December 22nd, 9:19 AM
I’m on my first cup of coffee and it feels like the strongest cup in the world.
It’s not.
When I make coffee at my Mom’s place it drives me crazy.
The coffee is in the kitchen.
The computer is in the ‘attic’, third floor.
At home in my little basement suite that may or may not have flooded yesterday because I actually don’t know, Sean updated his status to the basement flooding and my cell is out of service and I haven’t heard replies to emails but that’s not what I was talking about - at home the space between coffee machine and computer is about ten paces. Here, it’s about 70 or something. Maybe more.
My morning ritual always consists of pouring myself a cup of coffee and then going to check my email or whatever on the computer.
This extra 60+ paces I take makes me drink my coffee slower, which in turn makes it get cold, which then makes me not enjoy the coffee really that much at all because I don’t want to walk that far again, and again and maybe again to get another cuppa.
I told my Mom and Dean last night that I hate their coffee machine.
Dean says, “I love it! What are you talking about? It’s a new one - the same one as Andrea’s.”
I in turn said, “How am I supposed to know what Andrea’s coffee machine looks like? I don’t go to her house to look at how she makes her coffee.”
My mom didn’t really say much. She kinda just said, “Oh yeah….”
I said, “It just never tastes fresh. It tastes old.”
And obviously that is my own problem because I sit here and not move for an hour while the coffee gets older and older downstairs, and my coffee up here gets colder and colder while I try to ‘savour’ it.
I’m going to go count the paces.
Later: it was about 55 paces. Two flights of stairs!
