The Joys of Coffee

What you see before you is my constant companion. A 50+ year old percolator left to me by my maternal Grandmother. In case I wasn't obvious enough the first time, I love my coffee pot. I will weep and gnash my teeth the day it finally gives up on me. I will keep it even then, to remind me of all the good coffee, good conversation, good meals, and everything else that it has centered around.

In this particular picture, it is flurping and humming through another batch of brew, made particularly strong so that I can drink it over ice as the day gets warmer and my apartment turns into an oven. Or let it cool and blend it into some vanilla ice cream (with some coffee flavored booze for added hedonism).

Mmmm. Coffee. The stuff of comfort and late nights and early mornings -- hot, aromatic salvation. Made from dark, oily beans that fill the room with the smell of good things to come. Ahhhhh.

I can deal with just about anything, so long as coffee is to be had. Is there a crisis at hand? Give me a minute to whip out a fresh pot and we'll work through it.

And, while there isn't a serious crisis at hand at the moment, I do have plenty of shit that I need to get squared away in a big-ass hurry. Procure cell phones for me and Kerry. Take care of bills -- preferably three months at a time. Get registered for classes this fall. Study for the LSAT. Find out if classes from the local community college will transfer to the law school I want to attend -- which means calling Seattle, and that's tricky without any long distance. Get all the current job stuff squared away. By that I mean organize what needs to be kept and burn the rest. The project is defunct, so for the next few weeks, I'll probably be an ad hoc archivist. Which is cool, as long as I don't have to deal with half the board members, who I'm thoroughly disgusted with. I want to get my apartment clean -- really freaking clean. Clean out all the clutter, get things put away, and for things that don't have a place to go -- for God's sake make a place for them to go.

This last requires that everyone else who has ever fucking crashed here come and get their shit before it goes to the goddam Goodwill. Do you hear that? All of you! Come and get your shit! It's in my way. I'm not fucking Shur-Gard. I wouldn't store your shit if you paid me. I don't have room for it. It's pissing me off. Bet you couldn't tell.

Phew. That felt good. And after a sip of coffee, I can deal with most of this without feeling like my head is going to fly off. Another sip, and I can feel Zen encroaching. If I just take things one step at a time, it will all come together....yeah. Coffee....