You’re looking at me funny.
I know, it’s Thursday. I often don’t post on Thursday.
I decided some random time ago that posting 4 days of the week and once on weekends was a good schedule.
And Thursday became the off day because it happened that way a few weeks in a row and thus a tradition was born.
But this morning drama happened, so of course I turn to my blog as an outlet to prevent post-traumatic stress disorder.
I have mentioned before that I have a very particular coffee recipe. And by “particular” what I really mean is: crazy specific in a way that makes Monk look like a high-functioning and mentally flexible individual. The recipe is critical to the beginning of my morning. The recipe is what allows me to transition from sleeping to waking without screaming, shrieking, sheet ripping, catastrophic meltdown or paranoid ideation.
The coffee must not taste like coffee.
I have also mentioned that the incredible man I married perfected the recipe within two weeks of meeting me, and wooed me by waking me with a cup of perfectly executed coffee whenever we happened to be waking up in the same abode, those early dating days.
He still wakes me with the perfect coffee.
And as such we have never had to buy new linens because I’ve suffered a traumatic break upon rising.
This morning, though…something went very, very wrong.
Himself went to the gym early, and when he does that he brings two cups of coffee home with him. The gym provides Starbucks coffee for free. So he takes advantage. And then he does the special Crazy-Lori-Magic-Mixing to it and brings it to me. Today he also had to leave early for work, so came into the bedroom, set down my coffee, kissed me goodbye and zoomed out of the house (mostly there was zooming – he did drop something heavy but my head was still under a pillow so I’m not sure what he dropped, it may have been a cat).
I wiggled around a bit then sat up to drink my coffee. Alone. I hate when that happens.
Before I took the first sip, I knew something was wrong. My coffee smelled something like Bailey’s.
Except…I knew full well no Bailey’s had been added to my coffee. My husband would like me to stay gainfully employed, so I know that he’s not spiking my morning joe. Drunk health care workers are typically frowned upon in this neck of the woods. I believe they’re also frowned upon in the shin of the woods, the left elbow of the woods, and don’t get me started on how opposed to this they are around the spleen of the woods.
I took a sip.
Fermented. Something in the coffee is fermented. Except not in a good-aged-to-liquorish-perfection-way, but in a something-has-been-stored-imporperly-and-is-potentially-posining-you-way.
I pulled the cup away and stared at it, as if holding the cup and looking at it intently would afford me some sort of coffee-vulcan-mind-meld ability where I could deduce just what the hell had gone wrong with this beverage.
Nothing. It remained mute. I have absolutely NO psychic powers.
After a few minutes of useless staring I forced myself out of bed and fumbled my way to the kitchen. Since no coffee had happened, I also fumbled through opening the refrigerator door and fumbled the milk and creamer to the counter top. Yes, there was spillage. Coffee-less fumbling ain’t a pretty sight.
Sniffed the milk, nothing offensive there.
Sniffed the creamer….EWWWWWWW.
NEW creamer. Just opened this morning. New flavor though, also. So I cannot attest to whether or not the offensiveness is due to spoilage or due to some crazy, tastebud-less person in product development for Carnation who concocted this monstrosity on purpose.
Either scenario is equally possible. I mean, someone somewhere invented Baconnaise, didn’t they?
But the greatest tragedy, the thing that at 6:45 this morning doomed this day to badness, was that I had to brew more coffee myself.
And mix it myself.
And I don’t do it as well as Himself does.
I’ve almost forgotten the recipe.
Today’s gonna suck.