Monday, February 16, 2009

Dear Charlie:

Some days, you just have to cut your losses and go home.

After a not-too-spectacular day at work today -- one of my 8am to 7pm days with a cranky provider and entirely too much work to fit into even a long day -- I decided to stop off at Starbucks on the way home (not exactly on the way home, but close enough) and get a London Fog. I've mentioned that I'm kinda hooked on these things, right? I can't talk myself into the superfluous expense too often, so it's like a treat to get one. It's a pick-me-up. Sort of a pampering kind of thing.

Get it? Some people shop. Some people sniff shoes. I buy hot tea. It's a crazy ol' world.

So I stop off, get in the drive-through line, chitchat pleasantly with the guy at the window, and head home with a smile, waiting for that yummy Earl Grey scent to infuse my car. But less than a block down, I smell...coffee. Strong coffee.

Oopsie. I don't do coffee. Unless my beloved sister made it and toned it down with half-n-half and a load of sugar.

So, I turn around and go back, sheepishly trekking inside to trade out the steaming and very smelly cup of mystery coffee for a London Fog, which I want like kids want Christmas, right? They apologize profusely, which I brush off. Everyone makes mistakes. No big. Everyone was really nice about it.

So I get in the car with my wonderful-smelling, piping-hot-fresh London Fog and head home. Ah, home. Change into my comfy jeans, put the ol' dogs up, watch some Kingdom Hospital, answer some e-mail. Just chillaxin'. I don't take a sip yet because I know good and all that I'll burn the skin off my lips if I do. Besides, the anticipation is part of the taste, in my humble opinion. It brews a little more by sitting in the steaming cup longer.

So, I get home. I park in the driveway. Lock the car door. Head up the steps. Trip over a mystery cat that's crouched in the shadow of the top step.

Drop my wonderful-smelling, still piping-hot-fresh London Fog, which explodes all over porch and mystery cat and shoe and slacks.

*sigh*

Mystery cat ran off yowling into the night. I scalded my shin a little and had to hurry in to avoid ruining the leather of my Docs (they're water-proofed, but tea is kind of acidic, yes?).

My yummy London Fog disappeared through the cracks between boards and is currently pampering the gravel under the porch.

Yeah, I could brew me up a nice, fresh cup of Earl Grey. I have the good stuff in the cabinet -- actual tea leaves, not that over-processed bagged stuff from Wally-World. I could dump in some vanilla and whole milk, though I don't have a steamer. I could even add a little vanilla-flavored soy milk to it instead -- I just happened to buy some a couple weeks back for a recipe.

But it doesn't taste the same, and making it defeats the whole point of coming home with one in hand to just chillax.

So, no London Fog for me tonight. I'm cutting my losses and having a Coke instead.

Oh, well.

I can still watch Kingdom Hospital. I'm already in my comfy jeans. I can still kick up my tired ol' dogs, though one is still a little blotchy and damp. The night's not ruined, by any stretch.

I just wish I hadn't spent $4 and two trips to Starbucks for a hot tea I never had a chance of drinking. Ha-ha.

[Edited to add:

I think I've been a Chiefs fan for too long. I'm watching the KH episode where the entire world reviles Earl "Error" Candleton, the first baseman who "lost the World Series" for the fictional Robins back in 1987 and put the loser curse on his team ever after...and I find myself mentally defending the poor guy.

I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't baseball a team sport? So how is it that a single missed catch by one man can be blamed for losing an entire game, thus losing the entire series? Why were the Robins in a position to lose on a single hit? If they'd played better earlier in the game, it shouldn't have come down to one man's miss.

And, perhaps most damning, the announcer talked about Candleton being "perfect in the series thus far". Why doncha just hex the guy while you're at it, Talk Box?

Funny how fate can turn on you, huh? And funny how I jump to the defense of otherwise decent sports folk. Heh.]

2 Comments:

At 8:35 PM, Anonymous Pesh said...

Sounds like Friday the 13th has nothing on Monday the 16th. It's not even a full moon. Oi.

I won't get into my day, but I sympathize. Completely. Let's stick a fork in this one.

 
At 8:39 PM, Blogger GutterBall said...

Ugh. I have never had a Friday the 13th as bad as any given plain ol' Monday. It always seems to bring stupid stuff to a head, but never seems to resolve any of it.

And yes. Consider it forked.

 

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