hot coffee girl

Despite Miss Ann's hatred of it, I like Starbuck's coffee. After brewing up a pot at home in the French Press, I can often be found stopping on the way to work to add to my jittery buzz. It was on one of these weekday mornings that the barista handed me a coupon to return on the weekend. It was a "Buy a Coffee for Yourself and Get One for a Friend on Us" type of deal. Sweet. I love free stuff almost as much as I love coffee.

This past weekend as I was out and about I pulled Ursula into a parking spot at 'Bucks.  

I grabbed the Sunday Plain Dealer and stood at the counter wondering what to order on this sunny morning. I opened my wallet and saw the coupon that I had put in there a week back. Needing massive amount of caffeine to get through the presentation I had to put together for a meeting the next day, I decided to order two triple espressos, both with whipped cream. I handed over the coupon with my order, and the woman ringing me up said, "Oh! You and your friend should be awake all day!" It was then that I did the mental calculations, and laughed. She asked me what was funny. I said that I wondered if this was the point where I just nod and smile or where I confess that they were really both for me. Her toned changed slightly when she yelled over to the kid at the espresso machine...

"You can just go ahead and put those in one cup. It's just her."

It wasn't until after I downed the six shots that I was awake enough for that to sting a bit. 

So, in my circle of friends, we have this one poor bastard who we affectionately call “Snickers” … referencing the (unconfirmed) fact that he is hung like a mini-snickers bar. He also happens to drive a Mini, so the jokes there are endless. (We also call him Fez, and there’s some speculation that he’s not straight because he sends text messages to another one of my friends, Perk, where he calls him “baby” and has a weird interest in one of our other friends, Zig … but those are stories for another time. Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Having that information, here’s excerpts of an e-mail trail that recently took place:

Perk:
Check this out! NASCAR and a rip on Fez!

Jane:
Hey, I forgot about the Snickers car! Hee hee hee….

Fez:
Come on Jane, tell me you wouldn’t want a ride in the snickers car.

Jane:
I don’t think there’s room since you are already giving Zig a ride! Who wants to ride a “mini” anyway?

Flav:
What are you trying to say about Zig?

Perk:
So wait... are you trying to say Zig's a "mini" and that you rode him? Or are you saying that he prefers minis? Fez, I'm confused more than words can say... especially since your last text message.

Jane:
Kelly, you’re blogging this tomorrow, right? Giggity-giggity…

Kelly:
Of course not. I don't even have a blog.

As soon as I got on the highway coming home from work last night about 5:30, I noticed that my temperature gauge was nearly in the red, and since I had been having had a problem with the radiator (that The Boy fixed), I knew what was happening so I waited on the side of I-480 during rush hour for about 5 minutes until it cooled off enough that I could limp her the 500 yards up to get off at the next exit where I pulled into the transmission shop there on the corner of Lee and McCracken, looking at steam everyfuckingwhere as I called The Boy who came and picked me up before we stopped to get gas in his truck then went to the auto parts store where we had ordered the new radiator (that he was going to put in this upcoming weekend), only to find out that they had accidentally sent it back to the parts warehouse down in the valley, forcing us to get back in the truck, speed down there to pick it up, then raced back to where the car was, where he proceeded to pop the hood at 7:25 p.m., was putting the new radiator fluid back in at 7:48 p.m., then we have to go and get gas in my car after which he heads back down to the Valley to pick up the Big White Truck (BWT...who's air conditioning just got fixed), and then he headed back over to the east side to pick up a load that was going to somewhere outside of Louisville, KY (and had to be on BWT by 9:00 p.m. when the place closed), then he came back to ate the cheese quesadillas that I made (because we had only tortillas, cheese, coke, some questionable sour cream and juice bars in the refrigerator), then we got back in my car, headed down to pick up his small truck, came back home, he threw his bags in the big truck and was on the road to Kentucky by 11:00 p.m.

How was your night?

There is no way in hell I am showing you my underpants.

But I did go bra-shopping this weekend. Monday morning, and it’s already more than you wanted to know, surely.

Here’s the thing. I hate bras. I rarely wear underwear at all. I hate how they pull, poke, and generally pinch. And don’t try to tell me that I am wearing the wrong size. I’m not. I just don’t really like them. But, at my age gravity threatens to make walking difficult if I don’t…all that interference with my knees…so I give in. Again, way more than you wanted to know. Don't get me wrong, though...I like lingerie. But that has a specific purpose with an end result in mind. That, I can get on board with.

There on the sale rack was this adorable little pink bra with black stripes. In my size. So cute. I grabbed it. Across the store, the matching bottoms. Also on sale. Awesome. As I was flipping through the racks, I saw another piece in the matching fabric. I pulled it out. It was a skirt...although I use that term generously. It was less a skirt than a piece of very sheer cloth that I assume was designed to go around your waist. Although I couldn’t think of how this was practical, it was in my size and on sale, so I bought that too.

See, there’s the thing. Women are generally not practical when it comes to what goes under what you see every day. Sure, we want comfort. Of course we want things to fit. But there comes a moment when all of those things can and will be sacrificed to a greater good. When ordinary underwear becomes more than the sum of it’s tiny parts and is a secret that we share with only those worthy of knowing. On the way to work, I was trying to explain this to The Boy. I pointed out that it’s probably not the same for guys, but that wearing a hot little push-up and a matching thong under a conservative black suit can be almost like a secret weapon. He replied with confirmation that, “You’re right, honey. No man ever uses underwear as a secret weapon.” I said that Jack Bauer might. And that Batman probably does. (“Where does he get those wonderful toys?”)

Although I suppose not wearing them can be a form of power, too. That’s why they call it going commando.