Sunday, November 5, 2017
(This is an unusually boring family life update. You are strongly encouraged not to read it.)
My lovely wife Jeanne often gets me a quad shot latte in the morning from our local Starbucks, returning it to me around 8 am when my day gets started. I'm usually awake by 6.30 but unable to move significantly for the first 90 minutes or so. I usually read during this time or just lie in bed and groan. This morning, LWJ returned from an errand, but she did not bring my latte. I asked, what gives?
A marriage rests on several pillars, and one of them surely is the willingness of one party to get the other party a coffee-based drink if he or she or xe is happening to get coffee for his or her or xis self anyway. Way back in the day when we lived in the Kalorama neighborhood of our nation's capital, or Adams-Morgan depending on how one draws the boundary, we got our coffee at a place called So's Your Mom, which we abbreviated to The Coffee Shop Known as So Is Your Maternal Unit and Frequently Referred to As Such. They had good lattes and bagels too. But I can't eat bagels for breakfast anymore, lest I literally explode out of my pants. But this morning, LWJ had a good excuse, related to her little dog Gandalf's rather tricky stomach. While she was in line at the drive-through line little Gandalf vomited copiously onto her seat. She scooped it up with her hand, looked around and had no place to put the somewhat offensive material except her cup holder. LWJ drives a Honda Accord. This popular car has many virtues but only two cup holders. She needed one for her own coffee, one for her dog's vomitus, and no place for my latte.
And that's OK. Everyone has their priorities. I feel lucky to rank third. If I had Chopi with me and he threw up, I would have cast the result out the window, and besides my Suburban has plenty of cup holders. But Accords do not. I don't mean to preach and I hate preachiness, but I suspect somewhere in here is the secret. The secret of what exactly I'm less sure.