thisworldofhurt

Hello Joe

In Coffee, Dads, husbands, life, Men, Mornings, Uncategorized, wives on July 4, 2014 at 12:13 am

securedownload         Some days start in in such a way that makes you consider whether or not you would like to pursue the day, or return to bed. Every day is different, yet they all have varying degrees of similarities. In each home across the world these daily rituals exist. Different of course from one home to the next. Some rituals present in one household will be completely void in another. Despite my desire to be a a somewhat unpredictable person, the truth is: I am a creature of habit. And the habit that controls each of my mornings, 365 days a year—I am sure that I’m not alone in this—is my devotion, or should I say addiction, to coffee.

This morning began like the all of the preceding days. After a few attempts my wife successfully woke me. I am not a rise and shine kind of guy. I would say that I don’t like mornings, but this isn’t quite an accurate statement. A simpler way of stating it would be to say that I’m just not an overt fan of waking up. Whether in the morning, or perhaps just an afternoon nap I don’t like having to return from my unconscious state. But either way, coffee makes it all better.

Normally my wife gets up quite early, as she has rituals of her own, and she persists in repeatedly waking me from my slumber until I finally climb from our bed, stumbling to the kitchen in my quest for my old friend Joe. However, my wife has the week off and has no need to rise from bed at the same hour as myself. Therefore, with the exception of my wife informing me that it is time to get up, I am largely left to my own discipline to get out of bed. You might think that it’s unfair that my pregnant wife has to wake me up in the morning on her week off, but it is that assumption that is unfair. I would be more than happy to set my own alarm to wake myself, but my wife won’t allow it. Understand that an alarm powerful enough to truly wake me would also generate a noise so loud that it could in fact wake a good portion of the western side of the county. My wife would never allow such an infernal contraption to break her slumber.

The alarm that I would require would go off like an air raid siren. My wife’s alarm sounds very much like a set of muted wind chimes. My alarm clicks on screaming, “ALERT, ALERT. INCOMING FIRE. ALL PERSONNEL, GET TO YOUR STATIONS!” My wife’s alarm goes off in a gentle whisper, “Psst. I must apologize for this, but it is indeed time to awake.” How she manages to wake up so easily to such subtleties is truly mind boggling to me. But despite the fact that she has the week off, she sets her wind chimes, and wakes me up each morning. After that, I’m of my own.

And that’s just what happened this morning; just like all the other mornings. And after an attempt or two, I climbed out of our bed, and I shuffled to the kitchen, depressed the power button on the coffee pot, and as I headed to the bathroom to take care of other morning necessities, I could hear the water beginning to reach it’s optimum temperature of around 200 degrees. Perfect.

A few moments later my bladder empty, teeth clean, pits deodorized and bald pate moisturized to a shine, I returned to the kitchen to fill my cup. The window above my sink looks out to the western sky. It’s nice in the mornings. No harsh morning sun baking the pre-dawn kitchen, and equally true in the evenings as the gorgeous West Texas sunset casts the room ablaze in a wash of rich colors that can only come from that particular place at that particular time. Unique, every time, and the only time of day that you could call West Texas absolutely spectacular. As it is an absolute truth that we have some of the most stunning sunsets in the world. My coffee pot sets along the counter on the adjacent wall to the right of the sink.

As I approach the coffee pot, what do you suppose I saw there in the three foot of space between the sink and the coffee pot? Clean dishes dried overnight and awaiting to be put away? Neatly folded stack of dishtowels? A cutting board somehow overlooked, remnants of fresh baked bread scattered along the score marks left by countless slices from a perfectly sharpened knife edge? No I didn’t. What I saw was my coffee decanter, heavily tarnished by weeks of use; rinsed daily, but rarely washed.

Most coffee decanters are somewhat aggravating to me in that the manufactures of the things haven’t seem to grasp the fact that if they would increase the size of the spout, even by fractions, that there would be less spillage during a rapid pour. I know that right now you are probably saying to yourself, “Well Jeff, if you would just take a little more time, and pour evenly you wouldn’t spill a drop.” I see your point, but when it comes to coffee, I say, “Screw patience.” And it should make no difference, as the mouth of the decanter should simply be wider. I mean, for goodness sakes, have we learned nothing from Mickey’s? However, in this particular situation, the problem wasn’t the size of the spout, the problem was that the decanter was resting on the counter between the sink and the coffee pot.

My sleepy mind registered the decanter on the counter, purely recognition, similar to the way your brain would recognize the face of a roommate as you passed them in a hallway on your way to the morning shower. An eternity of microseconds later my brain flooded with with a surge of adrenaline as I suddenly became aware that the counter between the sink and the coffee pot is not where the decanter should be located. My head whirled to the right, hoping against hope that I would’t see what I knew deep down that would see. And see it I did.

A steady caramel colored ribbon of precious personality stabilizing nectar flowed from the filter basket into a widening pool. A pool now directed by gravity across the countertop, around the base of the decanter, across the thin strip of wood between the rim of the steel sink and the edge of the counter. The weight of the liquid no longer held back by the surface tension sent droplets in some places, short streams in others, cascading down the front of the cabinet doors to the hard floor where it began collecting in pools once more.

My only consolation was that no one was awake to hear the less than prestigious choice of vernacular that I had chosen to relieve the frustration at my oversight. Nevertheless, I did manage to repeat the choice word several times as I waded through the pools of coffee at my feet.

Somewhere in the midst of the wiping, and the sopping, the ringing and the rinsing, I managed to get a good deal of water into my wife’s rubber dishwashing gloves. I’m sure that I’ll have to answer for that later. Wish I had a kid around to blame that on. But a saturated towel and five minutes later, the counter and floor was once again clean, and the coffee pot restarted. Ten minutes after that, I was sitting at the table with my old friend Joe, who was doing his part to reconstruct the framework of my mind to be more amiable. Not the worst morning I have ever had, not by a long shot, but not the greatest of beginnings. Just another questionable morning in This World of Hurt.

 

  1. Babe, and I’m sure others will agree, no one wants to be shocked awake!

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    • True enough, but moving from being asleep to becoming awake is vary comparable to the sensations involved it time time travel. Even in the best of circumstances it can be a little jarring. No reason for any one to get out of bed and put their bitchy britches on.

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