My daughter, M.H., moved here a year ago with her husband and daughter. It's definitely nice having them around, although I don't see nearly enough of my son-in-law or granddaughter. Such is life.
One of the things I've really learned to appreciate about M.H. (among other things) is the way she can save money, and not just a little. She's been into saving as much money as possible; between couponing, looking at the deals in the local stores, and rebates, she's been able to save a bundle. She's also been after me to follow her example. I'm beginning to see how she does it. Granted, I doubt she'll end up on an episode of Extreme Couponing, but she does do a great job of saving.
When M.H., B., and G. still lived in Rhode Island, M.H. would periodically call to tell me about her saving exploits. There was the time when she called to let me know I'd be receiving a rebate check. How so? I wondered. Turns out she had made out her shopping list, then checked the local grocery store's website, as well as Wal-Mart and Target's sites. She worked at one of the box stores at the time, and had an employee discount card. She and B. started where she worked. Between the buy-one-get-one-free offers (BOGOs), her employee discount, and her coupons, as well as only buying what she'd put on her list for that particular store, she ended up with around $150 worth of stuff and paid all of $5. (Yes, you read that right.) Sure, she ended up with enough disposable razors to last several months, as well as laundry and dish detergent, but those were all on sale, they have a longer shelf life than, say, a gallon of milk, and they're stuff that they honestly needed. Ever try doing a load of laundry or a sinkful of dishes without detergent? Exactly. On top of that, she also qualified for a rebate check of almost $9. End result? $150 worth of stuff the family needed, and she ended up almost $4 ahead of the game. Phew!
M.H.'s shopping seldom went that well, but as she's told me numerous times since moving here, "I hate paying full price for that!", as she pointed to detergent, coffee creamers, and the like.
Two weeks ago, I had M.H. drive me to the nearest Publix. I'm sure there are people who don't like Publix, but it's where I do most of my shopping. (And no, I'm not getting paid or rewarded in any way for writing that.) I picked up a few items, while M.H. picked up stuff for her family. At the end, between the BOGOs and her coupons, she ended up with around $67 worth of groceries and parted with a little over $22 in cash. That's roughly a 66-percent savings!
Yesterday, M.H. came by. As her first load of laundry went through the washer, she drove me to one of the local drugstore chains (where she happens to work). They had laundry detergent on sale, as well as toilet paper and 12-packs of soda. We do occasionally drink soda, though not nearly as much as we used to. (I can get by with maybe a glass or can of it every couple of weeks.) Had I bought the detergent (the brand I usually buy) at Publix, it would have run between $4.99 and $5.79. It's presently on sale, but M.H. could do better than an 80-cent savings. The stuff was on sale for between $2 and $3 a bottle; between the sale price, her employee discount, her savings card, and the nine $1-off coupons, we loaded up. Then we threw in a 12-pack of toilet paper and three 12-packs of soda, which will hold us for quite a while. The nine bottles of detergent would have run $45 plus tax at the grocery store; between the sale prices of everything, the discount cards, and the coupons, we shelled out $20.73! I can live with that.
At least I won't have to buy t.p., detergent, or soda for a while...
Showing posts with label Rhode Island. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Rhode Island. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Monday, March 11, 2013
The Tampa Bay (Car) Triangle, or How I Jinxed a Car
I hate to admit it, but I may have jinxed my daughter's car.
There, I said it, but it needed to be said. Better you hear it here first, than from my daughter, though she might have a word or two to say about it.
Okay, a little back story here. My daughter, M.H., her husband B., and daughter, G., moved back to the area from Rhode Island last summer. If one is going to be technical about it, M.H. and B. moved back here; G. is moving here for the first time. No matter, they're here.
They'd been here for not quite two months when their old car died completely. Nothing like the smell of burning rubber, followed by a loud boom, a large poof of smoke, and a blown engine in the middle of a major intersection to announce its demise. This was followed by the purchase of a scooter so that M.H. could at least get back and forth to work.
Cute as the scooter is, as well as good on gas, it is not exactly designed for hauling around a family of three. At least, not all at the same time. When B. ended up in the hospital (see February 14's post: What a week, or Is everyone in the hospital?"), it was obvious that buying a car was in their immediate future.
M.H. mentioned she'd been looking at cars. Then, a couple of days later, I called and got B. on the phone.
"M.H. is on her way to your place," he told me. "At least, I think she is."
A few minutes later, a car horn sounded out front. It was M.H. in her new white Toyota. Well, not new new, but new to her. It ran well, it didn't have a blown engine, it had room for four people, comfortably; in other words, it's wonderful. She was able to take B. and G. places, able to pick me up for errands, able to get to and from work comfortably when it rained.
A week or two later, M.H. stopped by. "Come on, we're going to the beach!" There was no one else there.
"We, who?" I asked. When she gave me that look that said, "A little slow today, are we?", I hurried on, "Are we picking B. up on the way?" We had to pass right by their place on the way to the beach.
"Sure, we'll swing by our place and see if he wants to come along," she said. "He'll probably want to come."
But no, B. was comfortable where he was. After hanging out for a few minutes, M.H. and I headed back to the car.
"Enjoy yourselves," B. said as we left.
Once in the car, though, we realized the beach was not an option. Remember the question about how to make God laugh? (Answer: Tell Him your plans.) This was one of those times. The car would not start. Wouldn't even make a noise like it wanted to turn over, no click, click when she turned the key, nothing.
"Oh, great, now what?" she asked.
"Pop the hood," I told her. The rule is that if your car won't start, even if you have no idea what's wrong, even if you can't tell an alternator from an alternate universe, you pop the hood, right?
I tried moving the battery cables. If the car isn't getting any juice from the battery, it's obvious the car won't start. But the cables seemed tight. M.H. tried turning the key again. Nothing. She called B. on her cellphone. (Yes, I know: we were still parked in front of their place; at this point, that's beside the point.)
"The car won't start," she told him.
I didn't hear the rest of the conversation, as I'd grabbed my cellphone to call my friend Kevin. He's regaled me with enough stories of growing up and putting together car after car after beater car with friends that I figured he'd be able to give us a pointer or two. I was already leaning towards either a new battery or an alternator, but I figured he could offer some advice.
After listening to the symptoms ("ran great coming here, now it won't even try to turn over"), he concurred that it was probably either the batter or alternator. "If she still has the scooter, she can try jumping the car off that. I'm guessing the scooter's got a 12 volt battery, so it should be able to handle that."
I thanked him and passed along the news. We went inside, got the jumper cables, along with a battery charger B.'s mom had given them several years ago. Unfortunately, the charger needed to be charged for hours before its first use. The scooter was equally helpful for jumping off the car.
Finally, M.H. asked a neighbor for help. Mr. Neighbor pulled Mrs. Neighbor's pickup truck around, we hooked up cables, and sure enough, the car started. Sounded beautiful. We thanked Mr. Neighbor, put the cables away, then headed back to my place. We both figured the beach was not an option that evening.
There were a few more quirky happenings with the car that evening, part of which involved Kevin bringing his cab to my place to jump-start M.H.'s car again. It died a third time as she pulled up in front of her place.
A few days later, with a friend's help, she got the car to where she'd bought it; it turned out to be the alternator. It was changed, and off she went.
Then, this morning, M.H. called and offered to help me run errands. We got a few things done and came back home.
"Hey, want to try going to the beach again?"
"Sure, why not?" It would be a pleasant diversion.
We got back into the car and first headed to her place. She had groceries, so we'd put them inside and see if B. wanted to come along. M.H.'s neighbors were sitting out front. I hoped that this wasn't going to be a pattern: we decide to go to the beach, we stop at her place, we see the neighbors out front, the car dies.
B. said he wouldn't come along, he was happy to stay home. Again, he told us to enjoy ourselves at the beach.
So, we get into the car. M.H. puts the key into the ignition...and it starts! We both smiled.
"Good!" we breathed.
We were almost to the beach when M.H. decided she needed to gas up the car, so we pulled into the next station. After putting in a few gallons, she climbed back in, put the key into the ignition, and...nothing. She tried it again. Nothing.
"Really?" she said. "I pick you up to go to the beach, we stop by my place, and the car dies again?"
We pushed the car away from the pump (no minor thing with this particular car) and into a parking space. M.H. called someone from work who promised to stop by after work. Then she called B.
"The car won't start." I got out of the car to give her some privacy.
The coworker arrived a little while later, but while the car sounded like it wanted to start, it wouldn't. So M.H. called the place she'd bought it from. The mechanic who'd changed the alternator told her to have me try moving the positive battery cable. Didn't help. He'd send someone.
After the coworker left, but before the mechanic arrived, we both decided that I'd jinxed the car. "You, the beach, the car: It's the Tampa Bay Car Triangle!"
This time, however, it was a simple fix: the clamps on the battery cables were loose; they were fixed and we were good to go.
"No, don't worry about it!" the mechanic told us when we tried to slip him some cash.
"Okay, it's a tip!"
But no, he wouldn't take the money. We thanked him, he left, and we headed for the beach.
It was almost deserted, wonderfully cool, nice waves...definitely relaxing.
On the way home, as we waited at a light, M.H. glanced over. "I've got an idea. Once a week, I'll come over, tell you we're going to the beach, we'll stop by my place, the car'll die, we'll have a hissy fit, then I'll take you home."
I guess this means that if that's our plan, God'll let us go to the beach...
There, I said it, but it needed to be said. Better you hear it here first, than from my daughter, though she might have a word or two to say about it.
Okay, a little back story here. My daughter, M.H., her husband B., and daughter, G., moved back to the area from Rhode Island last summer. If one is going to be technical about it, M.H. and B. moved back here; G. is moving here for the first time. No matter, they're here.
They'd been here for not quite two months when their old car died completely. Nothing like the smell of burning rubber, followed by a loud boom, a large poof of smoke, and a blown engine in the middle of a major intersection to announce its demise. This was followed by the purchase of a scooter so that M.H. could at least get back and forth to work.
Cute as the scooter is, as well as good on gas, it is not exactly designed for hauling around a family of three. At least, not all at the same time. When B. ended up in the hospital (see February 14's post: What a week, or Is everyone in the hospital?"), it was obvious that buying a car was in their immediate future.
M.H. mentioned she'd been looking at cars. Then, a couple of days later, I called and got B. on the phone.
"M.H. is on her way to your place," he told me. "At least, I think she is."
A few minutes later, a car horn sounded out front. It was M.H. in her new white Toyota. Well, not new new, but new to her. It ran well, it didn't have a blown engine, it had room for four people, comfortably; in other words, it's wonderful. She was able to take B. and G. places, able to pick me up for errands, able to get to and from work comfortably when it rained.
A week or two later, M.H. stopped by. "Come on, we're going to the beach!" There was no one else there.
"We, who?" I asked. When she gave me that look that said, "A little slow today, are we?", I hurried on, "Are we picking B. up on the way?" We had to pass right by their place on the way to the beach.
"Sure, we'll swing by our place and see if he wants to come along," she said. "He'll probably want to come."
But no, B. was comfortable where he was. After hanging out for a few minutes, M.H. and I headed back to the car.
"Enjoy yourselves," B. said as we left.
Once in the car, though, we realized the beach was not an option. Remember the question about how to make God laugh? (Answer: Tell Him your plans.) This was one of those times. The car would not start. Wouldn't even make a noise like it wanted to turn over, no click, click when she turned the key, nothing.
"Oh, great, now what?" she asked.
"Pop the hood," I told her. The rule is that if your car won't start, even if you have no idea what's wrong, even if you can't tell an alternator from an alternate universe, you pop the hood, right?
I tried moving the battery cables. If the car isn't getting any juice from the battery, it's obvious the car won't start. But the cables seemed tight. M.H. tried turning the key again. Nothing. She called B. on her cellphone. (Yes, I know: we were still parked in front of their place; at this point, that's beside the point.)
"The car won't start," she told him.
I didn't hear the rest of the conversation, as I'd grabbed my cellphone to call my friend Kevin. He's regaled me with enough stories of growing up and putting together car after car after beater car with friends that I figured he'd be able to give us a pointer or two. I was already leaning towards either a new battery or an alternator, but I figured he could offer some advice.
After listening to the symptoms ("ran great coming here, now it won't even try to turn over"), he concurred that it was probably either the batter or alternator. "If she still has the scooter, she can try jumping the car off that. I'm guessing the scooter's got a 12 volt battery, so it should be able to handle that."
I thanked him and passed along the news. We went inside, got the jumper cables, along with a battery charger B.'s mom had given them several years ago. Unfortunately, the charger needed to be charged for hours before its first use. The scooter was equally helpful for jumping off the car.
Finally, M.H. asked a neighbor for help. Mr. Neighbor pulled Mrs. Neighbor's pickup truck around, we hooked up cables, and sure enough, the car started. Sounded beautiful. We thanked Mr. Neighbor, put the cables away, then headed back to my place. We both figured the beach was not an option that evening.
There were a few more quirky happenings with the car that evening, part of which involved Kevin bringing his cab to my place to jump-start M.H.'s car again. It died a third time as she pulled up in front of her place.
A few days later, with a friend's help, she got the car to where she'd bought it; it turned out to be the alternator. It was changed, and off she went.
Then, this morning, M.H. called and offered to help me run errands. We got a few things done and came back home.
"Hey, want to try going to the beach again?"
"Sure, why not?" It would be a pleasant diversion.
We got back into the car and first headed to her place. She had groceries, so we'd put them inside and see if B. wanted to come along. M.H.'s neighbors were sitting out front. I hoped that this wasn't going to be a pattern: we decide to go to the beach, we stop at her place, we see the neighbors out front, the car dies.
B. said he wouldn't come along, he was happy to stay home. Again, he told us to enjoy ourselves at the beach.
So, we get into the car. M.H. puts the key into the ignition...and it starts! We both smiled.
"Good!" we breathed.
We were almost to the beach when M.H. decided she needed to gas up the car, so we pulled into the next station. After putting in a few gallons, she climbed back in, put the key into the ignition, and...nothing. She tried it again. Nothing.
"Really?" she said. "I pick you up to go to the beach, we stop by my place, and the car dies again?"
We pushed the car away from the pump (no minor thing with this particular car) and into a parking space. M.H. called someone from work who promised to stop by after work. Then she called B.
"The car won't start." I got out of the car to give her some privacy.
The coworker arrived a little while later, but while the car sounded like it wanted to start, it wouldn't. So M.H. called the place she'd bought it from. The mechanic who'd changed the alternator told her to have me try moving the positive battery cable. Didn't help. He'd send someone.
After the coworker left, but before the mechanic arrived, we both decided that I'd jinxed the car. "You, the beach, the car: It's the Tampa Bay Car Triangle!"
This time, however, it was a simple fix: the clamps on the battery cables were loose; they were fixed and we were good to go.
"No, don't worry about it!" the mechanic told us when we tried to slip him some cash.
"Okay, it's a tip!"
But no, he wouldn't take the money. We thanked him, he left, and we headed for the beach.
It was almost deserted, wonderfully cool, nice waves...definitely relaxing.
On the way home, as we waited at a light, M.H. glanced over. "I've got an idea. Once a week, I'll come over, tell you we're going to the beach, we'll stop by my place, the car'll die, we'll have a hissy fit, then I'll take you home."
I guess this means that if that's our plan, God'll let us go to the beach...
Monday, December 31, 2012
Coffee, Tea, and Other Strange Tales
I knew it was going to be one of those days.
When I wandered down the hall this morning, still half-asleep, my plan was to start the coffee maker, hit the bathroom, then have a large cup of coffee while watching/listening to The Today Show. Simple enough, right?
My daughter, M.H., had bought me a new coffee maker for my birthday. It was greatly needed and appreciated, as the old coffee maker was nearing the end of a messy death. Let's just say that boiling water in a tea kettle, then slowly pouring it through the coffee filter and hoping that the heating element under the coffee pot just doesn't quite cut it. The old coffee maker was six years old, quite a bit longer than most of my previous ones had lasted.
The new one is bright red and works well...as long as I remember to do things correctly.
This morning, I got up, filled the pot up in the sink, poured water into the maker, put the pot in the dish drain (The dish drain? you ask; yes, the dish drain; I'd wanted to dry off the bottom of the glass pot before putting onto the heating element, and didn't have a dry towel around.), then ground the coffee beans, put them in the filter, plugged in the maker, turned it on, and headed down the hall. (I hear what you're thinking: You didn't say anything about getting the pot out of the dish drain. Yeah, I know.)
So, I'm down the hall, getting ready to brush my teeth (morning breath; yuck!), when I hear my youngest utter an expletive, followed by, "Hey, Mom, the coffee!"
I hurried out to find coffee all over the place. The filter had filled to the top, then overflowed. (The top of the pot presses against the bottom of the filter area, which releases the coffee into the pot. But one must remember to put the pot where it belongs - which is not necessarily in the dish drain.)
Good thing I'd planned to do some laundry today, since I used up a few dish towels cleaning up. The second pot went a little smoother...
My family has a few coffee stories, as well as stories dealing with being a little klutzy. So, here goes.
M.H., B. and G. moved here from Rhode Island, where coffee is the state drink. In most places, schools offer kids a choice of regular or chocolate milk (or have in the past); Rhode Island kids get a third choice: coffee flavored. Even M.H. says I drink too much coffee.
True coffee story: My dad loved coffee every bit as much as I do, which is no doubt where I picked up my love of it. Mom was (and still is) more of a tea drinker, and I tend to drink a lot of that, too. But Dad and coffee...
Whenever Mom's parents came to visit for the weekend, there was usually one night reserved for hitting up a nice restaurant. Sometimes they'd bring us kids along, other times, it was just the adults. But the complaint was always the same: "John and the coffee."
See, it went like this: After being seated and handed menus, the waiter or waitress would ask what everyone was drinking. Dad, Mom, and Grandparents would all get coffee. Mom and her parents would nurse that one lone coffee through much of dinner, with occasional sips of water. That one coffee a piece created all sorts of havoc: Mom, Grandma and Grandpa all knew that sleep would be evasive that evening.
Dad, on the other hand, had a cup of coffee with the menu, another helping with the appetizer, a third and forth with dinner, another with dessert, and, finally, a last one after dessert. Wired for sound, right? Wrong! When everyone got home from the restaurant, Dad would sit, yawning, in the living room with everyone else, trying to make small talk. Invariably, though, within half an hour, he'd be upstairs, sound asleep, the coffee having had no effect on him. Mom and her parents, though, would be awake until at least 1 or 2 a.m. from their one cup of coffee!
Note: Anyone having been in the University of South Florida St. Petersburg's Florida Studies program knows that no matter how many words are added to the phrase True Story know where the phrase comes from. I hope Gary Mormino is enjoying his retirement!
Another true coffee story: When I was still driving cabs, I got a call to take someone to Tampa International Airport. Before picking the person up, I grabbed a large coffee and Boston cream donut from a nearby Dunkin' Donuts. After dropping the man off at T.I.A., I decided to swing through the Ybor City section of Tampa, since I had a friend who lived there.
I drove along the main thoroughfare (7th Avenue), but didn't see her. So, I stopped at the coffee place that was on 7th Avenue, went inside and got a large hot mochacchino. According to the person serving this up, it was an espresso, dumped into a large cup (so there were maybe several servings of espresso in there), with chocolate added to the mix, and topped with whipped cream. I'll go with that description. Drank it down, then got a large iced mochacchino to go. Got to the cab, started to leave, and Voila!, saw my friend. I honked, she waved, I did a U-turn and chug-a-lugged my iced caffeine rush before getting out of the car.
We hugged, then went back into the same coffee place to talk over - you guessed it - large hot mochacchinos. The server raised an eyebrow as he served us, no doubt wondering how sleep deprived I'd been - or would be. This time, we each added a large brownie (one for friend, one for me). The things had to be 2 inches on each side and 2 inches high, then topped with chocolate syrup, whipped cream, a scoop of ice cream, more chocolate syrup, and topped with a cherry. (As Paula Deen might admonish, we have to get our fruits and veggies in somewhere!)
Then, as we got ready to leave, I grabbed another large iced mochacchino to go. Fortunately, there'd been a shift change, so it was a different person handing it over.
By the time I got back to the Pinellas side of the Howard Franklin Bridge (a.k.a. the Frankenstein), I decided I'd best get a plain old large coffee from Dunkin' Donuts before pulling onto the nearest cab stand, where two other drivers were sitting, talking, while waiting for calls. (One of the two was my friend Kevin.)
"Hey, Robin, how's it going?" the other driver asked. And I was off and speed-talking.
"Well, seeIgotthiscallthatwenttoTIAandthenIwenttoYborandIgotsomecoffeeand..."
Kevin and the other driver's eye kind-of widened. About the time one of them got a call, though, I'd hit the caffeine wall. Anyone familiar with vinyl might know about 33s and 45s; there are those of us who remember seeing 78s and 16s. Let's just say that at first, I must've sounded like a 33 being played at the speed 45 or 78 (think Alvin and the Chipmunks), then, after hitting the wall, sounding more like a 78 played at 33 or 16...
"Wow, I think you'd better steer away from the coffee for a day or two," Kevin offered as he drove off for his next call. He might've been right.
Another coffee story: By the time Dad had married my step-mom, I'd started sending pans of fudge as one of my Christmas presents to Dad and P. They both kept an eye out for the package: Dad was ready, willing and able to finish most of the pan of fudge with a pot of coffee, while P. was prone to dole the fudge out a piece or two at a time. (Does that coffee-and-chocolate thing sound familiar?) I'd inevitably get a call from Dad the day the package came, when I'd hear which way it had gone.
True (tea) story: My mother, whose maternal grandparents immigrated from England, was more of a tea person than Dad was. If there was cause for celebration, fix tea; if someone needed cheering up, fix tea; if someone felt a little under the weather, fix tea; if...well, you get the idea. I can't begin to count the number of times I'd be home sick and would be given a cup of tea and toast.
One rainy afternoon, Mom's mom came to visit. She lived maybe a fifteen minute ride from us and would frequently bring homemade oatmeal or peanut butter cookies.
This particular rainy day, I was home sick; I was definitely on the mend, but, since it was rainy, Mom had decided to keep me home, while sending my sister A. to school.
While Mom stood watching out the door for A. to get home, Grandma poured both of us another cup of tea, pushed the plate of cookies toward me, and told me about her one brush with fame:
When she was eight years old, she and her parents lived in Denver. Half-way through the school year, Grandma's teacher informed the class that the following week, she'd bring a friend of her's to class; her friend was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody.
The day before Buffalo Bill was to come to class, Grandma stayed after school to tell her teacher the news: she had found out that morning that her parents were moving the family back to New York; they were leaving by train the next morning. Grandma was heart-broken: she loved her teacher, who apparently very caring with the children, and she was going to miss meeting Buffalo Bill Cody.
At 6 the next morning, Grandma sat on the train as her parents handed the porter their luggage. She was lost in her thoughts when she heard a familiar voice say her name as a hand touched her shoulder.
"Lillian," her teacher said. "I have a very special person who said he wanted to meet my student who was leaving for New York."
Grandma turned to see her teacher, who had gotten up extra early to see her on the train. Beside her teacher was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody himself!
I went back to school the next day. And while I've met many people over the years, some famous, some almost famous, most just ordinary people, I still feel that tea will cure an upset stomach (especially if it's with toast or cookies), that coffee is wonderful, and that both are tied to an occasional quirky story.
At 2 in the afternoon, I wonder if it's okay to put on another pot of coffee...
When I wandered down the hall this morning, still half-asleep, my plan was to start the coffee maker, hit the bathroom, then have a large cup of coffee while watching/listening to The Today Show. Simple enough, right?
My daughter, M.H., had bought me a new coffee maker for my birthday. It was greatly needed and appreciated, as the old coffee maker was nearing the end of a messy death. Let's just say that boiling water in a tea kettle, then slowly pouring it through the coffee filter and hoping that the heating element under the coffee pot just doesn't quite cut it. The old coffee maker was six years old, quite a bit longer than most of my previous ones had lasted.
The new one is bright red and works well...as long as I remember to do things correctly.
This morning, I got up, filled the pot up in the sink, poured water into the maker, put the pot in the dish drain (The dish drain? you ask; yes, the dish drain; I'd wanted to dry off the bottom of the glass pot before putting onto the heating element, and didn't have a dry towel around.), then ground the coffee beans, put them in the filter, plugged in the maker, turned it on, and headed down the hall. (I hear what you're thinking: You didn't say anything about getting the pot out of the dish drain. Yeah, I know.)
So, I'm down the hall, getting ready to brush my teeth (morning breath; yuck!), when I hear my youngest utter an expletive, followed by, "Hey, Mom, the coffee!"
I hurried out to find coffee all over the place. The filter had filled to the top, then overflowed. (The top of the pot presses against the bottom of the filter area, which releases the coffee into the pot. But one must remember to put the pot where it belongs - which is not necessarily in the dish drain.)
Good thing I'd planned to do some laundry today, since I used up a few dish towels cleaning up. The second pot went a little smoother...
My family has a few coffee stories, as well as stories dealing with being a little klutzy. So, here goes.
M.H., B. and G. moved here from Rhode Island, where coffee is the state drink. In most places, schools offer kids a choice of regular or chocolate milk (or have in the past); Rhode Island kids get a third choice: coffee flavored. Even M.H. says I drink too much coffee.
True coffee story: My dad loved coffee every bit as much as I do, which is no doubt where I picked up my love of it. Mom was (and still is) more of a tea drinker, and I tend to drink a lot of that, too. But Dad and coffee...
Whenever Mom's parents came to visit for the weekend, there was usually one night reserved for hitting up a nice restaurant. Sometimes they'd bring us kids along, other times, it was just the adults. But the complaint was always the same: "John and the coffee."
See, it went like this: After being seated and handed menus, the waiter or waitress would ask what everyone was drinking. Dad, Mom, and Grandparents would all get coffee. Mom and her parents would nurse that one lone coffee through much of dinner, with occasional sips of water. That one coffee a piece created all sorts of havoc: Mom, Grandma and Grandpa all knew that sleep would be evasive that evening.
Dad, on the other hand, had a cup of coffee with the menu, another helping with the appetizer, a third and forth with dinner, another with dessert, and, finally, a last one after dessert. Wired for sound, right? Wrong! When everyone got home from the restaurant, Dad would sit, yawning, in the living room with everyone else, trying to make small talk. Invariably, though, within half an hour, he'd be upstairs, sound asleep, the coffee having had no effect on him. Mom and her parents, though, would be awake until at least 1 or 2 a.m. from their one cup of coffee!
Note: Anyone having been in the University of South Florida St. Petersburg's Florida Studies program knows that no matter how many words are added to the phrase True Story know where the phrase comes from. I hope Gary Mormino is enjoying his retirement!
Another true coffee story: When I was still driving cabs, I got a call to take someone to Tampa International Airport. Before picking the person up, I grabbed a large coffee and Boston cream donut from a nearby Dunkin' Donuts. After dropping the man off at T.I.A., I decided to swing through the Ybor City section of Tampa, since I had a friend who lived there.
I drove along the main thoroughfare (7th Avenue), but didn't see her. So, I stopped at the coffee place that was on 7th Avenue, went inside and got a large hot mochacchino. According to the person serving this up, it was an espresso, dumped into a large cup (so there were maybe several servings of espresso in there), with chocolate added to the mix, and topped with whipped cream. I'll go with that description. Drank it down, then got a large iced mochacchino to go. Got to the cab, started to leave, and Voila!, saw my friend. I honked, she waved, I did a U-turn and chug-a-lugged my iced caffeine rush before getting out of the car.
We hugged, then went back into the same coffee place to talk over - you guessed it - large hot mochacchinos. The server raised an eyebrow as he served us, no doubt wondering how sleep deprived I'd been - or would be. This time, we each added a large brownie (one for friend, one for me). The things had to be 2 inches on each side and 2 inches high, then topped with chocolate syrup, whipped cream, a scoop of ice cream, more chocolate syrup, and topped with a cherry. (As Paula Deen might admonish, we have to get our fruits and veggies in somewhere!)
Then, as we got ready to leave, I grabbed another large iced mochacchino to go. Fortunately, there'd been a shift change, so it was a different person handing it over.
By the time I got back to the Pinellas side of the Howard Franklin Bridge (a.k.a. the Frankenstein), I decided I'd best get a plain old large coffee from Dunkin' Donuts before pulling onto the nearest cab stand, where two other drivers were sitting, talking, while waiting for calls. (One of the two was my friend Kevin.)
"Hey, Robin, how's it going?" the other driver asked. And I was off and speed-talking.
"Well, seeIgotthiscallthatwenttoTIAandthenIwenttoYborandIgotsomecoffeeand..."
Kevin and the other driver's eye kind-of widened. About the time one of them got a call, though, I'd hit the caffeine wall. Anyone familiar with vinyl might know about 33s and 45s; there are those of us who remember seeing 78s and 16s. Let's just say that at first, I must've sounded like a 33 being played at the speed 45 or 78 (think Alvin and the Chipmunks), then, after hitting the wall, sounding more like a 78 played at 33 or 16...
"Wow, I think you'd better steer away from the coffee for a day or two," Kevin offered as he drove off for his next call. He might've been right.
Another coffee story: By the time Dad had married my step-mom, I'd started sending pans of fudge as one of my Christmas presents to Dad and P. They both kept an eye out for the package: Dad was ready, willing and able to finish most of the pan of fudge with a pot of coffee, while P. was prone to dole the fudge out a piece or two at a time. (Does that coffee-and-chocolate thing sound familiar?) I'd inevitably get a call from Dad the day the package came, when I'd hear which way it had gone.
True (tea) story: My mother, whose maternal grandparents immigrated from England, was more of a tea person than Dad was. If there was cause for celebration, fix tea; if someone needed cheering up, fix tea; if someone felt a little under the weather, fix tea; if...well, you get the idea. I can't begin to count the number of times I'd be home sick and would be given a cup of tea and toast.
One rainy afternoon, Mom's mom came to visit. She lived maybe a fifteen minute ride from us and would frequently bring homemade oatmeal or peanut butter cookies.
This particular rainy day, I was home sick; I was definitely on the mend, but, since it was rainy, Mom had decided to keep me home, while sending my sister A. to school.
While Mom stood watching out the door for A. to get home, Grandma poured both of us another cup of tea, pushed the plate of cookies toward me, and told me about her one brush with fame:
When she was eight years old, she and her parents lived in Denver. Half-way through the school year, Grandma's teacher informed the class that the following week, she'd bring a friend of her's to class; her friend was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody.
The day before Buffalo Bill was to come to class, Grandma stayed after school to tell her teacher the news: she had found out that morning that her parents were moving the family back to New York; they were leaving by train the next morning. Grandma was heart-broken: she loved her teacher, who apparently very caring with the children, and she was going to miss meeting Buffalo Bill Cody.
At 6 the next morning, Grandma sat on the train as her parents handed the porter their luggage. She was lost in her thoughts when she heard a familiar voice say her name as a hand touched her shoulder.
"Lillian," her teacher said. "I have a very special person who said he wanted to meet my student who was leaving for New York."
Grandma turned to see her teacher, who had gotten up extra early to see her on the train. Beside her teacher was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody himself!
I went back to school the next day. And while I've met many people over the years, some famous, some almost famous, most just ordinary people, I still feel that tea will cure an upset stomach (especially if it's with toast or cookies), that coffee is wonderful, and that both are tied to an occasional quirky story.
At 2 in the afternoon, I wonder if it's okay to put on another pot of coffee...
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