When I had lunch with Freddy last week we discussed what are commonly called "First World Problems" or as I sometimes call them, "Middle-Class White Woman Problems" or as Freddy sometimes calls them, "Champagne Problems."
Whatever you want to call them, I have one.
My favorite Eight O'Clock coffee doesn't seem to be available at "my" Publix any more which means that I need to drive to a different Publix to try and get the stuff, and I need to do it NOW because it goes off buy-one-get-one-free on Thursday. I really don't understand this. All of a sudden they've got all these new flavors of Eight O'Clock brand coffee PLUS an Italian Roast Espresso which hey! I'm excited about but I need my dark Italian Roast regular ground.
Okay. I just looked it up on the Google and according to the Eight O'Clock web site, a description of the Dark Italian Roast Espresso ground says "While it is perfect for an espresso brewer it will also create a strong and satisfying pot of coffee in a traditional drip coffee maker."
What is going on with these people? They've muddied their waters with all of these flavors including chocolate cherry and cinnamon bun and to hell with that! I want my coffee to be coffee-flavored. Not hazelnut, not French vanilla and certainly not caramel macchi-fucking-ato.
If I want something flavored like a cinnamon bun, I'll buy a cinnamon bun.
See? First World Problems. And I'm probably supporting the destruction of the rain forest as well as slavery by buying coffee to begin with as if guilt wasn't already my default emotion.
So now I have to get dressed and get in my car and drive past my usual exit where MY Publix is and go on to the next exit and get off and deal with traffic and go to a different Publix to see if they have the regular dark Italian Roast and try to buy as many bags of it as I can and that's ridiculous. Just ridiculous.
First the government shut down and now this.
It's a beautiful coolish morning here in Lloyd and the boys are coming at 1:30 and I'm glad because I miss them like crazy. I feel better as I always do after I suffer through one of these episodes of what I am fairly convinced is some sort of auto-immune disorder or Chronic Fatigue or one of those things for which there is no cure. Life. The squirrels are skittering about the yard and branch-diving and generally staying busy with their fall activities and Mr. Moon just called to report in on various car-related topics and I'm going to make a pot of split pea and vegetable soup for our supper.
This is all I ask and more than I could dream of- to feel halfway decent, to have my grandchildren coming over, to make a pot of soup, to have a sweet man to love me.
Well. That and a huge stash of dark Italian Roast coffee in my cabinet. And to lose thirty pounds and to see world peace in my lifetime and to have a drink with Keith Richards.
And maybe just a little casita on the beach in Cozumel and a ruby ring and oh, just a touch of plastic surgery and a cherry-restored 1968 Karmann Ghia convertible with a Porsche engine and Universal Healthcare and a book deal and some new fat hens who lay eggs and perhaps, if it's not asking too much, a personal and meaningful relationship with Bill Murray.
Good morning, y'all.