My Husband Is The Devil's Helper

I've had a nagging headache since I returned home from the Surrey International Writers' Conference. I just completed a 10-day round of antibiotics for pneumonia, and was very happy to see the last of these pills which were clearly designed by a sadist. Sure, I only had to take one pill every 24 hours, but they were the colour of a day-old corpse, and too big to swallow without panic setting in. Cramps and nausea always followed, and there was the threat that the pill, after 10 minutes or so of choking it down, would make a break for it so to speak, along with the meal taken as a precaution.

I had a 70% pill retention success rate. 

Do the math.

I really didn't want my doctor to order tell me I had to take more torture another round of those corpse fingers pills.

But after four days at home, I've been nodding off every time I sit down to work or read. I've had no energy to walk the dog, and even though I've been going to bed really early for the past four nights, and slept like the dead each time, I've continued to stumble around exhausted.

I've been fretting.

Maybe it's just conference hangover? 

Jetlag? 

Or maybe the pneumonia is back.

A few minutes ago, my daughter was making herself a coffee and calmly pointed to the bowl where I keep my Extra-Bold Starbucks Deep Dark Smack Yourself Awake And Thank The Universe You're Alive coffee pods. "Did you see what dad did?" she said.

Wait, what?

I leaned in for a closer look. Seems that while I was away, my dear husband, for reasons unknown, decided to "tidy" up the kitchen, and he mixed in decaf pods with my usual extra-bolds.  

 

These Pods From The Devil (there for guests/heretics who may request such dreck) were stored in a separate box, in a faraway cupboard, behind the sacks of potatoes and dog food. I don't know how he even found them, let alone what made him think it was a good idea to put them in the bowl with the normal ones where his unsuspecting, sleepy, jet-lagged, spouse would stumble in and use them and think, "Hm, my morning coffee doesn't taste the way it normally does, but perchance the cream is off." 

A quick count (box of 12 decaf pods now down to 4 pods) and a perusal of the kitchen garbage confirmed my suspicions. I may have pneumonia, but the headaches and lethargy are from caffeine withdrawal.

FYI Starbucks. It's not a bad idea to make your labeling on the decaf devil pods as bold as your regular coffee pods. Just saying.

Oh, as for the tidying up, the kitchen is still an unholy mess with my husband's papers and journals covering every surface. But the coffee pods stacked in a lovely Villeroy & Boch bowl look like they belong on a magazine cover. 

Java Me, Java You, uh huh

(gratuitous Blue Jay shot)

Confession. I have a strong addiction to coffee, specifically extra bold Starbucks French roast, a robust saucy little wench of a coffee I grind daily for my morning jug 'o java. I even have an old-fashioned hand grinder in case the power goes off and I have no way to make coffee.

I tried giving it up after being forced to by the clinic where I endured some tests, but after a week (of the shakes, sweats and heebie jeebies) I decided to wean myself back on because dammit, I missed my mother's little helper. And by wean, I mean I started back with half-caf, which I quickly realized was as stupid as attempting to become half-pregnant. If I was going to drink it, I wasn't going to be a caffeine weanie. Be bold, said I! So I returned to the "deepest, darkest" roast described by the kings of coffee as "liquid smoke" (oh baby, baby.) The beans are so dark and oily, that when they're roasted, the smoke rises off them in heavy clouds like "spooky dry ice" according to Roaster Brad from Seattle. I like this Brad guy.

And I was told the darker the beans, the less caffeine they contain, ergo, pas de guilt on my part.

When my doctor asked me how much coffee I drank, I gave him the honest truth. (I had to. His wife/nurse reads this blog.) One cup every morning, sometimes two if it's say, a Monday. (I hate Mondays.) I thought I might get away with my subterfuge, but unfortunately for me he pursued it and asked me if I meant a cup as in 8 ounces or a cup as in mug, and if it was the latter, how big was this alleged mug. Damn, he was onto me.

(another gratuitous Blue Jay shot)

A coffee cup in a coffee maker is about 5 ounces. A standard mug is closer to 9. I serve my morning Nectar of the Gods in a mug I got in London with Shakespeare's mug on the, well, mug. It holds 20 ounces. And before ya'll go getting all up in my nose about it, if you're drinking a couple of mugs of coffee in the morning, you're consuming the same amount. Right? Just because I'm holding a mug that's bigger than my head doesn't mean you should be hatin'.

To justify my addiction, I started collecting giant mugs and tea cups like the ones below. Just to give you an idea of scale, the cup on the left is the standard issue with china sets. Btw, does anyone ever actually use these cups and saucers for anything other than melting butter for pancakes or scooping out dog kibble? (I dare not show you the pink cup and saucer I use for tea. My sister, the antiques dealer, claims it's a soup bowl. Phht. She doesn't know from cups and saucers.)

The cup on the right is one of my collectibles from the late 19thC. It shows a large, florid man holding an overflowing cup of ale. It reads:

Here's ta me an ma wife's 'usband,
not fo'getting mesen.
Here's tiv us, all on us. Me and all.
May we nivver want nowt, none on us.
Nor me nawther.

Tykes motto:
See all. Hear all. Say Nowt.
Eat all, Sup all, Pay nowt.
And if tha does owt for nowt, Allus do for Thisen.

Strictly speaking, it's an ale mug, but it works quite well for coffee. Then there's this beauty:

The transfer image shows a man smoking a pipe speaking to a boy smoking a cigarette (who can resist such naughtiness in a mug?) and they're standing in a furnished room along with a cat, dog, fireplace, kettle, etc. On the top rim it says:

A YORKSHIREMAN'S ADVICE TO HIS SON:
SEE ALL, HEAR ALL, SAY NOWT.

And on the lower part, under the sleeping dog, it reads:

EAT ALL, DRINK ALL, PAY NOWT
AND IF EVER THA DOES OUT FOR NOWT
ALLUS DO IT FOR THISEN.

Here's one of my favourites, dedicated to the farmer.

In God is our trust

The Farmers Arms

Let the Wealthy and Great

Roll in splendor and state

I envy them not I declare it.

I eat my own lamb

my chickens and ham

I shear my own fleece and I wear it.

I have lawns I have Bow'rs

I have Fruits, I have flowrs

the Lark is my Morning Alarmer.

So jolly Boys now

Here's God speed the Plough

Long Life and

Success to the FARMER

And of course, I'd be remiss if I didn't include one Carltonware mug with a Canadian slant:

In Memory of Sam
DREAMER

I dreamed that I died and to Heaven did go.
I rang the bell gaily and bowed very low.
I said I'm from Canada,
My how they did stare.
Come right in said Peter,
Your the first one from there.

(That typo in the last line drives me to drink.)

(final gratuitous Blue Jay shot)

Bottoms up!