April 16, 2016 — My husband is the Love of My Life. But high on the list is coffee.
I love coffee. I love everything about coffee. I love the smell of coffee. I love the feel of coffee on my tongue. I love the sound our coffeemaker makes as the fresh brew gurgles through the filter. I love the sight of my familiar pink and green mug filled to the brim with the sublime medium-roast. I love the taste of rich, full-bodied coffee, black with no irritating powders or creams.
Most important, I love the things that coffee does for me. Coffee helps me in ways I beyond my ability to spell them out. Here are a few: coffee gets me up and going. Coffee kills the morning troll that’s been hiding under my side of the bed since I got up to use the bathroom at 2 a.m. The troll that wants to throw a rock at Wretched Morning Breath Spouse when he speaks nicely to the cat before the sun is up. That troll that makes me swear every day that I’ll never watch “The Today Show” again if Matt and Savannah don’t stop being so effing chipper. The troll that makes me hate every other human being on the planet. Dr. Phil (and what does he know?) says that the first 15 minutes in the morning are key to a couple’s long-term happiness.
Really? Before I have my coffee, I would like to clean Dr. Phil’s molars with a rusty meat hook.
Coffee provides the routine I need in my life. I’m not talking about connecting with my Android calendar. If I drink my coffee, as I normally do, between 8 and 8:30 .m., life is glorious and joyous at 9:30 a.m. Butterflies, Unicorns and fairies appear, and life is good.
We don’t even want to think about what happens when The Editorial We doesn’t get coffee until, say, 10 a.m. Bad, bad things happen. The earth stops revolving around the sun.
We’re ending a long week. I had four days of meetings either at 7:30 a.m. or 8 a.m. I am not a morning person, despite my mother telling me every day of my childhood that I would magically turn into one someday. Mom, you’ve been dead for four years. I’m almost 59 years old. Never going to happen.
We slept in late today, and I nearly killed the Love of My Life when he made goo-goo eyes at our ancient cat and asked him, “Are you my baby kitty?”
No, he is not your baby kitty. He is eighteen years old and just had diarrhea and threw up in my bathroom.
The cat would probably do a whole lot better if he just drank some coffee with his fish crunchies in the morning.