Just give me coffee and no one will get hurt

If you know me, you know that I am a coffee lover. I probably fit the description of an addict. Tho, I am reluctant to apply that term to myself as I know recovering addicts and I do not wish to down play their struggles and triumphs by using the word frivolously. 

However, I love my coffee and when the world is getting me down, I don't go downtown, I get a fucking cup of coffee. 

I remember a day when my son was about 2 1/2. That morning everything that could have gone wrong did. The kid was a brat, the grocery bag broke in a wet parking lot, zippers stuck, library books were late. A huge plethora of first world problems had me wishing I'd never gotten out of bed, attempted to make it to play group on time or bothered doing... well anything. 

Driving home, with my child screaming like his arms were being chewed off by squirrels in the back seat, the only thing going through my mind was, "Just get home and get a cup of coffee and everything with be fine. Everything will be okay after a coffee." 

Everything will be okay after coffee. 

And it was. 

That there was probably a sign. But I've been aggressively ignoring it ever since and enjoying my coffee every morning and it makes me happy. 

2 birthdays ago my lovely husband, who does not have the same love affair with coffee as I do, bought me a coffee maker/espresso maker. 

We call it, "My Precious." 

Even though I am the coffee drinker in my house, it is my husband who makes the espresso the most and insists on buying really, really good (read costly) espresso. 

I'll feed my dependency on cold instant coffee left over from yesterday and all murky from milk if the power was out and the water pipes had burst, but not him - he needs the good stuff, or don't bother. 

Therefore I must say that he was most unimpressed when I very purposefully splattered some of the wonderful espresso he brewed for me yesterday all over my wreckage journal. 

He left the room. There may have been tears...