This Post Was Either Going To Be About Coffee Or Insults My Butt Yelled On Yesterday's Bike Ride. Believe Me, You All Got The Better End Of That Deal.

Thank you all for coming. It's been a sad and confusing week here in our little coffee powered household without our coffee pot. The coffee he brewed will be missed, as will the bitter dose of sanity he served up each and every morning. He was such a nice pot. Please join me in a moment of silence for the loss of my sanity this week (and probably everyone else's) which shattered upon the counter top along with our beloved coffee pot.

(Did your moment sound like The Hustle mashed up with the theme from Rocky too? No? Hmmmm.... Maybe it's time to change my Pandora station.)

The day started out so normal, you know? Coffee grounds steeping in my French press while I unloaded the dishwasher, Ellie noshing on Cheerios under the kitchen table, Katie making a stack of books as tall as her head in preparation for her morning toilet quiet time. Then BAM! my hand slipped, the glass coffee pot crashed onto the tile counter exploding glass, grounds and coffee everywhere! And because I'm a dork, and because I have an overwhelming need to be uselessly and cryptically descriptive of my caffeine loss, and because it was a freaky cloudless northwest morning, I have to tell you that it made my counter look almost exactly like Edward Cullen standing that sunny mountain meadow covered in coffee: sparkly and dangerous, but with a scent that was simply mouthwatering.

Now, a normal human would have gone straight out and bought another French press from Fred Meyer. I, however, do not live with normal people. Considerate people? Yes. People with the desire to never ever, not ever, go shopping? Yepitty. People with astoundingly fast Amazon ordering skills? Yeppidy doo da to the max! So, here I sit, waiting for my new rubber reinforced French press (for better bounceage) to show up on my doorstep, forced to sip coffee out of a cup smaller than the chicken from Katie and Ellie's Fischer Price farm because the only thing I have to brew it in is Jon's teeny tiny backpacking French press. (Which, let's face it, I really bought for me.)

I'm not kidding about that chicken either.

See, this is my normal morning coffee cup:

Isn't it pretty? (Note the chicken.)

And this is the mug I've been drinking out of for the past three days, and brewing a new pot between each cup:

(Note the chicken.)

What?!?

No.....

You people are crazy! That's totally the same chicken.

They have the same hair and everything.

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