I can't believe I'm saying this, but Fall is finally here...
...and I just feel depressed.
Dunno what it is, but I just can't shake this gloom. I think it started Sunday, which was a real doozy. I don't want to be all negative and complain-ey, but whatever, I'm just being honest (in the words of Simon Cowell).
Maybe I crave cold weather and sweaters and soup, but I actually can't handle days & days w/o vitamin D or E or whatever the heck is in the sun.
Today my radio was set on XM channel 52 The Coffee House. It's all acousticy & live versions of songs. Like the kind you might *snap* after. You know what? I want to wear dark jeans & tees & go to a REAL coffee house in the city where they serve coffee in oversized mugs and have live, whiny bands.
Unfortunately I've spent my 20s learning how to be married and having babies.
Can you still go to deep, dark, & depressed coffee shops when you're 40? I hope so. Because I don't think I fully exorcised that urge before it became un-possible.
This would be an excellent time to go take a hot shower, cozy up with Twilight, and listen to some Debussy. Unfortunately a) there is nowhere to go in my parents' house to be alone, unless I want to be alone with Sam, which doesn't really count, and b) I think I packed my Debussy cd in our storage unit. Pathetic! (As Eeyore would say.)
I can't even wallow in my sadness--like, I am actually unable to fully experience it. It's like unrequited melancholy.
Please go read one of those "happy!!!!" blogs now.
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Monday, October 12, 2009
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Mmm buster
Can we talk about Sunday morning? Ugh. First of all, it contains that word, morning.
Most mornings, I creak out of bed, every atom of my being in denial, grab my coffee and zone out in front of my laptop for about 20-30 minutes. Don't try to talk to me or you will get gibberish. In the meantime I plop the kids in front of their favorite morning cartoon. This is especially great for Violet, because she is usually a complete wreck when she wakes up as well. Once we are ready to accept the inevitable, The Day, I feed them breakfast and we get on with it.
Sam disagrees with this routine. Weekends, he gets the kids up and lets them run around my parents main living areas all scream-y, foot pounding, and annoy-me-like-I-have-a-hangover. He makes them eggs and toast and pancakes and crap. Meanwhile, both of my parents are in the kitchen also making breakfast, and he has to dodge them while ponderously attending to the kids' needs (the man is s-l-o-w). By the time I get up and try to get to the laptop--which he is sometimes hogging, gah!!!--he has to come in our "living room" and vent long and hard. Mostly about my Dad, and how he stands for eternal minutes like an Oak in the middle of the kitchen, which is like 5 feet square.
Grr. I think this is a good time to run through:
Sam's Baffling 3 Rules for Life, Gleaned From Growing Up All New England & "Baptist"
(additional thoughts by Leah)
1. Don't cut people off with your cart at Wal-Mart.
(How is efficient maneuvering a crime? If people are going slow, I have every right to go around them. It's like survival of the fittest. California road rules, baby.)
2. If you are a guest in someone's home, it is rude to sleep in, especially if they have gone to the trouble of making you some huge-ass breakfast.
(OMG, it is sooooo thoughtful to slave over meals that your guests don't care about so they can eat them during hours when they can't function. This rule has some sort of messed up passive-aggressive disfunctionality going on, but I can't pick it apart. Anyway, it's just wrong.)
3. Don't be late for group events, especially church.
(Just the idea of this being such a rigid rule makes me want to rebel and be late on purpose. I do try to follow it when Sam's around, but other than that I can't bring myself to care that much. When you add in the fact that I have kids--clingy and difficult ones who make getting ready like wading through quicksand--I feel downright fatalistic.)
So yeah, Sunday Mornings. They do not contain coffee sipped in front of Facebook/blogs/message boards/MSN. They don't even contain time for breakfast. I am forced to get up, blindly stumble through my bathroom ablutions, get dressed up, and wrangle the kids public-ready. I guess we could all wear jeans, but MY Baptist upbringing rebels against that. Sam is always like a drill sergeant, yelling out, "fifteen minutes!" & stuff. I feel groggy and stressed and pissy.
Finally, we get in the car, and about 25% of the time we are late. So then Sam is angry, and that makes me upset because I think it's unfair, and anyway I'm already in a bad mood. Even if we aren't late, I am still cranky, because I've yet to have my coffee, and I have to FACE PEOPLE in a few minutes. And, oh God, shake their hands. Yay!
When we pull in, Sam likes to park in the furthest spot from the church. This seems to happen a lot when I am wearing heels. Because he is a guy, and doesn't notice that sort of thing. So then I am in my heels, carrying Baby Wright, who will only let me carry him, and I have stumble along at this uncomfortable pace to keep up with Sam as he races towards the kids club area--can't break rule #3!
What I really need to do is just get some sort of Blow Up Bimbo On-Time Wife and send that to church with him. He could just hoist her up and her plastic, air-filled heels would float easily above the pavement.
Once we are in church, I try to surreptitiously finish my coffee, but I feel kind of guilty. Technically, we aren't supposed to have drinks in the sanctuary. I worry that everyone is staring at me and I am bothering them with my long pulls. I need its comfort though, because I am officially miserable, and in a few minutes I have to fakely shake hands with perfect strangers.
I think our church needs to have a smokers' area in the courtyard, except instead of smokers, it could be all the caffeine addicts who didn't have time to drink their coffee or whatever. We could all stand around holding our cups while feeling so, y'know, connected. They could even pipe in a little sanctuary feed. Or maybe I should just go to North Coast.
PSA, if you see me at church and I looked pissed off, it's not you. It's just...unfortunate. It's the Sunday system. It doesn't like me, and I freaking want to kill it. I think I am a prime candidate for Saturday night church. Our church needs to start that, because I think it could really change my life.
Anyway, today, this happened, and I was a total victim of my Sunday morning funk:
Scene: Sam is standing around talking to a couple of his friends. I have just come back from picking up both kids from their Sunday School classes (total Baptist speak, BTW, just can't drop it).
Players: Sam, Me, Mr. Clueless Husband Smith, and Mr. Avoidant Observer Jones.
Mr. CHS: Hey Sam, you want to come over on a weeknight and play with my new *guitar/amp-ish stand in for a jacked-up truck*?
Sam: Uh...did you see my wife's face just now?
Me: *general type unhappy face*
Mr. CHS: What? *to me* You don't let your husband out on weeknights?? He, like, needs to have fun, man!
Mr. AOJ: *steps back several feet and smirks in the background*
Me:
*brain not properly functioning, but deeply offended that a) my expression was interpreted to be a part of their conversation, and b) I am being accused of being the kind of wife that "lets" or "doesn't let" her husband do crap*
Uh, no, Sam does all kinds of stuff. He does guitar practice, guitar on Sundays, sound practice, sound on Sundays. And...uh...other stuff, too.
*later on, I'll remember baseball games and football at Paul's house, but not then*
Mr. CHS: But that's all ministry stuff!
Me:
*brain waves = zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*
Same thing.
*it really is*
Sam, stepping in: Yeah, weeknights don't work the best for me, what about a Saturday?
Mr. CHS, to me: Hey, is Sam allowed to come over on a Saturday? Or would you let him have people over?
Me:
*feeling and looking verrrrrry bitchy. I do not allow or disallow ANYTHING. Grr. I do not play Sam's mother. He can do whatever he wants--he is a man after all. I am so not into that whole man-whipping thing that our society loves to tout. Let them be men, men are awesome. Anytime Sam wants to go do something with his friends, I usually say, sure! Go have fun! He comes home to a couple of crying kids every night and lives at his in-laws. He deserves it. Now they think I am this bitch who browbeats poor Sam, and my brain can't come up with language to refute it*
Uhh...? Yeah?
Mr. AOJ: *still in the background smirking*
Sam: Okay, that'll probably work for me. What about this Saturday?
Mr. CHS: Well, I'll have to check with the wife. She schedules my weekends, y'know!
Please get me home to my coffee and laptop.
Most mornings, I creak out of bed, every atom of my being in denial, grab my coffee and zone out in front of my laptop for about 20-30 minutes. Don't try to talk to me or you will get gibberish. In the meantime I plop the kids in front of their favorite morning cartoon. This is especially great for Violet, because she is usually a complete wreck when she wakes up as well. Once we are ready to accept the inevitable, The Day, I feed them breakfast and we get on with it.
Sam disagrees with this routine. Weekends, he gets the kids up and lets them run around my parents main living areas all scream-y, foot pounding, and annoy-me-like-I-have-a-hangover. He makes them eggs and toast and pancakes and crap. Meanwhile, both of my parents are in the kitchen also making breakfast, and he has to dodge them while ponderously attending to the kids' needs (the man is s-l-o-w). By the time I get up and try to get to the laptop--which he is sometimes hogging, gah!!!--he has to come in our "living room" and vent long and hard. Mostly about my Dad, and how he stands for eternal minutes like an Oak in the middle of the kitchen, which is like 5 feet square.
Grr. I think this is a good time to run through:
Sam's Baffling 3 Rules for Life, Gleaned From Growing Up All New England & "Baptist"
(additional thoughts by Leah)
1. Don't cut people off with your cart at Wal-Mart.
(How is efficient maneuvering a crime? If people are going slow, I have every right to go around them. It's like survival of the fittest. California road rules, baby.)
2. If you are a guest in someone's home, it is rude to sleep in, especially if they have gone to the trouble of making you some huge-ass breakfast.
(OMG, it is sooooo thoughtful to slave over meals that your guests don't care about so they can eat them during hours when they can't function. This rule has some sort of messed up passive-aggressive disfunctionality going on, but I can't pick it apart. Anyway, it's just wrong.)
3. Don't be late for group events, especially church.
(Just the idea of this being such a rigid rule makes me want to rebel and be late on purpose. I do try to follow it when Sam's around, but other than that I can't bring myself to care that much. When you add in the fact that I have kids--clingy and difficult ones who make getting ready like wading through quicksand--I feel downright fatalistic.)
So yeah, Sunday Mornings. They do not contain coffee sipped in front of Facebook/blogs/message boards/MSN. They don't even contain time for breakfast. I am forced to get up, blindly stumble through my bathroom ablutions, get dressed up, and wrangle the kids public-ready. I guess we could all wear jeans, but MY Baptist upbringing rebels against that. Sam is always like a drill sergeant, yelling out, "fifteen minutes!" & stuff. I feel groggy and stressed and pissy.
Finally, we get in the car, and about 25% of the time we are late. So then Sam is angry, and that makes me upset because I think it's unfair, and anyway I'm already in a bad mood. Even if we aren't late, I am still cranky, because I've yet to have my coffee, and I have to FACE PEOPLE in a few minutes. And, oh God, shake their hands. Yay!
When we pull in, Sam likes to park in the furthest spot from the church. This seems to happen a lot when I am wearing heels. Because he is a guy, and doesn't notice that sort of thing. So then I am in my heels, carrying Baby Wright, who will only let me carry him, and I have stumble along at this uncomfortable pace to keep up with Sam as he races towards the kids club area--can't break rule #3!
What I really need to do is just get some sort of Blow Up Bimbo On-Time Wife and send that to church with him. He could just hoist her up and her plastic, air-filled heels would float easily above the pavement.
Once we are in church, I try to surreptitiously finish my coffee, but I feel kind of guilty. Technically, we aren't supposed to have drinks in the sanctuary. I worry that everyone is staring at me and I am bothering them with my long pulls. I need its comfort though, because I am officially miserable, and in a few minutes I have to fakely shake hands with perfect strangers.
I think our church needs to have a smokers' area in the courtyard, except instead of smokers, it could be all the caffeine addicts who didn't have time to drink their coffee or whatever. We could all stand around holding our cups while feeling so, y'know, connected. They could even pipe in a little sanctuary feed. Or maybe I should just go to North Coast.
PSA, if you see me at church and I looked pissed off, it's not you. It's just...unfortunate. It's the Sunday system. It doesn't like me, and I freaking want to kill it. I think I am a prime candidate for Saturday night church. Our church needs to start that, because I think it could really change my life.
Anyway, today, this happened, and I was a total victim of my Sunday morning funk:
Scene: Sam is standing around talking to a couple of his friends. I have just come back from picking up both kids from their Sunday School classes (total Baptist speak, BTW, just can't drop it).
Players: Sam, Me, Mr. Clueless Husband Smith, and Mr. Avoidant Observer Jones.
Mr. CHS: Hey Sam, you want to come over on a weeknight and play with my new *guitar/amp-ish stand in for a jacked-up truck*?
Sam: Uh...did you see my wife's face just now?
Me: *general type unhappy face*
Mr. CHS: What? *to me* You don't let your husband out on weeknights?? He, like, needs to have fun, man!
Mr. AOJ: *steps back several feet and smirks in the background*
Me:
*brain not properly functioning, but deeply offended that a) my expression was interpreted to be a part of their conversation, and b) I am being accused of being the kind of wife that "lets" or "doesn't let" her husband do crap*
Uh, no, Sam does all kinds of stuff. He does guitar practice, guitar on Sundays, sound practice, sound on Sundays. And...uh...other stuff, too.
*later on, I'll remember baseball games and football at Paul's house, but not then*
Mr. CHS: But that's all ministry stuff!
Me:
*brain waves = zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz*
Same thing.
*it really is*
Sam, stepping in: Yeah, weeknights don't work the best for me, what about a Saturday?
Mr. CHS, to me: Hey, is Sam allowed to come over on a Saturday? Or would you let him have people over?
Me:
*feeling and looking verrrrrry bitchy. I do not allow or disallow ANYTHING. Grr. I do not play Sam's mother. He can do whatever he wants--he is a man after all. I am so not into that whole man-whipping thing that our society loves to tout. Let them be men, men are awesome. Anytime Sam wants to go do something with his friends, I usually say, sure! Go have fun! He comes home to a couple of crying kids every night and lives at his in-laws. He deserves it. Now they think I am this bitch who browbeats poor Sam, and my brain can't come up with language to refute it*
Uhh...? Yeah?
Mr. AOJ: *still in the background smirking*
Sam: Okay, that'll probably work for me. What about this Saturday?
Mr. CHS: Well, I'll have to check with the wife. She schedules my weekends, y'know!
Please get me home to my coffee and laptop.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Shrieking coffee
Before I get started with this post, I would like to point out that Glee is so genius for putting a mohawk on a pretty face. So pretty. So mohawk-y. Oh baby, it's Lima Loser all the way! Finn who?
Now that's out of the way, I have a confession to make, and this is hard for me.
*deep breath*
I went through the Starbuck's drive-thru twice in one day.
*sigh*
Obviously I am a weak-willed person, to be justly condemned for my sinful indulgence in sugary caffeinated drinks.
First Drive of Shame
I woke up, stumbled to the bookcase and groped for my Blessed Pink John Deere Travel Mug of Joy. My Celestial Husband places it there for me every morning after he fills it with the Miraculous Nectar of the gods. I felt in vain, not to mention in blur. My eyes completely suck without vision correction. They can generally pick out that glowing pink fuzzangle, though. Not on the bookcase. Not on my nightstand. My dresser. NO COFFEE ANYWHERE. !!!! Then, head smack, I remembered a conversation I had had the previous day with Sam, in which he mentioned that we were...
Dun, dun, dun.
Out of coffee.
Eeek! Place kids in front of Wow, Wow, Wubbzy. Hurredly brush teeth, wash face, etc. Throw on what is probably my dorkiest outfit ever because I need to do laundry. Think, like, ironic pleated khaki shorts that are no longer ironic, and a striped tank top. Because I am from Ohio circa 1998 (sorry, Ohio people, just tellin' it like it was). Pawn Violet off on her Meemah & toss Wright in the car.
Order:
1 Grande Pumpkin Spice Latte (What? I needed comfort. I woke up without coffee! I am sad inside and need corporately manufactered holiday spirit in the form of flavored syrup shots. Sooo sad.)
1 Cinnamon chip scone (Freaking hungry.)
1 Short coffee cup filled with half apple juice, half water (for B.W.)
1 lb. Anniversary Blend coffee beans (No lady, I don't want you to grind it. Blasphemy!)
Total = like, $20+ or something. Sacre bleu, have I ever spent this much at Starbucks? I am officially blaming it on the coffee beans.
Text Sam that I have bought coffee. Receive this text back: I am drinking sh!t. <---do not read if you think fake swearing is taboo. (Later, when I asked him why he used the !, he told me that he wanted to accurately convey his drink's awfulness, but felt that in case I might object to his word choice, the ! made it more kosh. In reality, of course, it just made me LMAO.)
Think to self, "aww, poor Sam didn't even stop at Starbucks for himself, and now he is stuck drinking whatever crap they serve in his cafeteria at work! I shall be a good wife and bring him coffee, to thank him for his daily service & give him comfort as he toils!" (Totally think like that.)
Second Drive of Shame
Order:
1 Grande Pike Place drip coffee with cream (What? He doesn't want fou-fou. The man needs coffee!)
1 Kid sized chocolate milk with ice & whipped cream on top (Had to go pick up Violet since her Meemah urgently needed to visit Sam's Club--an oft-felt urge, TBH.)
Blissfully drive the 20 minutes to Sam's work, high on good-deededness and, frankly, just the plain ol' sugar & caffeine that I am still drinking. Park in visitor lot and call Sam. Drive to one of the other 50,000 parking lots at his work to meet him (I can never remember wherever his latest stupid building is). Field many, many questions from Violet. Like, "do all Daddys work here?" and "If Mommys work here too, where is your parking lot?" and "Yes, you stay home to take care of us, and I take care of Baby Wright. I need to brush his hair."
When Sam steps in the car, hand him his coffee with a triumphant flourish and then sit there for 15 minutes of his "break", in which Wright makes high-pitched screaming noises at the top of his lungs the entire time.
Oh snap. Sugar high wearing off. Drive home while enduring more screaming and chants of "ball! Ball!" *gritting teeth* Wright, I do not see a ball ANYWHERE. So obsessed with balls and screaming.
Put Baby Wright down for his nap, but he is all fidgety and won't sleep. Keeps saying, "ball! Got it! Ah got it, a ball!"
Realize, I don't really like Grande Pumpkin Spice Lattes, and they are definitely not worth $4.10.
Now that's out of the way, I have a confession to make, and this is hard for me.
*deep breath*
I went through the Starbuck's drive-thru twice in one day.
*sigh*
Obviously I am a weak-willed person, to be justly condemned for my sinful indulgence in sugary caffeinated drinks.
First Drive of Shame
I woke up, stumbled to the bookcase and groped for my Blessed Pink John Deere Travel Mug of Joy. My Celestial Husband places it there for me every morning after he fills it with the Miraculous Nectar of the gods. I felt in vain, not to mention in blur. My eyes completely suck without vision correction. They can generally pick out that glowing pink fuzzangle, though. Not on the bookcase. Not on my nightstand. My dresser. NO COFFEE ANYWHERE. !!!! Then, head smack, I remembered a conversation I had had the previous day with Sam, in which he mentioned that we were...
Dun, dun, dun.
Out of coffee.
Eeek! Place kids in front of Wow, Wow, Wubbzy. Hurredly brush teeth, wash face, etc. Throw on what is probably my dorkiest outfit ever because I need to do laundry. Think, like, ironic pleated khaki shorts that are no longer ironic, and a striped tank top. Because I am from Ohio circa 1998 (sorry, Ohio people, just tellin' it like it was). Pawn Violet off on her Meemah & toss Wright in the car.
Order:
1 Grande Pumpkin Spice Latte (What? I needed comfort. I woke up without coffee! I am sad inside and need corporately manufactered holiday spirit in the form of flavored syrup shots. Sooo sad.)
1 Cinnamon chip scone (Freaking hungry.)
1 Short coffee cup filled with half apple juice, half water (for B.W.)
1 lb. Anniversary Blend coffee beans (No lady, I don't want you to grind it. Blasphemy!)
Total = like, $20+ or something. Sacre bleu, have I ever spent this much at Starbucks? I am officially blaming it on the coffee beans.
Text Sam that I have bought coffee. Receive this text back: I am drinking sh!t. <---do not read if you think fake swearing is taboo. (Later, when I asked him why he used the !, he told me that he wanted to accurately convey his drink's awfulness, but felt that in case I might object to his word choice, the ! made it more kosh. In reality, of course, it just made me LMAO.)
Think to self, "aww, poor Sam didn't even stop at Starbucks for himself, and now he is stuck drinking whatever crap they serve in his cafeteria at work! I shall be a good wife and bring him coffee, to thank him for his daily service & give him comfort as he toils!" (Totally think like that.)
Second Drive of Shame
Order:
1 Grande Pike Place drip coffee with cream (What? He doesn't want fou-fou. The man needs coffee!)
1 Kid sized chocolate milk with ice & whipped cream on top (Had to go pick up Violet since her Meemah urgently needed to visit Sam's Club--an oft-felt urge, TBH.)
Blissfully drive the 20 minutes to Sam's work, high on good-deededness and, frankly, just the plain ol' sugar & caffeine that I am still drinking. Park in visitor lot and call Sam. Drive to one of the other 50,000 parking lots at his work to meet him (I can never remember wherever his latest stupid building is). Field many, many questions from Violet. Like, "do all Daddys work here?" and "If Mommys work here too, where is your parking lot?" and "Yes, you stay home to take care of us, and I take care of Baby Wright. I need to brush his hair."
When Sam steps in the car, hand him his coffee with a triumphant flourish and then sit there for 15 minutes of his "break", in which Wright makes high-pitched screaming noises at the top of his lungs the entire time.
Oh snap. Sugar high wearing off. Drive home while enduring more screaming and chants of "ball! Ball!" *gritting teeth* Wright, I do not see a ball ANYWHERE. So obsessed with balls and screaming.
Put Baby Wright down for his nap, but he is all fidgety and won't sleep. Keeps saying, "ball! Got it! Ah got it, a ball!"
Realize, I don't really like Grande Pumpkin Spice Lattes, and they are definitely not worth $4.10.
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Can we talk about Sunday morning? Ugh. First of all, it contains that word, morning . Most mornings, I creak out of bed, every atom of my ...
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