I got up a bit early this morning because it’s laundry day. I figured I’d get a jump on the competition. Get my hair washed before I had to compete with the washing machine for water pressure.
When you have a well, a pump, and 40 year-old pipes, water usage is a balancing act. You don’t want to run out your well. You also don’t want to compete with the washing machine because it will win every time.
So. I gathered my stuff. Put it in the bathroom. Went to the kitchen to start the coffee and convince the dogs to go out.
As they finally, with no good grace, headed down the stairs, I noted that Bishop’s butt was in an unsavory state and clearly would require my attention. I put that thought on hold, went back, showered. Dressed. Tied hair into turban. Dashed back to the kitchen where the canines were eagerly awaiting my appearance.
I locked the gate, keeping the dogs in the kitchen, grabbed a handful of paper towels. As I turned on the faucet to moisten the towels, I noticed that the coffee had pooled on the counter and formed into a nice, brown waterfall. I turned off the coffee. Poured the coffee down the sink. Flipped the carafe and saw its bottom had turned into a spiderweb of cracks.
“Priorities,” I mumbled to myself. “First, do something about Bishop’s butt.”
I uncharitably pondered my still-sleeping husband, then sighed and moved on. Inserting a disgruntled husband into the mix was not going to improve matters.
It being the beginning of the month, the dogs needed their heart worm stuff. If I didn’t do it today, I might forget to do it and that would be a bad thing. A very bad thing. Nor did I forget to give each dog a Greenie for being such a good dog because I’m a good mommy, or try to be.
Meanwhile, the coffee is spreading across the kitchen floor. A brown river is snaking its way from sink to back door, trying to make a break for it. It was time to head it off at the pass.
I knew I should put the broken carafe in the trash before it fell into shards. Which is when I realized the trash was up to the top of the container. No room. Okay, stay in the sink. See if I care.
I unplugged the coffee machine and did due diligence on wherever the coffee had seeped. Got more paper towels. Cleaned the floor. Cleaned the counter because somehow, it had been missed after dinner last night. And the stove top — which also got missed.
With dish towel in hand, I was back to the coffee machine. At which point I realize it’s covered with coffee. Old coffee from who-knows-how-many spills in the past. New coffee from this morning’s broken carafe.
Some days, you just can’t catch a break.
I set up the machine using the spare carafe I saved when old Mr. Coffee died. As I scrubbed the carafe, I pondered how two years in the closet hadn’t made it any cleaner.
I really needed coffee. I decided to use the African coffee I’d been saving for a special occasion. If this wasn’t a special occasion, what was? I deserved excellent coffee.
Finally. I switched the coffee machine to “on.” While the coffee brewed, I cleaned the sink … but … not as well as I would have liked. There was no cleanser left in the can and no one to blame as I’m pretty sure I was the last one to use it.
I wrote “cleanser” on the whiteboard. By now, I’d been up for an hour. The dogs are taking post-snack naps. The new batch of coffee smells good.
Enter Garry, stage left.
“Good morning,” he says and makes a beeline to the coffee.
“Good morning,” I reply.
Finally, I have my coffee. And my breakfast cookies. I boot my computer and am greeted with this.
I hate memes.