My Coffee is Always Cold: Memoirs of a Woman

Doc always makes fun of me because I have to microwave my coffee an average of 11 times before I drink it. I’m always indignant that it’s not my fault. Because here’s how my morning goes:

My coffee is nice and hot and toasty. Take a few drinks. Enjoy it. Savor it.
Rosebud is awake. Take Rosebud to potty. Get Rosebud dressed. Fix Rosebud breakfast.
The coffee is neglected. The coffee is getting cold.
Microwave (#1) the coffee to warm it again.

Take Rosebud to school, sipping my lava coffee. By the time I get back out from running her in to her classroom, lava coffee is ice coffee.
Get home, microwave coffee (#2) to warm it.

While the coffee is in the microwave, I see the cilantro sitting out and remember that it will wilt if I don’t go ahead and make the homemade salsa. So I drag out the food processor, start chopping peppers and squeezing limes and forget about the poor tervis with the pink ‘W’ sitting lonely on the counter.
Finish the salsa, microwave coffee (#3) to warm it.

Open the refrigerator to put the salsa in and see the roast. Remember that we’re having roast, potato, and carrots for supper and I need to start that. So I get my pots and pans, start peeling and chopping and my poor coffee never even makes it out of the microwave this time.

Finish the supper preparations, and add two minutes to reheat my coffee (#4), but the sink is full of salsa/roast dishes. I get in the cabinet under the sink to get the dish soap and it’s in disarray thanks to my unorganized really handsome husband, so I take a minute and clean it out.

While I’m doing the dishes, I remember an email I needed to send out about a Thursday meeting. So I finish up the dishes and get my laptop and send the email. While I’m emailing, I remember a cover letter I need to type. Type the cover letter. While I’m typing the cover letter, I hear the Christmas garland around the door knocking in the wind. Finish the cover letter, get a hammer and go outside to nail it down.

Where’s my coffee?
Oh yeah. In the microwave. As cold as Shonda Rhimes’ heart.
But two minutes (#5) is a long time, and I could totally sort the laundry and get a load started during that time.
So I do.
But Doc’s white coat has a stain whose origin I really don’t want to even consider, and so it takes some special Shout and elbow grease, and by that time my coffee is cold again, and that’s okay, because I just remembered that it’s trash day and we forgot to take the trash out the night before.
So I do that.

And then I remember that my Amazon rented text books are due soon, so I get my laptop to print the return shipping labels and prepare those.
And the chances of me drinking that precious elixir are getting slimmer and slimmer.

I press start on the microwave for the sixth time (for those keeping count) and run out to the mailbox.
I come back in just as the microwave is beeping, take it to the living room, plop down on the couch and before I take the first drink, my phone rings.
It’s the nursing and rehab center calling to talk about Grandma.
By the time I get off the phone, the coffee is cold, and I’m considering trading it in for something a little stronger.
Is it really only noon?

I pop my coffee back into the microwave (#7), and the washer beeps, ready for the laundry to be switched to the dryer. I do that.

But in the time it takes me to walk from the dryer to the microwave, the doorbell rings and it’s the mailman dropping off a package. I sign for it and realize it’s lunch time, so I fix myself a pepper salad and I sit down to enjoy my long awaited, and very cold tumbler of coffee.

Here’s to the neglected tumblers and mugs on countertops around the world, and to my ladies drinking cold coffee at noon.
But ya know something, the cold never bothered me anyway.

Love and other drugs,
E. Hunter W.


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