I have a Twitter account because someone told me that I should. “It really helps with networking,” they said. But really, I don’t have anything to Twit errr…Tweet about. Twitter is all about keeping your “followers” up-to-the-instant on your every move. But frankly, I don’t move very often. In fact, I have spent most of today sitting in front of the computer drinking coffee that’s been in the pot since breakfast. Although I could probably say that in under 140 characters (Tweets are limited in length), who would care?
So I have begun to write fantasy Twitters.
“Leaving for the Vineyard with Barack and Michelle!”
“Lost 10 pounds today. Feel great. Look fab.”
“Book on NY Times Bestseller list. Hurray!”
“Late for date with George Clooney.”
“Rahm called for advice…again.”
“Son hell-bent on finishing his summer reading.”
My husband has left me and I’m okay with it.
He’s away on a business trip for three nights and four days …in Italy. Now, some women might be jealous and others might be resentful. Some, after holding down the suburban fort and being a single parent for the better part of a week, might expect payback in the form of Prada or Gucci. Not me. I like being home. Let me be more specific. I like being home without Harris.
It’s not that I don’t love Harris and treasure every moment that we have together, I do. It’s just that I like it when he leaves, too. When he’s gone, I admit that I feel a certain freedom. I can eat all the stuff that he hates (green curry, blue cheese and black bean soup), watch the all of the chick flicks that he won’t rent (The Notebook, Baby Mama and anything with Clive Owen) and make coffee that’s really, really strong – not only because I need the extra caffeine to fuel my jam-packed single parenting days, but because that’s how I like it.
Maybe it’s the coffee, but when Harris is away, I get a lot of stuff done – especially the stuff that, if he were here, would require discussion. The last time he went away, I redid the bedroom.
Like much of America, I stayed up late watching the election returns, weeping at Obama’s moving acceptance speech and wondering what campaign official decided that the McCains should all wear yellow.
As a result of my addiction to the campaign coverage, I was up until after 1am and got up at 6am. (Call me a bad mom, but I let Lewis stay up, until 1am, too. Some things are more important than being well-rested at school.) Anyhow, simple subtraction (which I find challenging even under ideal conditions) reveals that I only got about 5 hours of sleep. So, I was really looking forward to my morning coffee. But there wasn’t any. We were out.
In our house, the coffee is my job. I shop for it, I grind the beans, I brew it. That’s because I am the one who has the full-blown caffeine addiction. I wake up every morning with a headache that can only be quelled by three cups of coffee consumed in rapid succession. So, when I discovered that the coffee canister was empty, I rummaged through the cabinets and the recesses of the freezer hoping to unearth a few ancient coffee beans stashed and forgotten -even flavored coffee beans stashed and forgotten. No luck.
At 6:15, it was too early to call my next-door neighbor to borrow coffee and 45 minutes until the grocery store opened. I was desperate – but not proud. So, I dug the coffee filter from yesterday’s pot out of the kitchen garbage, scraped the grounds into a fresh filter, measured out four cups of water and fired that Mr. Coffee up. Ugh.
Yesterday Starbucks gave out free cups of coffee to anyone who said that they voted. I voted. Now, I want my cup of coffee.