Stuff and Nonsense

So, the other day it's raining and I'm trying to find a table in Panera (it's always raining here lately; it's like I moved to Seattle without my knowledge) and it's crowded in there and loud and suddenly I'm like Dear God, am I having a hot flash? Because I am freakin' burning up and feel like I might pass out.

Well, hot flashes are going to have to wait. Because what I was having was a wog. (A note: I have recently begun Googling words that I use in this blog to be sure I'm using them correctly. And imagine my chagrin when I just saw on Wikipedia that yeah, sure, "wog" is "Australian slang for illness," but it's also British and Australian slang for racial slur. Hello! It's such a cute little word! Now I must retire it!)

So, yeah, I was getting sick. And somehow I got a bit better, and then sicker STILL, so that I've completely lost my voice now. I mean, I can't talk. Readers, do you know what this is doing to me? Me NOT TALKING? It's like the sun not coming out for a week. Oh right, that's happening, too.

But it's particularly inconvenient this evening, because I am supposed to MC the preschool dinner auction, and that seems a bit of a tall order for someone who emits a little raspy squeak when she tries to yell at her child. I mean, really.

So that's what's happening here. Oh, I've been holding back on sharing the outcome of the Vanilla Coffee Treasure Hunt, because I suddenly got a bit self-conscious that, well, maybe some of you are starting to think I'm a bit off in the head. Which maybe you thought already, but still. And if you're thinking "Oh, she's just fishing for reassurance that we would never think such a thing," then, well, yeah.

So I'll keep this brief. David mapped out a route (seriously, he found an app for that) between seven potential coffee oases, and we hit them one by one. The first five yielded bubkes. (That is Jewish/Yiddish slang for "nothing," and there's nothing offensive about it, unless you're a chicken.) I was getting a little panicky. Actually, I was starting to despair. Then, suddenly, I found two tins in the CVS right near our house (the map took us outbound first.) There was singing and rejoicing in the streets. I started to get a little crazy, and checked all the supermarkets and liquor stores we passed. Nope. But mildly satisfied with two, we knocked off for dinner at the Outback Steak House (how funny is it that no one ever notices David is Australian when we go there?) and there was one more CVS nearby.

And the entire shelf of French Vanilla was old school. FIVE TINS. Bringing me to a grand total of seven for the quest. Not too shabby. David was a total downer and pointed out the expiration dates on the bottom: March for two of them, February for the other five (however, like Twinkies, these babies will probably still be standing after the apocalypse.) "Still," he opined, striving for a mournful tone, "it probably means you won't find any more after a month or so."

"DON'T SPEAK." I said, holding up a finger. Not that one, Readers. Give me a little credit, even though I'm the crazy lady with the coffee fetish.