Crack Coffee

I cannot believe how much coffee Matt and I must drink.

To save money, we've been buying those big tubs of coffee that Folgers sells... it's nowhere near as good as the name brand cool beans stuff, but costs the same amount for like twice as much. So right, I actually LOOKED at this tub today... it's supposed to make 270 cups of coffee. Ummm... yeah. The two of us went through our last one in less than 3 weeks. Generous estimate. What on earth?? That's 135 cups each, divided by 21 days... supposedly 6.4 cups of coffee a day? But let's say my memory is flawed (it's not. trust me on this one.) and it was actually 4 weeks ago we bought our last tub that I used the last grounds of this morning... but that's STILL 4.8.... almost FIVE CUPS OF COFFEE EACH EVERY DAY.

I'm sorry, but this is just not true. Some days, sure, it's probably true. But I don't always drink coffee every day! I KNOW this for a FACT because I REMEMBER the frequency of the caffiene headaches I've been having. And Matt's not even HOME enough to drink that much!

And yet the coffee is gone. Puzzling.

So I've been reflecting on this, trying to account for the missing grounds. Does Matt have some mysterious other use for them? I don't. I wish I did, just so I could feel sneaky and mysterious about it. But I don't. And I doubt he does either. I concocted some deleriously entertaining fantasies on these lines trying to think up other crazy uses for coffee grounds that had to be kept secret, and how I'd go about it. It was a totally free 10 minutes of entertainment. But then I got bored and refoccussed on the puzzle.

And then I had a moment of clarity. Actually, it was a memory of an occurence that's happened so many times that the one memory actually represents a conglomerate of memories all nearly identical in substance. It's of myself, pouring a steaming cup of coffee that Matt has just brewed for me, darling boy that he is... and I put the mug to my lips... and find myself recoiling and making a face. "A face?" you inquire? What sort of face? I don't have a name for it exactly, but it's damn near identical to the same face I make when I down a shot of tequila. And this, mind you, is AFTER having added around 150cc of milk to it. (Yeah, shaddup. Kitchen measurements aren't my thing, I'm more of an eyeballer, and I can't recall the conversion from cc's at the moment. Though it is disgusting that the estimate I just gave for milk was derived by my mentally comparing it to the graduate I use at work to measure urine output.) But basically what I'm trying to say is I SOLVED THE MYSTERY!! Matt makes crack coffee, nearly 5 times as potent. (Judging by the figures earlier, probably only 2 or 3 times as potent, but I'm claiming artistic license for hyperbole here.) So we DO drink that much coffee! But qualitatively, not quantitatively, due to Matt's obstinate inability to brew a sane cup o' the good stuff.

Crazy. Maybe I should start watering mine down to save on milk instead...

Maggomaly Mouse

Since all the flooding we've had a minor mouse problem. By that I mean one rainy morning Matt and I were sitting at the kitchen table over a cup of coffee, and Matt coolly inquires, "Is that a mouse on the counter by the sink?" So I look over. "Yep. Most definitely a mouse." We turn away and continue sipping our coffee and discussing our plans for the day. No, kidding, we actually bickered because it was MY book he picked up to smash it's skull with and I most definitely object to mouse-blood on my books. In the meantime the little bugger scampered off to safety. That afternoon Matt launched his attack, and the next morning we had mousage (portmanteau--> mouse + sausage) with our eggs and oatmeal.

The landlord in the meantime purchased several expensive noise-emitters that are supposed to keep away mice, spiders, and things like that. Okey-dokey. We plugged those suckers in, and haven't had any problems since. Until it rained wayyy heavy yesterday. Now all of a sudden the "fixed" roof is leaking again, and one of the "leftover" mousetraps we never deactivated had a dead mouser in it. This occured between the hours of 9am and 10am this morning while I was cleaning. I SWEAR it wasn't there at 9am when I was cleaning up around the apartment, but it was most DEFINITELY there at 10am when I went to vaccumm.

And this brings me to my Maggomaly (portmanteau--> Maggie + Anomaly). I not just move, but touch, clean and do all sorts of things for dead HUMAN bodies at work all the time... but I absolutely could NOT bring myself to dispose of this piddly ol' dead mouser. I didn't even have to TOUCH it, and I couldn't do it. Like, we're talking total hysterical breakdown just crying about this stupid mouse, all the while inwardly scoffing at myself with embarrassment. I even went so far as to humiliate myself by paying my sister Becca $80 to come remove it, which she did. Okay, fine, I OWED her the $80 to begin with, but still. It was pretty shameful that I got her to drive over to do this simple task for me. Especially seeing as how I'm the girl who kept mice around to feed to her snake on a regular basis! Grab the sucker by the tail and throw him in to be destroyed! I'd also watch with fascination as my constrictor snake sssssttreeetcccchhhheeedddd out their little bodies and wiggled it's neck as it swallowed them to audibly crush all their bones and aid digestion. I still think that's pretty nifty about constrictors and have no problem watching it. So what is my hang up with this darn mouse?? I feel so lame. THIS SHOULD BE NOTHING FOR ME.

And I just couldn't do it. Man. What a Maggomaly.

That'll be 5 boogers, please

Dementor**: (gravely equivalent of screaming)Mo-ther! Mo-ther! Mo-ther!

Maggie: (briskly walking into room) Dementor, what's wrong?
Dementor: Mother, there you are! Here, take a look at this! (holds out something invisible in her hand)
Maggie: Okay, let's take a look..(discreetly slipping on glove and holding out her hand to recieve the invisible something, fully prepared if necessary to play Adam and name it if it turns out to be a nothing)
Dementor: What IS it??
Maggie: Ummm... well, it looks like a booger, Dementor.
Dementor: A WHAT?
Maggie: You know... a booger... from your nose?
Dementor: you mean... (pointing at her nose)?
Maggie: 'Fraid so.
Dementor: Oh, Heavens. (pause, pause) Boy, and I thought it was money.... (trailing off)

Man. The day my boogers become a form of currency will be a blessed, blessed day. Think what a cash-cow getting a cold would be!!!

** "Dementor" as being used here defined under the heading "Dementors" on this post.

Act 4 Scene 4 of "Keepin' The Love Alive Long Distance"

Late, late in the wee hours of the night the heroine slaves away, pen in hand, rapidly scribbling frantic words on excessively girly stationery, trying her hardest to keep the oppressive glitter off her freshly cleaned and pressed scrubs. Did she say it right? Will he understand the full weight of her words? Will he care? You're damn right he will. If he recieves it. The blessed end to their long distance romance is looming on the horizon. She dots her i's and crosses her t's with confidence. As the sun rises she finally manages to finish inbetween long stints of adult diaper changing at work. The day has arrived, and soon the postman will also.

The question that's on everyone's minds now should be: Will the heroine's last and final military-letter reach her beloved before he checks out of the military? Or worse, will he not remember to check his mail prior to leaving and hence never recieve full long-distance-letter-lovin' closure? And should she bother to enclose fresh-baked cookies and the CD he wanted?

To Be Continued...