set about to pour my 1/100th of a cup of joe into a mug and add milk and swig it with all my might. In truth I filled a large cup, and its entire volume was down my gullet before I realized the milk was sour. I immediately put my head in the garbage and vomited. I hate milk, and only use it to neutralize the bitterness of coffee, so sour milk to me is barely preferable to eating feces. In the "Todd Does Have a Heart" category, he took pity upon me face-first in the garbage like some wine-o, and rushed to Starbucks to soothe my palate with the coffee he motherfucking should have gotten me in the first place, lol. (I am, of course, kidding. I am no princess.)
Okay, I've sucked down every last drop, so I'd better get moving before the gut-wrenching panic sets in. Just beware the hazards that may befall you when you break tradition. Especially if it involves me.