Excerpts from the Peanut Gallery

"Only in Nicaragua" or "I should have known..."

Well we all know that I have a slight addiction to coffee- caffeine is not the issue, although as I discovered on Saturday when i tried to substitute an hour-long Latin dance aerobics class, two bottles of water and a dip in the pool for my morning cup of coffee, its just not the same- and considerably more time-consuming and not really an effective use of resources if you ask me, but I digress (note to come on the Latin dance aerobics instructor who I may or may not have a platonic crush on now).

As I was saying: coffee, the great love of my life- because after all, you can sleep when you're dead! And I think I sufficiently proved once again the great lengths I would go for some of the good stuff. I have started brewing it at home and reinstated the early morning coffee sit-times (you may not remember those happy times which their roots in the 6am region of a Qwanoes morning, pre-Head Counselor Team meeting, post-RyRy setting the auto-brew button for me the night before. There is just something about having that dark and bitter brew in my hands to console me as I grieve the fact that yes, I am awake and no longer in my bed. Some mornings are worse than others, but between my shower and my coffee, just let me be.

So the coffee at work is instant. I feel that I need to just make that clear. It's not always so bad, but my tolerance levels have been going down lately. I cannot account for what makes a good day, and what doesn't but I think it has something to do with the fact that I have now moved to coffee completely black (a day to be reckoned with, to be sure. It crept up on me so stealthily, so steadily, that even I didn't realize, and now- there's no turning back). Instant coffee can be tolerated, enjoyed even during desperate times, if there is a significant amount of milk and reasonable contribution of sugar- thus disguising it beyond recognition so that it is not actually still considered coffee. I am fine with this arrangement. Some might say I am compromising my standards, that I am not a true coffee-aficionado, that my love is not true and pure. I counter that my love is so pure, that I will accept the poor thing in whatever state it comes- that is love, unconditional love (did someone say 'object lesson?' Thanks go out to Trinity Wester University, RCS and years of youth group for giving me this extraordinary ability that allows me to extract meaning from inanimate objects- its the same ability that allows me to deliver a homily on Hebraic ecumenical dialogue using nothing more than toothpicks, some jujubes and a pipe-cleaner. Just try me).

Anyways, all this to say that, despite my acceptance for work-coffee, knowing that in order to shore myself up, make myself to strong enough to love it where its at and not expect more from it, I had to first spend sometime with the real deal. So yesterday I was wandering the aisles of La Union (may or may not be owned by Wal-mart. Perdoname Señor), and I found, for the first time, a travel mug. There are all sorts of Tupperware and cups and plates- both permanent and travel-worthy, but none that could carry hot liquids between my kitchen and the office. So for 35 Cordobas (approx. $1.89) I bought myself a neon green travel mug, similar to those crazy plastic Shell ones we had for years growing up, scooped from one of the thousands of gas-stations Dad was making rounds to or a leftover from giveaways at the Abbotsford Air-show. I sensed that it was no Starbucks travel mug, It didn't look too sturdy and I can't say that I got absolute confirmation that the lid actually, technically closed all the way. And it certainly had no trendy coffee-leaf pattern in autumnal tones. Nevertheless, I figured (hoped) it would at least let me transport the brew to work and then I could transfer it to a more worthy vessel.

Boy, did I miss the mark. I should have known though. I was exactly half-way between the door and our gate and I sensed burning liquid on my fingers and one thigh. I noticed a drip, but didn't want to give up on the little mug that (i hoped) could, nor the precious commodity inside. So I left our place and got across the street and soon realized there was little hope. At this point I paused and thought "will it be bad to spill all over a taxi? I don't want to get it all messy on them- you know because the taxis are generally in such good shape to begin with... I felt a little guilty over my selfish and lazy motivation, but I really wanted good coffee and I didn't want to walk all the way back to the house to drop off the cup and forget about it. So i kept walking. When I finally did get in the cab, there was little hope. A puddle was forming in my hand which was cupped under the dripping stream of coffee. Don't worry, it didn't burn at this point- the mug wasn't that thermally-equipped. So i hummed and hawed as I realized that this cab ride was indeed as bumpy as it could get. Things were getting hairy, the backseat was filling up.

What else could I do?

Yes, that's right- I stuck my right arm straight out the window and rode with it like that, watching beads of the precious liquid stream away in the early morning wind. I realized that for all who saw me speed by, I was handing them yet another reason to stop and stare. As if I do not attract enough attention as it is, as a redhead. Now, I have a neon green tub for a hand sticking straight out the window of a taxi. I have said it before and I will say it again: Dignity has its price, and love will pay. But only today. Green mug, I have lived to rue the day that I took you in against my better judgment. But I suppose its not your fault. carrying a constant drip line of coffee or coffee-themed drinks has yet to catch on here, and the turbo-travel mugs in fashion back home are basically represented more or less here by plastic baggies with straws coming from them. You do what you can with what you got. Maybe i will try the baggie-approach tomorrow. I will let you know how that goes.

posted by Kiki @ 6:27 a.m.