The K-Cup Caper
Don’t be that guy.
I shuffle my way into the kitchen, looking forward to the much-needed nectar that fuels the start of my day.
Reaching into the basket that houses the precious K cup collection, my hand gropes around and finds it empty. A moment of denial and then shock as I pull the basket from the shelf. Empty.
Empty? Momentary confusion as my brain tries to process this reality amidst the morning fog that has yet to lift from my brain.
I think in my head that maybe I have been asleep for two weeks, and life has been humming along without me. There were plenty of cups there yesterday.
Oh, that’s right, my sweet husband worked from home yesterday, and my son is home from college. I should have known.
In true coffee addict form, I try not to cry because that would be weird and disconcerting. Instead, I curse everyone who is currently occupying my home. Just two of them, but the two who dare to drink any K cups, much less the last one.
I believe wholeheartedly that you should not drink my coffee unless I have designated you as worthy to do so.
Unfortunately, these two are not worthy. At all. There is a gross underappreciation for the value of a K cup — it’s like nonsmokers taking your cigarettes. I don’t smoke, but I need this example to emphasize the precious nature of certain things.
Scanning the kitchen, I see what I’m looking for. The evidence. A stack of used K cups teetering like the leaning tower of Pisa near the garbage can. Not in the can — that would require too many steps — but on the counter above the drawer where, with a shred of effort, one could open the drawer and successfully finish the job.
I’m a very easygoing person and have only a few necessities and requests in life.
- Don’t eat the last cookie.
- Don’t use the last K-cup.
I am truly mystified that these concepts are so difficult to embrace. The older one could give or take coffee — he doesn’t care either way. His rituals and priorities are different. I do not go into his wallet and take his last dollar. If I opened his wallet looking for cash, and taking any that would inconvenience him, I wouldn’t do it. Period. Having cash on hand is very important to him. As far as the college kid is concerned, I don’t really owe him any courtesies but typically extend them because that’s how I roll.
Armed with evidence, I walk around the house like a drunk Clydesdale to let everyone know that there is a problem. Apparently, I’m very stealth- like and quiet when I’m happy — quite the opposite when I want everyone to know that there is trouble. It’s not purposeful, but certainly effective. Ever since this was brought to my attention, I’ve developed different gait choreography for each grievance.
Drunk Clydesdale goes well with today’s problem.
I hear movements from upstairs, knowing that the noise has probably jolted them from their comfortable slumber. I continue with my antics, even arousing my dog from his sleep. I whisper a sincere apology to him, give him some love, and encourage him to go back to sleep. The poor thing pays for the sins of others.
On with my day, I guess. I will have to start my day without my lifer’s juice. My cup of sunshine. I will have to drive to Dunkin Donuts and put other citizens at risk because someone under my roof wasn’t considerate.
I’m on my way upstairs when the doorbell rings. Who in the ( blank ) is ringing the ( blank ) doorbell this early?
I fumble with the lock on the door and abruptly yank it open. No one is there. But I look down, and there on my porch is a large coffee and a box of K-cups.
I retrieve my goodies and gingerly glide into the kitchen. Skating along in my socks, I look at my phone and see a text. It says, “I’m sorry, Mom. We love you. James and Dad.”
My heart melts as I enjoy my coffee. The best cup of coffee ever because this small gesture reminds me that I am truly loved.
