Lunch
This is my brain. This is my brain on a lunch break:
Email. Must check email even though I just checked it five minutes ago. Okay. Which blog shall I read over lunch? Oh yeah, lunch. (I eat, I read) Oh, computer, you're boring. I need my book. (I maneuver book onto the tiny amount of desk space not being used by two (2!) computers, a TV, a phone, a dead plant, a stack of things a coworker was working on, my lunch, and my water bottle.) Did I bring anything else to eat? Should I check my email again? Should I go to the store and get something else to eat? What could I get? Lunch is too long. I'm bored. Oh, there's that orange, I guess I could eat it. What? Lunch is over? I'll stay on break a little longer and eat away at my overtime. Because all off a sudden I have something to blog about.
Sorry. I bored even myself writing that but I'll share it with you, in the interests of full disclosure. Because we're like that, right? We call tell each other anything? And you won't hate me?
Ahem. Add a headache to my list of complaints. Maybe because there is currently no Batdorf & Bronson in my life at the moment. But that's sad, isn't it? Let me tell you a story about my coffeepot.
In 2001, when I was a wee young thing, I didn't much care for coffee. Especially drip coffee. I never made it. My parents drank weak-assed coffee and it disgusted me. I claimed (in writing!) that I would never own a coffeepot. It was just one of those things that I could never see myself doing. I'll never get a tattoo. I'll never make my children go to Catholic school. I'll never perform blood sacrifices.
Fastforward to the 2002-2003 school year. The year of the Enormous Drafty House, in which we could have performed blood sacrifices if we'd wanted to. Because there was a suitable slab of concrete in the basement. But rather than abandoning that principle, I came to love and enjoy a miniature Mr. Coffee. It had passed through many hands, and I believe it's belonged to each of the five of us at some point. Anyone want to remind me of the details?
Mr. Coffee kept us company for many brunches. He only made "4" cups at a time, which we quickly learned meant "2 regular cups" or "4 tiny cups if there's company." So we spent a lot of time refilling him with coffee grounds. And oh, those brunches. They got us through our senior year of college like nothing else.
I ended up with the coffeepot at graduation. Laurel wanted it but she didn't want to pack it and take it with her. So now it's mine, and is proudly home to B&B.
Except for now. While tyka and I take a break from cream. Good bye, cream. We'll see you again soon.
Email. Must check email even though I just checked it five minutes ago. Okay. Which blog shall I read over lunch? Oh yeah, lunch. (I eat, I read) Oh, computer, you're boring. I need my book. (I maneuver book onto the tiny amount of desk space not being used by two (2!) computers, a TV, a phone, a dead plant, a stack of things a coworker was working on, my lunch, and my water bottle.) Did I bring anything else to eat? Should I check my email again? Should I go to the store and get something else to eat? What could I get? Lunch is too long. I'm bored. Oh, there's that orange, I guess I could eat it. What? Lunch is over? I'll stay on break a little longer and eat away at my overtime. Because all off a sudden I have something to blog about.
Sorry. I bored even myself writing that but I'll share it with you, in the interests of full disclosure. Because we're like that, right? We call tell each other anything? And you won't hate me?
Ahem. Add a headache to my list of complaints. Maybe because there is currently no Batdorf & Bronson in my life at the moment. But that's sad, isn't it? Let me tell you a story about my coffeepot.
In 2001, when I was a wee young thing, I didn't much care for coffee. Especially drip coffee. I never made it. My parents drank weak-assed coffee and it disgusted me. I claimed (in writing!) that I would never own a coffeepot. It was just one of those things that I could never see myself doing. I'll never get a tattoo. I'll never make my children go to Catholic school. I'll never perform blood sacrifices.
Fastforward to the 2002-2003 school year. The year of the Enormous Drafty House, in which we could have performed blood sacrifices if we'd wanted to. Because there was a suitable slab of concrete in the basement. But rather than abandoning that principle, I came to love and enjoy a miniature Mr. Coffee. It had passed through many hands, and I believe it's belonged to each of the five of us at some point. Anyone want to remind me of the details?
Mr. Coffee kept us company for many brunches. He only made "4" cups at a time, which we quickly learned meant "2 regular cups" or "4 tiny cups if there's company." So we spent a lot of time refilling him with coffee grounds. And oh, those brunches. They got us through our senior year of college like nothing else.
I ended up with the coffeepot at graduation. Laurel wanted it but she didn't want to pack it and take it with her. So now it's mine, and is proudly home to B&B.
Except for now. While tyka and I take a break from cream. Good bye, cream. We'll see you again soon.
posted by Jess at 1:36 PM
2 Comments:
I know it was Lis'to begin with. But didn't Maren own it for a bit while we were in Ecuador, London, and Washington D.C.? And then Laurel was supposed to take it, but she didn't. I never even THOUGHT of owning it. And now it's yours. Wow.
I have a coffee pot and I haven't used it in about 6 months and it's in my Get Rid Of box.
I think you're right about the history. I think Lis gave it to Maren, who stopped drinking coffee, who gave it to Laurel, who didn't want to pack it. Sounds like "The House that Jack Built."
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