They Tried To Make Me Go To Rehab.

Rome: home to the best cappucino of my young life. Italians know their coffee.

I know. You’ve been  up all night with your glassy red, bloodshot eyes glued to your computer screen, nervously wringing your hands while you  anxiously awaited news of my beloved coffee pot with bated breath.

Thank you for your concern. Truly, I’m touched.

Now…are you sitting down?

It’s dead. I apologize for the blunt delivery. It’s been a hard day for all of us.

I woke up this morning, [having spent last night praying and fasting that my demonized coffee pot would magically repair itself overnight and flicker to life after a 24 hour hiatus from it’s java-brewing-duties], and decided to test the thing before I put any actual coffee grounds in.

When you live in Dakar and all the meticulously-rationed coffee you own in the world arrived on the airplane with you in your impossibly overstuffed royal blue carry-on, you just don’t take foolish chances.  [Er, unless you are me yesterday morning.

The inagural pot of coffee in my "Funix" coffee pot. Sounds promising.

 Lesson learned.]

This time, the monstrous little contraption decided to shake things up a bit, and short circuited the electricity in my entire apartment.

Which was just. perfect.

Feeling very hopeless indeed, I resolved to make the best of a rather dire situation, and asked myself only remaining pertinent question: What would Lucille Ball do? I then crumpled to the middle of the sticky kitchen floor, resigned myself to my bitter fate, and asked Christy to pour ice down the back of my blue tank top and stick my pinkie in an electrical outlet as an unhappy [but sadly, absolutely necessary] substitute for my cup of Joe. [Joe, if you’re reading this-I love you.]

Life is hard on the farm.

Serendipitously, Ted and Ben wandered in just as Christy was about facilitate my impending electrocution and jolt me back to the land of the living. Recognizing that they too are bound by the rules of the Geneva Convention, the boys took pity on my wide “why do bad things happen to good people?” eyes and offered to go buy me a new coffee pot.

Okay. I may have begged. Just a little.

Suddenly, everything started to sparkle and fat little baby cherubs began to play harps and flutter around my living room.

Two hours later, I was caffeinated.

[“It’s aliiiiiiivvveeee!”]

In other news, Mohammad the fruit stand man is apparently very concerned about me. He hasn’t seen me run by since my exile to the couch twelve excruciatingly long days ago, and asks Michelle every day how I’m feeling and where I am.

Mohammad the fruit stand man.

Soon, my love. Soon.


  1. Precious Mohammed!

  2. I know. Kind of adorable.

    …and kind of creepy. He stares.

    Bless his heart. ;)

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