Liquid crack

My post-lunch headache tells me it's time for caffeine. Since I'd sooner lick road tar than drink a cup of the swill they make here, I make my way to the closest Starbucks. Today's featured regular brew is a medium-bodied regular breakfast blend, and I ask for a Grande with room for cream. Ah, sweet cream. The cool half-and-half swirls its way to the bottom and back up again, turning my cup of blackness a pleasing tan color.

The first sip tastes like motor oil, but I'm determined to get my fix off this. I sip again. Slightly nuttier, less acidic. Again. Creamy and soothing. This isn't so bad after all. I wonder if the next sip will be even better... perfect. Just a few more steps and I'll be back to my desk. I need another hit. If the last one was perfect, this one can only be better. I'm smelling Christmas cookies; seeing snow flakes against decorated evergreens... this is some powerful stuff! Maybe I should've gotten a Venti. And now I know why Starburnts, Charbucks, bitter-over-roasted-nickname-of-your-choice can stay in business... as long as their supply of cream doesn't run out.

Get your own. You'll see.

Camping

My “Cafe Vanile” vending machine coffee tastes like the mochas we’d drink as we sat around the campfire in yet another Michigan State Park.

Steam clouded my glasses as I tilted the mug to drink. In the shade of the whispering trees, the Northern mitten breeze was cool on my skin. The fire warmed my scrawny pegged-jeans-clad legs and made me smell like camping.

Though the parks blur together in my mind, the memory of that percolated-coffee-and-powdered-hot-chocolate in my sturdy blue plastic mug is unforgettable.

Flattered in Red

I wore a dress on Sunday. That in itself is not remarkable. The general reaction to the dress is what astounded me. This dress--knee-length red cotton (not knit) with white buttons top to bottom and a preppy polo collar--has been in my closet for years. Somewhere between 4 and 8, if I had to guess. And yes, I've worn it before. But on Sunday, I was complimented on it. Repeatedly.

Before I sat down in church, three people told me how cute it was. At the coffee shop, as I was waiting in line for the restroom, a woman and her friend at a cafe table told me it was adorable. Multiple relatives at an out-of-town family party exclaimed over it, going so far as to call me "the lady in red." (Unoriginal, but flattering nonetheless. I'm a sucker for cheesy wedding-reception songs.) Those who didn't mention the dress when I had it on asked what happened to it after I'd shed it in favor of shorts and a t-shirt--more comfortable for the long drive home on an August evening.

What was it about this latest appearance of the dress that made it more comment-worthy? Was I too fat before? Was my overly large chest straining at the buttons in an embarrassingly gaudy way? Perhaps my fluffier midsection made me look like a cherry Popsicle--the kind with two pale sticks poking out the bottom. Did people not want to compliment me on it for fear that I'd take their kind words as encouragement and wear the offending article more often?

I'll never know. I'll never ask. But you can bet that I'll wear it again.

Gray Day

The sky is clouding over and I am getting giddy.

Gray days are my favorite kind of days. Some people think they're depressing. I think they're perfect. So peaceful, much more enjoyable than glaring, intense, sizzling-heat-index days. Sunny days demand action, accomplishment. Stress. I actually get disappointed when the sun weasles its way into an overcast sky. I sit at the desk of my Grown-Up Job and anticipate the plink of raindrops on the roof, the pitter-patter of refreshment washing away the grime of yesterday... and I hope the clouds have not begun to clear.

Gray days make me want to write. Stories, poems, essays, nonsense--just get inside my head and write, tucked into my computer room, armed with a pot of coffee and some music, with a blank computer screen inviting me to fill it with whatever strikes me as worthy to be written. With bookshelves lining the walls like friends offering encouragement, bursting at the seams with unread fiction, history, fascinating plots and familiar characters, I would be fully equipped to immerse myself in the delicious gloominess and write.

Is that thunder I hear?

Chapter One...

Bug Bite

I have a bug. Not a contagious one or one that will give me a sniffly nose and scratchy throat. This one is mental. The Writing Bug has bitten me in the rear and I don't quite know how to stop the itching. The obvious answer would be "write, dummy." I knew that much. But WHAT to write? I'm too young for a memoir, too limited for travel essays, too modest for a romance (although, hmm...). Thoughts and ideas and characters fight for attention--attention that would fill them in, flesh them out, build them into more than just scraps of imagination--but they struggle to get over the hurdle that is simultaneously my writer's block and inspiration. Do I write a poem? Too short. A novel? Too long! Short stories seem abrupt. Everything else that comes to mind feels tired and cliched. Regardless, they won't leave me alone! My fingertips are aching to dance across the keyboard as my brain forms thoughts into words, and as muddled as they are, just writing them helps me make sense of it all. Not that I'm any closer to writing anything of substance than I was when I opened this post... At least this random jumble of bumbling won't be crowding my consciousness when I try to sleep.

Dear Lunchbox Picnic

Thank you for your delicious company this week.

Your savory filling has made me smile on the inside (admittedly, on the outside, too) more than once.

When I felt that nagging feeling of hunger in the pit of my stomach, no longer did I dread the thought of vending machine food, crummy leftovers, or oh-so-terrible restaurant food. Nay, I merely walked to the refrigerator and unzipped your lid, happy to call upon your summery sausage goodness and pepper jelly tanginess yet again.

The combinations that resulted from my ingenious pairings of your contents--cheese on crackers, crackers with jelly, cheese and jelly on bread, and so it goes--provided nearly endless gastronomic pleasure, and for that, I thank you.

Please rest assured that I shall be calling upon your services again in the near future. Perhaps I will even restock you with a new variety of picnic-y treasures for next week.

Until then, I remain ever your grateful companion,
Kate

Murphy's Law of Hair

Why is it that your hair never looks as good as it does the day you are scheduled to have it cut?

I just looked in the mirror and thought "I look gooood" (thanks to Roonil Wazlib for that one), and then remembered that I have a hair appointment after work.

Inevitably, if I were to reschedule said appointment, my crowning glory would somehow manage to go from "gooood" to "Good God! Get a brush!" in less than 60 seconds.

Sweet, sweet AC

I slept in the guest room last night, and it was lovely! Not because of a fight or illness or someone's sonic-boom snoring, but because the master bedroom upstairs was just too freaking hot. Thanks to our sputtering little old air vents, the central air conditioning doesn't reach up to what is, I guess, the attic of our house. We've been here over two years, and last night was the first time we ventured downstairs to sleep. What's taken us so long?! The mattress was so soft. The room was so peaceful. Not having to run three fans was such a nice change. I even pulled up the sheet at some point--but not too far, because *something* happened to the rest of it. I'm not pointing fingers, but I do believe the thief was about 5'9" with blond hair. Small price to pay for a good night's sleep, though. It was almost like sleeping in a hotel. I even had that slight moment of "where am I?" panic upon waking in the middle of the night. Seeing as the temperature today is supposed to climb threatentingly close to 100 degrees, I may very well vacation in the guest room again.