confessions of a coffee slut
1 Comments Published by katitude on Monday, July 16, 2007 at 7:41 p.m..
It's 7:40pm and I have finally kissed goodbye to the vile headache that's been stalking me all day. Not a migraine kind of headache or a too-much-sun kind of headache...just a low level put-me-in-a-pissy mood headache.
The remedy? My first cup of coffee of the day.
Yes, I forgot my morning coffee. Damn The Man for being absent. It's all his fault; he's my backup alarm clock and source of caffeinated goodness in the morning. I woke up late, had to run out the door for an appointment at the hospital.
And have been Queen of the Grumpy all day. Imagine that...me, grumpy. No, not as much of a stretch to imagine as one might hope.
Ah, silly me. Took me this long to self-diagnose as I had put down the bad mood to the mammogram I had to go to the hospital for. Words fail to explain the psychic blech caused by those fucking things. But women will get it.
Blech.
Even a bubble bath and a pedicure haven't helped.
Speaking of a pedicure, I realized something today. A little known fact about my mother was she absolutely hated other people touching her feet. Even the thought of it made her shudder. I'd mention getting a pedicure and she'd look at me as if I'd grown another arm in the middle of my forehead. Me, I'm the opposite. It occurred to me as I clipped, pumiced, and moisturized that I really dislike touching my feet; all odd calluses and those weird baby toe toenails that are so tiny and hard to put nailpoish on. Ick.
Where am I going with this post, you ask? No fucking clue. Honestly no idea.
You all know I'm no good for anything until I have my first coffee of the day. Maybe when I'm done sipping my dark roasted Sulawesi/Yergacheff blend, I'll be coherent.
But don't hold your breath.
The remedy? My first cup of coffee of the day.
Yes, I forgot my morning coffee. Damn The Man for being absent. It's all his fault; he's my backup alarm clock and source of caffeinated goodness in the morning. I woke up late, had to run out the door for an appointment at the hospital.
And have been Queen of the Grumpy all day. Imagine that...me, grumpy. No, not as much of a stretch to imagine as one might hope.
Ah, silly me. Took me this long to self-diagnose as I had put down the bad mood to the mammogram I had to go to the hospital for. Words fail to explain the psychic blech caused by those fucking things. But women will get it.
Blech.
Even a bubble bath and a pedicure haven't helped.
Speaking of a pedicure, I realized something today. A little known fact about my mother was she absolutely hated other people touching her feet. Even the thought of it made her shudder. I'd mention getting a pedicure and she'd look at me as if I'd grown another arm in the middle of my forehead. Me, I'm the opposite. It occurred to me as I clipped, pumiced, and moisturized that I really dislike touching my feet; all odd calluses and those weird baby toe toenails that are so tiny and hard to put nailpoish on. Ick.
Where am I going with this post, you ask? No fucking clue. Honestly no idea.
You all know I'm no good for anything until I have my first coffee of the day. Maybe when I'm done sipping my dark roasted Sulawesi/Yergacheff blend, I'll be coherent.
But don't hold your breath.
I have fond memories of the Starbucks at the Castle in Vegas..simply because I suspect it saved my life a few times