It's moments like these that I really wish I had a "Sweetie" around, because following the realization that I had created yet another perfect pot of unidentifiable sludge, the conversation in my head went something like this:
Me: Sweetie, I think I ruined another pot of coffee.
Sweetie: Oh, it's ok pookie. I know the coffeepot is a temperamental beast that hates you. I'll just brew a fresh pot while I wait for these delicious organic blueberry scones to come out of the oven. Why don't you sit down and put your feet up?
And I don't really want to call someone sweetie. Or, worse, be called pookie. I don't want someone who is condescending or a better cook than I am, and I don't want to put my feet up, because I've got a lot of stuff to do. In fact, the only part of this fantasy that I really want is SOMEONE TO MAKE ME COFFEE. RIGHT. NOW.
It really wasn't all that long ago that I thought coffee was a completely disgusting drink, unless of course you were offering me a Starbucks tall white mocha or something else sufficiently syrup-fied and sweetened, preferably with about 9000 calories and a guaranteed ass-growth of 3 inches.
But then, on a rainy morning not unlike today, I arrived at work stressed out, not wanting to be there, having slept poorly, with the makings of a migraine coming- you name it. And for whatever reason, it occurred to me, "Hey, maybe a cup of that caffeinated beverage that makes me want to hurl will help the situation."
Pour. Cream. Sugar. Stir. Sip. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
Since then, I've enjoyed a mild addiction that was satisfied by perhaps thrice-weekly visits to the hospital's "a la carte" cafe and the occasional breakfast meeting at Patachou or Panera.
Until now. Because now, my office is my house, and Mr. Coffee has turned into a most rebellious employee. I won't even get into his friend Captain Folgers French Blend over there, 'cause I'm about ready to fire him. It's been four days and I have yet to figure out how to make a decent cup of coffee that isn't the color of weak tea or the consistency of fudge. Something in the translation of the ounces to cups to scoops thing is lost to me forever, along with the password for my wireless internet and how to program my outdoor lights timer.
As Becky versus the inanimate objects continues, I'm giving this battle to Mr. Coffee, and fervently hoping that some kind soul will come over soon and teach me how to make a decent cup. I'll even call you Sweetie.