We’re all still here. Still alive, still breathing. No one got hurt.
Just wanted to let you know that before I started telling you about my morning.
For background, I’ll tell you that the coffee maker (donated by nameless someone) died shortly before Christmas. But my friend Heather came through and loaned us her decrepit espresso maker, the one she uses only for iced mochas in the summertime. (She doesn’t share my view that coffee and chocolate should be NEXT to each other, not sharing each other’s space)
I love Heather, and I love espresso, but I don’t love her espresso machine. It is funky. It spits, it howls, it produces much steam, and it makes bitter coffee. But, in spite of how it sounds, I’m not complaining. After all, I’m still getting my daily shot of caffeine. (Ok twice daily) (Ok, it depends on the day)
This morning, Donn left early to go out for breakfast with a friend, and I couldn’t get the top off the machine to add the water. I taunted Elliot, who’s been doing push-ups, to try to motivate him to be able to open it, but to no avail. Why won’t taunting, shame and derision work with my kids?
No coffee. I took a deep breath and considered my options. I called Donn to ask him to bring me some home with him, and he said he could but had to run a few errands first.
So Ilsa and I started on her music exam, the part we didn’t finish yesterday. It involved playing, over and over and over again, a French folk song (J’entends le loup) while she shook her little Macarena-thingy and never, ever, contrary to the law of averages, got on beat.
It was only about 9 or so and I hadn’t had any coffee. And she kept shaking it, off beat, in my ears, and that stupid woman on the CD kept going on, in her sprightly way, about the horse who ate all the hay and then repented of it in the winter. Sigh.
And yet we’re all still here.
Even though Donn forgot to bring me coffee (which would have been Starbucks, even though we’re boycotting until they assuage my anger by giving me free coffee; no response yet). He did make me some when he arrived and with his superior man-strength (don’t choke, Steph!), was able to open the espresso machine.
First he made me decaf, by mistake. Then, he laughed at my despair. Then he made me a triple-strength Americano in an enormous mug.
Ilsa is fine, although still off-beat.

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