My Coffee Problem

I am a coffee addict. Scratch that. A mocha or latte addict. I must start the day with a mocha or latte. When I'm at somebody's house where they only have those poor, pathetic regular drip coffee makers, I make do, but I don't really enjoy it. This was the case for two weeks, when I went to my mom's house, and my friend Julie's house. Yes, I managed to live through two weeks of drip coffee. Can you believe it?

Now, you may think the "problem" I have with coffee is this addiction. No, I'm perfectly happy being addicted to coffee. The problem I have with coffee is that I'm a spaz, and have now spilled enormous cups of coffee in both my car and my husband's.

The incident in my husband's car took place a few months ago. I was taking Hutton to speech therapy in the morning, and had actually gotten up early enough to get all of us dressed AND make myself a double shot mocha. Usually, I sleep in the extra 5 minutes and just buy a coffee later. But not this day. I put my enormous mug of coffee (no, I didn't need to use a travel mug, dammit, just a regular old ceramic mug with no lid!) on the center console as I got the boys in their carseats, intending to move it to the cup holder when I got into my seat. I got into my seat, and grabbed my seatbelt, yanking it really quickly with my elbow wide, all the better to smack the cup on the console and spill my perfect cup all over the floorboard of the back seat. No children were injured in the spilling of the coffee, but I had my work cut out for me later, cleaning the car so Hubby wouldn't realize I'd spilled a huge cup of coffee in his car.

You would think that this would have taught me a valuable lesson about coffee not going well with being balanced on consoles, wouldn't you? But you give me too much credit for actually using the now-mushy organ in my skull.

Yesterday, I did not get up early enough to make myself coffee at home. I dropped Hutton off at his speech therapy appointment, then Harrison and I got in the car to run errands. First stop: the Jitters drive-thru, where the barista knows me and usually only has to ask if I'd like a grande or tall and what color lollipop Harrison wants. Yesterday I got a grande. I placed it on the CONSOLE in front of the cupholders as I paid for my drink. See, one of the cupholders had trash in it, and the other had Hutton's cup with a half inch of orange juice in it. I think I figured I'd sort that out after I paid for my coffee. The smart thing to do would have been to remove the trash from the cupholder and put my coffee in there. It's not like my car doesn't already have trash all over the place anyway. But, we should know by now that I'm not one to do the smart thing.

Instead, I pulled out into traffic, remembering I hadn't put my grande mocha in the cupholder as I felt intense heat and wetness all over my shorts-clad right thigh, working it's way up to my crotch. The cup had hit my thigh in just the right way to knock the lid off, and most of the coffee was now on my thigh and in my seat, being quickly wicked up by my shorts and underwear. The rest of the coffee was pooled up on the floorboard (thank God we have plastic mats!) at my feet, minus about an ounce left in my cup for me to quickly down as I wondered if the coffee had burned off my flesh, or if it just felt that way.

I grabbed the towel that was wedged under Harrison's carseat and wiped the coffee off my thigh and put it in my seat to soak up the coffee that wasn't already soaked into my shorts and underwear, then tried to wipe down my scalded leg with some baby wipes. I knew I wouldn't have time to drive home before I had to pick Hutton up, so I drove to the closest cheap clothing store, Ross Dress For Less, and waddled in trying to walk sideways so nobody would notice my ass my wet with coffee. I found a pair of pants on clearance and some underwear and got in line to pay, again standing sideways to hide my wet ass.

Harrison and I got back in the car, and I squatted on the backseat floorboard, trying to wipe myself down with baby wipes and get myself dressed in my new clothes without any passersby seeing the naked freak in the car.

My thigh doesn't actually have any visible damage. The only damage is to my psyche. That and my car still smells like coffee. Better go tackle the upholstery with the steam cleaner today. Oh well, the lease is up next week.

Maybe I should start carrying a camelbak with espresso in it. Or just get an IV.