Grinding to a halt (and other terrible puns)

I bought a new coffee pot. Finally.

I had been subsisting on this wee little four-cup Mr. Coffee machine for over a year. It had only one button, an on/off switch, that periodically would be flipped to the “on” position by Counter Objects being pushed into it and thus threatening our very continued survival in our home.

Fed up with our continued dance with damnation (or just a potential kitchen fire), I ordered the coffee pot that had been haunting my Amazon wishlist for two years.

So the new coffee pot arrived and I immediately set to work setting it up, buying it beans, and cleaning the drips off the sides with a clean cotton towel.

My new coffee pot, which I have named Gabby (the first time I’ve named an appliance), has a little built in grinder which takes whole beans, pulverizes them, dumps them into the brew basket, and then makes coffee with them. It houses the resulting brew in an insulated thermal carafe rather than using a hot plate (the better to keep the house from becoming engulfed in flames … and to keep my coffee from burning while sitting all day).

This is amazing. I can even program it to do all of this at a particular time. Fresh ground, fresh brewed, unburned coffee at my whim. Fantastic.

Except there is a problem. It has too many steps in the setup. And the one, so far, that keeps getting forgotten is the emptying of the grounds basket. Previously in my life with thermal carafes, the step that was missed was emptying the old coffee out of the carafe and thus causing a coffee flood of Biblical proportions on my countertops.

This is worse.

Where as the Biblical coffee floods resulted in some cursing and a very clean post-coffee apocalypse countertop, the new mistake creates the following issues:

  1. bad coffee as the water is filtered through any new grounds that could squish in over old grounds that have been just settled there since the morning before
  2. jammed up coffee grounds in the grinder portion
  3. me thinking I can catch it and save the day — this gets its own number in the list because this is always a bad way for me to feel
  4. No. 3 results in coffee ground all over the counter, every dishtowel in sight, and sludgy coffee drips all over the machine, the floor, the dogs, my face, and in the carafe.

Some days you should just go to Starbucks before attempting to make coffee.

 

 

 

I have a cut on my finger

This provides a look into my shallow little soul. No, the cut isn’t that deep (neither is my soul). It is just a paper cut.

My first thoughts when I cut my finger, after I yelled, “SHIT!” was, “Fuck me, now it’s going to suck shampooing my hair.”

Despite the irritation, the way the tiniest flap of skin rubs against my pinkie nail (the cut is on the outside edge of the ring finger on my left hand), the constantly little ache as I type, or the fact that it could get become infected with staph and the result could ultimately result in my skin falling off like a gruesome nightmare like my not-my-aunt-Dottie … it’s the shampooing my hair that really concerned me.

Left uncovered, the cut will snag every piece of fine, long hair on my head and cause me to wince.

If I cover it with a Band-Aid, then I’m in even worse shape as not only will the covering catch even more hair, but it will impede my finger mobility for ultimate head-massaging action to achieve suds.

Motherfucker.

This morning I took a shower and shampooed my hair.

And it was as bad as I thought.

Paper cuts. Major. Suck.

Prayers for all!

One of the things I’ve found astounding, working with clients, is their total lack of appreciation that there is a line of demarcation between Friendly Customer Service Representative and Person Who Gives a Shit.

Frequently I receive emails from clients that inform me of some kind of trial or tribulation they are experiencing, some political stance they are sharing with the world, or, you know, stuff that has nothing to do with my job for them.

Today I received a missive calling for love and prayers (and cash donations) because the client’s adult daughter has been hospitalized due to a “critical medical emergency.”

I’ve never met this daughter. I’ve spent time with her parents because they were my clients. I don’t know where they live, if they prefer contemporary oak dining sets to repurposed barn boards and I’m not sure whether they have a dog. But for some reason, I’ve been included in this mass email cause to give a damn about humanity.

This all irritates me considerably as it intrudes upon my consciousness*.

However, my time in reading the whole thing was rewarded as there is a fantastic typo in this heartfelt, massively inappropriate email.

“May Bod bless us all.”

That’s right, the Bod that watches over us and keeps us safe. Thank you, Bod, for all of your blessings.

*that’s right, I got it in!

The Machine That Goes Ping

I am 10 weeks pregnant. Thus, I have to get up, get dressed, leave the house, drive in traffic (none of which are things I normally have to do as a pseudo shut-in remote employee) to go to a doctor’s office for monthly experiments.

Most would call these checkups, but since my Women’s Center is a part of a teaching hospital, the young, happy doctors they send in are residents with the program, we’ll call them experiments as nothing is particularly routine for these kids.
On the one hand, this is great, because they are my age and we have lots in common including a mutual admiration society for adorable boots and wardrobe items.
On the other hand, they must have marked my chart as “client is very knowledgeable about science, reproduction, and is very calm when you tell her the baby might be dead” because EVERY time I go in, they struggle to find life in my body.
Today, my first monthly checkup where I didn’t have to strip naked, they first sent in a nice young guy who told me he’d be shadowing the other resident as it was, like, his first week there. He wielded his stethoscope like a pro, listening to me breathe and stuff, but when it came to Attempting to Measure My Uterus, he sort of held the tape measure against me and then said, “I’m not sure if I’d doing this right, let’s wait for the other resident.”
The other resident came in, another early-30s chick with cute short hair, and she never attempted to measure the uterus. Shadow Boy sat in a chair quietly. Short Hair Chick asked me a bunch of questions and since I’m fine, don’t particularly feel sick and in general am having a really easy pregnancy, she quickly got bored and decided it was time to move on to the Doppler ultrasound to hear the baby’s heartbeat.
So with Shadow Boy finally paying attention, Short Hair Chick readied the device with some very cold lube and started working it around my lower belly. Nothing showing up on the screen. Then she wiped everything off, and tried again. Still nothing. She looked worried. She asked me again if I’d had cramping or bleeding. I said no. I also told her that both the other residents had trouble finding the pregnancy the last time I was in and since we’d had enough of a miscarriage scare then, it was OK, I understood that the pregnancy may have terminated and then soothed Short Hair Chick by saying that the body is good at handling malformed pregnancies and that we understood that at anytime it might jump ship.
She looked relieved. Shadow Boy looked relieved. Then they decided to get another opinion from a more senior resident. Leaving me there on the table with my possibly dead baby, they all left to find the more senior resident.
Then they all came back. Senior resident liked my suede slouch boots. I told her I liked her blouse with the ruffle detail.
She put some freezing cold lube on the device, swooshed it around a few times, looked at Shadow Boy and Short Hair Chick, said, “That’s the heartbeat!’ and they all went, “Oh there it is!”
There was much rejoicing.
I asked Short Hair Chick if she wanted another shot at it as I support feeling successful. She laughed, thought about it, and then said thank you, but that she’d get it next time.
Then we talked about horseback riding for a few minutes — she’s a barrel racer which is pretty bad ass — and then I went home.
Thank god they get to work on me. Can you imagine if you were a high-anxiety pregnant lady with history of miscarriage and it took the Three Stooges to find the heartbeat?
In other news, Shannon Doherty’s new book about How to Be a Baddass is HIGHLARIOUS good fun.

My day

Today my day started out better than yesterday as I actually slept all the way through to to 5:20 a.m. when my alarm was going to go off at 5:30 a.m.

The day before, I woke up at 3:30 a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep until 6:25 a.m. (which was then horribly interrupted by my bed mate’s alarm going off at 6:30 a.m.).
So honestly, today really did start out better. Even if when I woke up at 5:20 a.m. a dog then stepped on my foot and it was cold.
Then my day perked up. I found my new motto. Well, at least another new motto. My favorite still being the family motto which is, “Fuck ’em.” Someday I must design a family crest with that emblazoned on it.
My new motto is: Pretend you are right and just move forward. Really this motto is not much different from the family motto, but it does have more syllables. Wait, that makes it harder to embroider onto a pillow. Hmmm…
Then the crash of the day. I called a client, happily told them I’d help them on their message machine. Then got off the phone and started complaining about said client. Shortly thereafter I realized I’d not clicked the button to hang up, but rather hit the button for SPEAKERFUCKINGPHONE. So not only did I maybe record my message and me the subsequently berating them to a colleague but also recorded THE COLLEAGUE berating said author.
Luckily, they are old, so either they didn’t hear it, there is a god (or several as I did go to an Indian place for lunch and may have winked at their Ganesh statue for help and a few other lesser Hindu deities — for the record I first spelled that dieties which is kind of funny — nearby) or maybe it never happened. I’ve talked to them since and they seemed unaware of my verbal thrashing, so, fingers crossed. Luckily I’m pregnant and I can blame everything on the fetus. Might as well, when it’s in therapy later in its life, it will blame me for everything. I’m just getting started early in the parent-child blame game.
In three minutes, I will call another client who is a slow talker who may or may not understand my jokes. I WILL make sure the phone call is disconnected before telling my coworker all about it.

Migraine Medication

I’m prone to migraines. I generally manage them with caffeine, over-the-counter meds, and creative thinking. Sometimes this involves new and interesting positions while I am sitting in the office. At other times this involves me screaming obscenities at the fluorescent light-fixtures while rocking slowly in my chair. If the pain is really awful, I take what my doctor refers to as an “emergency pill” and what I like to call “I feel fuzzy and soft and warm like fresh-baked bread and would thusly like to hug the vagrants who live in our parking lot pill.” This is wonderful until I need to do something productive, like find a word or…you know…speak:

X: a ‘word that starts with i meaning you don’t care about anything’
me: agnostic
X: no
me: or ambivalent
X: no…’i’
me: incredulous…not right
X: no
me: impertinent
impetuous
X: really?
me: I’m high on migraine meds. I’m just running through everything I can think of
indignant
um…
indifferent
X: very close to that one
me: indeterminate
X: colder
me: insouciant?
X: die in a fire
me: Thank you, I would rather not.