That First Morning Coffee
And so… early morning… my favourite time of the day… I’m alone, it’s quiet, dark and I crank the heat to 73degrees to make it all cozy-schmozy (before husband gets up and, before he’s even had his morning pee, is turning it back down to 65- arrrrgh…) and I pour, out of my oh-so-wondrous coffee percolatin’ lovliness, my first perfect cup o’ joe. Aaaaaaaahhhhhhh.
To make my mornings the easiest possible, and to not risk waking anyone prematurely, I prepare the coffee the night before. All that’s required of me next day, before I go for my morning pee, is plug it in. Magically, when I emerge from the loo… coffee. Hotter than stink. Ready. For me.
This morning: routine painfully interrupted.
Last night, downright pooped. Just enough left in me to settle in all snuggly beside sleeping girl child (yes, still in our bed) for American Idol, I asked my darling Filipes if he could make the coffee. Hmmm……… This seemingly small request launches a tedious not to mention, inconvenient, discussion about the household responsibilities that fall to him, alone. One and only example he continued to belabour: bucking and splitting firewood…
OK, fine. So the man chops wood. I have no problem admitting that he takes this on fully, solely.
I will not go into my list here, but suffice it to say, after remindiing him of my own list of responsibilities that exist in my lap alone, he then felt compelled, this one time, to prepare the coffee for morning.
Off to bed. I smile as hear him labour. Under the covers for the first night of real Idol competition. Yes….. Sing it, baby.
This morning. Plug. Pee. Bestest cup. Sugar. Pour. Bubbles and fizz as sugar instantaneously dissolves with the scalding heat of freshly brewed liquid. The comforting fruits of his labour. A chill of appreciation for my lovely man with a quick splash of the Cream-o….. uhhhhhhh……………wha?
Dishwater. Pale. Grey. Pour out half. Add more coffee (in my enhanced sensory state now noticing the pale liquid pour into my cup). Still grey. Still pale. Still so disappointingly reminiscent of dishwater, thoroughly dished. Ugh.
Make the coffee. Hear manly man up and stirring as a result of noisy grinder. Bleary, yet so very indignant, “You aren’t making a new pot of coffee?!?!”
Typical. In Man-dom. Do it shitty, so you never have to do it again. And do make sure you’re duly put out…
I’ve only been asked to make the morning coffee once in my entire life, and was never asked again. Apparently you have to put new grounds in EVERY time. Who’da thunk?
Must be a guy thing.
Hee-hee!