Get you a cup … of Padre Pods

The best ideas come from the most unlikely places.

I had almost – almost – given up on Facebook as having any redeeming social value.

Between the balsamic vinegar Brussels sprouts recipe debacle (a recipe I found on Facebook, by the way) and a constant World Wrestling Federation-style barrage of people trying to change other people’s political affiliations, I was close to requiring a flak jacket and gas mask when I logged on.

Then Padre posted Wednesday morning.

Padre is a Presbyterian minister in Waxahachie whose real name is Matt. I went to school with Matt, and I still follow him because he has never posted about Brussels sprouts and I’ve never heard nor seen him use a childish moniker to describe somebody he disagreed with. Also, I think he’s a great guy in general.

According to his Facebook post, he woke up to a broken coffee pot, something akin to a sign from God to go back to bed in my world. And I told him so.

His other friends took the opportunity to put his coffee pot in their prayers; and one opined it would be good material for his Sunday sermon.

But the best came from another friend from school, Kent, who suggested the Padre dip coffee grounds like snuff until he could make it to the store to buy a new coffee maker.

That’s when a cottage industry was born – coffee pouches to put between your lip and gums in a dire emergency, and waking up to a broken coffee pot qualifies as a dire emergency in my world.

I even came up with a name – Padre Pods.

Looks like I’m going to need some financial backers for this venture; also some test subjects (no chihuahuas, please) and a whole lot of espresso roast beans.

I think we can do this, with the Padre’s blessing. Send all checks, test subjects and beans to the office.

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Anger expressed in haiku

I’ve missed you guys the past two weeks.

To be honest, I’ve missed myself and everything else I deal with when I am conscious.

It wasn’t bad enough that I had my first-ever bout with the flu, combined with my umpteenth time to have strep throat.

Oh, it was bad, but more havoc would be wreaked when something resembling a stomach virus entered stage left about day three of the original crisis.

It was the only time I cried. I was mostly a brave girl.

But my fingers hurt, and my eyes didn’t work and my legs shook like a newborn baby foal when I walked. It was pathetic for a couple days, and what I call “the trifecta of suckage.”

It was so bad, I have already booked my flu shot for next year.

Then, as a final blow, the universe gave me the proverbial finger Sunday with Daylight Savings Time (DST).

I have found precisely two Facebook friends who think it’s the most amazing thing since Nutella – or maybe it’s the other way around, I’m still sleepy. Other than that, most everyone agrees with me that stealing an hour of valuable sleep time should be a prosecutable offense.

That’s truly how I feel. And, for the first week after DST, I remind everyone who mentions it what the time would be if it were on Saturday, instead of after 2 a.m. on Sunday.

And, if you’re honest, you or someone around you as late as yesterday said a variation of “I am still messed up with this time change.”

I’ve heard it several times, a couple of them from someone other than me.

I feel so strongly about this that I wrote a poem Monday morning – I do this sometimes as a way to cope with my sleepy emotions – about my thoughts on DST and posted it on Facebook with a picture of my cup of coffee. I’m artsy like that.

The poem was:

Coffee.

Yay.

And I meant it.

One of my longest time friends, Kent, pointed out to me that my poem was an odd haiku, with only three syllables instead of the customary 17.

I told him three syllables was all I had and  more would be forthcoming as soon as I located the stolen hour.*

Later that day, Kent wrote me a haiku that was amazing, and posted it on my Facebook wall.

It went like this:

Unsettled by the

Delayed dawn, Kari reached for

Coffee, which helped, some

After that, several of my friends joined in for a “Haiku slam” party about DST, and much finger snapping and laughter ensued.

These are the kinds of friends I have: smart, funny and great with words. So I leave you with their thoughts on Daylight Savings Time, because it’s time for my nap.

Coffee. Beverage?

Nay. In truth, a life force

Only fools abstain.

                                    -Alisa in California

Daylight savings time

Sucks,sucks,sucks,sucks,sucks,sucks,sucks

Need I say more? No.

                                – also Alisa

Like a silent thief

My hour is stolen from me

Never to return

                               – Kelly in Texas

I take mine with,

Lots of creamer,

Makes me sweeter, never meaner

                               -Darla in Texas

Dawn creeps slowly, she

Feels lowly and bereft, ‘till

Coffee, coffee, more coffee

                            -Kent from Arkansas, again

And, although she later corrected herself to say she believed it was Shakespeare and not a haiku, Darla also offered this winner:

Til a hot flash comes a lurkin’,

Seems my own percolator is Perkin’.

Laughter, and friends, are the best medicine. And, haikus are pretty nice, too.

*The stolen hour has yet to be located.

Send me your best haiku about Daylight Savings Time, and I’ll update this post and give you credit……

**** NEW STUFF! March 16, 2017 2:13 p.m.

More haikus are being added daily until morale improves. Thank you to you guys for your beautiful and thoughtful support!

Clocks spring forward.
Means I rise earlier.
But Coffee comes sooner.                            

                       -Michael in Colorado

cat claw plucks
my scalp to be fed ~
lost time sucks

                    – Amy in Illinois

Took an hour away,
It will take months to recover,
Then the hour returns.

               – Carol

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Shhhhhhh……I’m not in my body yet.

This is for all of you who are not morning people. Also, it is for the people who live with you misunderstood slugs because I know the struggle is real for both of you.

I’m not a morning person. I’m not even a late morning person – I’m more like an afternoon person who is just peaking when everyone else is falling into their valley.

I don’t rise and shine, I never have. I more like rise and shuffle and I do both impossibly slowly. After a couple hours, I might win a race against a sloth if it’s going to be one of my high energy days. Those are special days that I call gifts from heaven.

Which is why almost every single morning, my husband gets out of bed at least an hour earlier than I do and greets the day in his own special way that I am unaware of because I am asleep.

Then he gently wakes me up no earlier than 6:30 a.m. on weekdays, and infinity on weekends.

However, he realized out loud for the first time just last week that I am not a morning person, and we’ve been married almost five years.

We were sitting side by side at about 6:33 a.m., me taking my fourth sip of water – which of course had been heated and filtered through ground up coffee beans first –  when he looked at me and said, “You don’t wake up like I do, do you?”

Loosely translated, this meant, “You don’t function in the morning, do you?”

I didn’t even answer him – I literally cannot put vowels and consonants together in a meaningful way until a mug and a half worth of caffeine is in my body – I just put my finger up to my lips and said “shhhh.”

Because no words were necessary, or even possible, for me.

But if it had been possible, those words would have been, “I’m not even in my body yet.”

Shhhh

Some days are better than others, to be sure, but even on my best day I have to stare at the floor for several minutes to remind myself what day it is. I can usually peg that answer, give or take a day or so,  during my first cup of coffee. You can call it a prayer or meditation, or you can call it catatonic. But it has been my morning practice for years.

It struck me that it took five years for him to realize that my morning routine consists of a slow ascension to consciousness that takes hours and a copious amount of coffee to achieve.

Maybe he thought I would grow out of it or I was just faking it.

But my husband – and you reader, if you live with someone like me – could not be more wrong.

People like me don’t long to wake up easier and earlier, we long to sleep longer and crawl back into our bodies at a natural pace, which happens to be around lunch time.

If you would like a coffee cup with that amazing sleepy artwork seen above, created by yours truly in the throws of entering my body, click here to go to my Zazzle store!

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Coffee, Tea or M(icrowav)e

I remember the first microwave my family ever owned, probably in the same way people remember getting their first TV set in the 1950s or their first computer in the 1990s.

We got our first microwave when I was in junior high. It was roughly the size of a Buick, and the timer on it looked suspiciously like a sun dial, but it was ours to ruin food as we saw fit.

Baked potatoes and bacon were cooked inside that monstrosity, and leftovers were heated up with a zeal normally reserved for a night out on the town.

I have personally witnessed things being cooked to imperfection in a microwave that would make Julia Childs weep openly and declare shenanigans – cakes, meat and spaghetti sauce without a lid, for starters.

People use them everyday for noble and not-so-noble causes, but who am I to judge?

For those who wonder if it’s possible to live in a civilized society without a microwave oven, I have your answer. You can, it’s just not always civilized.

My husband and I have lived without one for a year: Him, on principal; me, under protest.

Ask him and he’ll tell you the only thing a microwave is good for is heating up coffee that has cooled off. I would add to that list, melting butter, caramel and chocolate and warming my jewelry cleaning solution, which I rarely drink.

pouring coffee

He had the same reaction to the microwave going out as I have when the vacuum cleaner quits: a level of apathy not often seen in everyday life.

As in, less than no concern. Possibly the same silent glee you feel deep down inside when plans for something you never wanted to do in the first place are cancelled.

Except my coffee gets cold, and therein lies the rub – the Bobby drinks his coffee much faster than I do.

Because of this and a lack of a microwave, I have been forced to use coffee to heat up my coffee.

It’s true and ironic and it drives him crazy.

Bobby and I don’t fight over normal stuff like the toilet seat being up or politics. We fight about things like how I heat up my coffee and the fact that I have a gene that demands I not notice things that bother most people.

But I’ll stick with the coffee  for today.

Following is an actual conversation between us earlier this week that he thinks was about my problem with drinking slowly, but was really about  the fact that we still haven’t replaced the microwave.

Bobby: Where are you going?

Me: To get more coffee.

Bobby: You still have half a cup.

Me: Yeah, but it’s cold and it grosses my stomach out to drink cold coffee.

Bobby: You should drink faster, then.

Me: No, we should replace the microwave.

Bobby: We wouldn’t need a microwave if you would drink your coffee faster.

Me: (Pouring hot coffee on top of my tepid coffee, and looking him straight in the eye) I have never allowed a microwave to determine how fast I drink coffee, and I’m not starting today.

Bobby: Obviously I’m not going to change your mind.

Me: Obviously.

Coffee, heart and notepad

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