You can have anything delivered to your home – except coffee. Why?
Think about it – newspaper? Delivered. Pizza – delivered. Furniture, shoes, power bars – delivered. Mail – delivered. Lobsters – can be delivered. Cheap affordable promiscuous women at a low low price – can be delivered too.
But coffee? Can’t be delivered. You need anything else you’re set. Need coffee? You’re screwed.
Now that I have become the crazy woman that never leaves her house and sits inside all day with the curtains drawn I find myself often longing for coffee. Sure, each morning I brew 4 cups that I am determined to drink. But sometimes even the best plans fall through. I’ll pour a mug and then get wrapped up in something that puts my mind somewhere else. A little bit later, I go to drink from the mug and I’m horrified. The hot coffee is now cold and the cold coffee tastes like crap. So I dump the mug, pour another cup. And it happens again.
This is both a blessing and a curse. It means I am busy, very busy, and all you naysayers that think I am sitting at home watching Oprah in my pajamas all day with my only task as trying to find the bottom of a coffee cup – back off. I haven’t turned on the tv yet. Nor have I found the bottom of the coffee cup. Or gotten through a full pot (of four cups).
I find myself, 10:30 am, about 25 percent caffeinated. Dangerous place to be. Actually more dangerous for my husband than anyone else because he has to deal with the fallout when he gets home around 5 pm. At this point of critically low caffeination I have two choices – clean the now soiled coffee pot or go out.
So that’s where I found myself today. 10:30 am, not fully leaded and not really interested in brewing another pot. Laziness? Sloth? That’s your call but perhaps you should first meet my coffee pot. It is called the Cadillac. It is silver, sexy, and brews a mean cup.
But with sexiness there is always a cost. First of all, the grinder is getting so worn it keeps getting stuck. To pull it out requires brute force that I am convinced will result in me tearing a bicep or losing a finger in the blade. The filter is also an angry contraption – you press a button and out it pops and retracts kind of a like a Hungry Hippo mouth waiting to snap your finger. The pot itself is the best part – there is nothing hazardous about the pot except it doesn’t really fit in the dishwasher
Which means you have to hand wash the pot and all 100 of its pieces. No one should have to work that hard for coffee and certainly not more than once a day. It defies the whole point of having a vice. A vice is guilt-free pleasure. I added the guilt-free part because I also feel ice cream is a vice and I’ve never consumed a gallon that’s guilt-free. So I turn back to coffee. Guilt-free, enjoyable, warm vice. The way it should be.
I sit here this morning thinking to myself there is no way I am cleaning that coffee pot. There it still sits on the counter dirty from this morning and I dread having to get up and take it apart. It drips, it stains the white sink, and no matter what it never looks or smells clean.
There has got to be a better way.
There is, it’s called going out. I sat and thought about it for a few minutes. Going out for coffee actually means leaving the house. I’m not sure I’m that committed today. First of all, it’s cold. Second of all, that requires putting on real clothes. Third, it’s really cold.
What to do?
Fine, I’m going out. But I’m leaving on my pajamas. And I’m taking the dog. Come on, Boss, we’ve got heavy work to do. We’re going for coffee so grab your pink blanket and get in the car. We drive over to Dunkin Donuts and soon have coffee in hand. As I drive back I know with Boss I have made the right choice because he’s licking my coffee cup.
This dog has very good taste.
Back at home I’m feeling a little guilty. I just drove to get coffee – consumed resources, spent money on something that I could easily do if I had stayed home. But there’s worse things I could have spent my money on. Like having someone else deliver groceries to my house, or live lobsters, or an escort for all of my escortable needs (if she puts away laundry, cleans up dog poo, and is willing to take down the Christmas decorations she’s in).
All would be solved if someone would just bring coffee to me. You see, here’s where it would help to have a phone number – a Hot Coffee Hotline if you will to call to bring coffee to my home.
In a slow-roasted, richly caffeinated moment of desperation I would call. Only after several previous attempts at caffeination were made. No, I wouldn’t abuse the hotline. I wouldn’t call just because I had no one else to talk to all day except for….my dog. I would only call after an attempt to brew coffee with the Cadillac and if that doesn’t do the trick a second attempt with the French press and if that doesn’t do it I would call the Hot Coffee Hotline.
Could you imagine the conversation:
“Hot Coffee Hotline answering your caffeinated cries with a hot cup of help, how may we help you.”
COFFEE. I need hot coffee and I need it NOW. Size medium, dark roast, and fill it up – ALL THE WAY. When you approach the door please do not ring the bell because it causes my killer 6 lb Chihuahua to bark and run like mad around the house. Just leave the coffee outside the door and slowly walk away. I will spare you the view of me in my cupcake pajamas and will throw you a five dollar bill instead.
They would be right there. Not just with coffee but with some cream and those little stir sticks too. Sticks for the dog. And then I sip my home delivered coffee in front of the Cadillac just because. To make a point. I will not be beaten by you machine. I will get my coffee either way!
Fresh off my brilliant idea, the next morning I woke up and told Chris it would really help if I could have coffee delivered to the house. It was negative 4 degrees outside. So cold there was still snow on our shoes left in the garage. So cold there was snow between the front door and the screen door. So cold you have to crawl into the car from the back door because the front door is frozen shut.
And who wants to brave weather like that for coffee? Not I. Not when you could have it delivered to your home. I go to grab my phone when I realize it was just a dream. The coffee hotline is not real and I am sad.
I go downstairs, settle for the Cadillac. Which makes a cup of coffee I really don’t like. But I drink it anyways. I am a martyr and will drink it just to spite all of the Cadillac’s complexities and detachable parts. To spite, you hear me. One day I will win!
But in the back of my head I will secretly wish for the coffee hotline. It may take awhile to catch on but then again did you ever think you would pay more than $4 for coffee in a fancy paper cup?
Neither did I….
