Desperate Times Call For Starbucks.

At tea with Danielle. Who refuses to drink coffee with me. And thus, this picture really has nothing to do with coffee, and everything to do with loving Danielle. We're going for visual interest, here. :)

I’m going to force myself out of the fetal position and peel myself off the floor just long enough to tell you this story.

You can’t HANDLE the story!

[I can’t handle the story.]

But then so help me, I’m going right back from whence I came.

In an effort to get to the bottom of why I can’t walk, the past several days have been a flurry of doctor’s appointments, extended phone calls with my new best friends at SOS, blood work, new appointments with new doctors that didn’t attend medical school on-line [and truth be told, my theory is that Doctor # 2’s parents named him “Doctor”, thus he didn’t feel the need to bother with trivial little things like a degree…], and a whooooole lot of bed rest.

Now, brace yourselves. This may come as a bit of a shock to you, but after spending the last eleven days on the couch, I am entirely convinced that I am not cut out for the sedentary bed rest lifestyle that has been rudely thrust upon me. In fact, I am entirely convinced that there is not a sedentary bone in my body.

 I digress.

This morning, I was scheduled to pick up the results of my blood work downtown, and cart them over to Doctor #3. [A delightful little French man that reminds me of Santa Clause. I wish he would adopt me.] My eyes fluttered open, I stumbled off the floor and gimped into the kitchen, to make my first pot of coffee.

Because that’s how I roll in the morning. To all of you that elatedly leap out of bed, grab your yoga mats and cheerfully greet the day with your best sunrise salutation-I salute you. As for me and mine: we need artificial stimulants. And I

One of my very last caramel lattes before hopping a flight to Dakar three months ago. Venti: the way life should be.

 don’t care who knows it. You just keep your earthy-crunchy-granola-hippie lifestyle to yourself, hand me my caramel coffee and then back away slowly. I promise, we’ll be best friends again after a pot or four!

I flipped the switched on my little blue coffee pot, and suddenly the thing started to moan. I mean, mooaan. I once helped kill a chicken in Romania. I named him Herbie. I ate him for dinner. And this morning, my coffee pot sounded strangely like Herbie the chicken did right before…well, you know.

Before I could say “café au lait”, the gray tile counter was covered in a tsunami of water and coffee grounds that poured out in a torrent from the bottom of my pot.

Desperately trying to will my nervous system into latency, I did the intelligent thing, and simply refilled the pot and repeated the process.

What’s the definition of insanity again?

Cue the moaning and coffee ground tsunami.

At that point, I started implementing relaxing breathing techniques and attempted to talk myself down from a wicked episode of tachycardia.

Sniff sniff. Wail! Sob.

At the Starbucks right outside of Versailles. Bliss.

I had no choice but to stumble into a decrepit yellow taxi and venture into the heart of Dakar in an un-caffeinated daze. It was entirely confusing-for the life of me I simply couldn’t understand when on earth the sun got so blindingly bright and everybody started shouting.

And yes, we now have a tentative diagnosis and it looks like I won’t die after all. Not this week anyhow. Ten more days of bed rest and enough pills to keep an 80’s hair band happy for a month of Sundays, and I ought to be up and walking again! Just ten more days…

…but the real emergency here is my coffee pot. Priorities, people.

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