Worth 1000 Words #13: Ol’ Reliable

On the first day of college, I was nervously approaching my first ever class – Health and Wellness – wondering who I would sit with, if I’d make any friends, and why on earth said class needed to be so freakin’ far away from the parking lot, when my backpack strap broke.

Now, superstitious folk might have perceived this occurrence as a bad sign. Unfortunately, I am one of those people.

I immediately assumed that one single stroke of bad luck was going to define my future academic career, and that my pending failures were all due to an unfortunate incident of faulty stitching. I wished I had bought one of those snazzy, colorful L.L. Bean backpacks embroidered with my initials instead of a dowdy brown messenger bag designed to carry my laptop, which I literally brought to class maybe twice in my entire three years of degree-hunting.

So I hobbled to Health class, retained no information while there, then hobbled back to my car with my broken bag and similarly broken spirits. And that night, I went to Staples and shelled out $72 for a backpack that came to be known as Ol’ Reliable.

Ol’ Reliable is a High Sierra brand bag, black with silver/white accents, and contains five pockets of increasing size and a laptop sleeve, so it was quite a lot of bang for my buck. Now, I have owned many a backpack in my time, including one of those wheelie bags that were popular when I was in elementary school, a Big Dogs bag bought at an outlet store in the Poconos, and a really pretty white and purple plaid bag that also broke beneath the burden of weighty books. But I don’t think any backpack past or future can ever eclipse the enduring legacy of Ol’ Reliable, who has been my stalwart traveling companion for the last eight years. Who knew one backpack could carry so many books (I was an English Lit major, remember?), as well as all of my hopes and dreams?

20180926_110729.jpgHe’s suffered through some wear and tear over the years – one shoulder strap is ripped slightly, but it remains resilient and shows no sign of tearing completely. A pen exploded in one of the pockets during an intense rainstorm, so the interior is stained a splotchy black. And, as mentioned earlier, Ol’ Reliable has been through it. My last semester of college alone I had 25 textbooks, including two massive, dreaded literature anthologies. It’s a miracle that both Ol’ Reliable and my spine survived.

Ol’ Reliable not only assisted me on the road to an English degree, he has accompanied me on the literal road on many actual travels. He was with me when I studied abroad in England, which was my first time ever out of the country. When I hiked the steep stairs at St. Paul’s cathedral and then took in the gorgeous view at the top, he was there. As I strolled through Westminster Abbey, looking upon the memorials of poets and writers and kings and queens of yore, he was there. When my crew and I took a whirlwind one day trip to Paris, visiting the Louvre, viewing the Eiffel Tower, and walking through the beautiful and haunting Notre Dame, he was there. Whilst I toured the legendary halls of castles and prestigious universities, he was there. He was strapped firmly to my back when I stood upon the tomb of King Henry VIII in Windsor, and sat quietly at my feet during every exam and quiz. And when I returned to England three years later, he was with me yet again, as solid and hardy as ever. I took him with me to see Stonehenge. He came along when we glimpsed the white cliffs at Dover, rising from the ocean like pale stone beacons. He has visited the Shakespeare House, the royal crescent in Bath, and has graced the floor in many a pub and tavern while I sipped a pint of Strongbow and nibbled on a burger.

Ol’ Reliable was there on my recent trip to Vegas, able to carry everything from my laptop, to my Nintendo DS, to my Nook, and two spare outfits in his sturdy pockets, yet was still able to fit beneath the seat of the person in front of me on the airplane, so I didn’t have to cram him in the overhead bin. He was with me every time I traveled between New England and PA on school breaks and the like, able to fit enough of my belongings in his pockets that I rarely needed to check a bag. He’s been on planes, cars, trains, and ferries. Whenever I have a trip coming up, I feel somewhat less nervous just knowing that Ol’ Reliable will be accompanying me. Because he is exactly that – reliable. With him on my back, I don’t need to worry.

Since I currently work in a retail establishment, I have occasionally had to recommend items to shoppers. Recently, I was assisting a couple with the purchase of a backpack for their grandson from our online store. And wouldn’t you know, a slightly updated version of Ol’ Reliable was available. I sang his praises to them, recounting my eight years of reliable backpack ownership to help them make their decision. And – I like to think due to my persuasion – they made the right choice, and I hope their grandson has an Ol’ Reliable of his own.

Ol’ Reliable isn’t winning any beauty pageants – he’s worn, almost a decade old, and not as glitzy or as glamorous as some of the other backpacks out there. But he gets the job done, and he gets it done well, and without complaint. Any trip I go on, he is automatically the first thing I think of to come along. He has never failed me, and I intend to keep him as my frequent travel-companion until he or I cannot travel any longer, or until that tear in his shoulder strap finally gives.

~~~~~

If you’re in need of a new read, check out my YA novel, I’m With You! The ebook is only $1.99 or (£1.55) and paperback is $9.99 (£7.99) on Amazon Amazon UK. Nook book is also $1.99 and paperback is $9.99 on BN.com.

Advertisements

Worth 1000 Words #12: Monochrome

Despite my complete lack of fashion sense, which is an affliction I have suffered from for the duration of my life, I watched Project Runway for a handful of seasons, binged my fair share of ANTM back in the day, and have seen enough episodes of What Not To Wear that I should genuinely know what not to wear by now. I admire seeing folks with an eye for fashion piece outfits together, craft incredible looks out of bizarre materials, tell someone what clothing works for their body type and comfort level, or strut down a runway in unique garb with palpable confidence. I was also a huge fan of RuPaul’s Drag Race for the first 5 or 6 seasons, and it’s a bandwagon I’ve been meaning to climb back on, because those queens know how to make a look.

img_20170405_133629_423113918457.jpgHowever, listening to Tim Gunn’s irreverent “make it work!”, inspirational speeches from Tyra Banks, and Stacey and Clint clapping at the results of their handiwork has not been enough for me to take any meaningful risks when it comes to my personal wardrobe. My clothing choices often trend in a more… monochromatic direction.

Almost every day, I wear something black. If not black, my next choice is gray. If not gray, a different shade of gray. Then, if I must, I go for white. You get the picture. Mostly, my outfits consist of some combination of those three colors (or lack thereof) on a day to day basis, though I am known to add a splash of color (I love a good pink or green, and especially purple) and even a floral pattern if I’m feeling especially wild. Upon a recent purging of my drawers and closet, I counted 15 black shirts, including 2 black 3/4 sleeve shirts, 2 black long sleeve shirts, 2 black v-necks…the list goes on. Though, I will say I am not opposed to a blending of these options. A black and gray shirt is more or less my ideal, because then I don’t have to choose between them.

I don’t quite know when this happened to my sense of fashion, where my appreciation for color dulled and I strayed in a significantly more monochrome direction. I’ve always liked wearing black, I suppose. I mean… it goes with everything, except most shades of blue, so what’s not to like? Black, gray, and white are super adaptable. I can coordinate my wardrobe so easily because approximately 85% of it looks like it’s being broadcast before the days of technicolor.

But I can’t pinpoint when this started. I used to wear much more color, and I usually see brighter and more vibrantly-patterned clothing in shop windows or on sales racks that I’m drawn to, but can’t bring myself to even consider trying on. I’ve gone so far as to buy some “risky” clothing but never summoned the courage to actually wear them, so they sit in my closet and collect dust. Now, several colors have been shunned from my closet and drawers entirely…keep orange, yellow, and most pastel shades away from my pale, pale self. But whenever I go shopping, if I’ve got someone with me (usually my mom) when I start pawing through all the black, grey, and white clothing, I get asked, “Don’t you have enough of those shades?” And I inevitably buy more, anyway. Even my graphic tees usually have a black base, though it helps that my favorite is Batman and black/gray are key colors for him.

I know I’m not the only one with this habit. I work with some folks who wear a lot of black as well – some days, 4 or 5 of us will be wearing similar outfits – but I doubt our reasons for doing so are the same. Some folks just genuinely like black, and there’s nothing wrong with that.

Although I do prefer dark and neutral colors overall just as a matter of preference, I think I started dressing in a monochrome scheme because it’s safe. Nondescript. Bland. I don’t like drawing attention to myself, and that color scheme helps me achieve that goal. Wearing drab, uninspired colors makes it easier to blend in, to make it through the day without standing out, to more or less ensure that no one will pass me on the street and say, “What is she wearing?” with an accompanying look of disgust and/or horror. I mean… in reality, no one would do that, because they have lives and more important things to do than critique the clothing choices of strangers, but it’s easy to project onto others when you’re feeling insecure. When I select an outfit for the day, one thought that passes through my mind before I give it the go-ahead is, “Will other people think this looks stupid?” and this habit has made it so there is very little variety in my day-to-day appearance.

In recent months, I have been making an effort to add some life and color into my clothing choices. One of my favorite new shirts is technically black, BUT it has colorful stripes on it! Baby steps, right? In the same shopping session, I also bought a blue sweater with tiny gold stars sewn into it, and I am obsessed. Sadly, now that the weather has gotten warmer I can’t wear it until autumn, but still…

Now, when I pass a bright shirt or colorful cardigan in a store that piques my interest, I don’t just shrug it off. I might try it on, give it a chance to sway me. Because it doesn’t matter what other people think – all that matters is what I think. I will never eschew black or gray from my wardrobe – in fact, they are likely to remain staples for the foreseeable future – but I’m trying to make a more sincere effort to include colored shirts, patterned pants, and other clothes I would typically ignore into my options. Some risks, even if they are small, are worth taking, especially if they might aid in boosting confidence and self-assurance.

~~~~~

If you’re in need of a new read, check out my YA novel, I’m With You! The ebook is only $1.99 or (£1.55) and paperback is $9.99 (£7.99) on Amazon Amazon UK.  Nook book is also $1.99 and paperback is $9.99 on BN.com.

Worth 1000 Words #11: In the Bleak Midwinter

*I will only be making Friday posts for the month of December. Regular Monday and Friday posting will resume in January.*

Now that December has blustered into my neck of the woods, bringing cold winds, the scent of pine, and absolutely ridiculous inflatable holiday decorations adorning the yards of my neighbors, I have a confession to make: I don’t particularly enjoy the holidays. In fact, I recently purchased a shirt that truly reflects my feelings toward the holidays, which is reminiscent of everyone’s favorite reformed Christmas naysayer, Ebenezer Scrooge. It suits me wonderfully, I have to say.

img_20171120_143441_3441212692033.jpgI know, I know… disliking this time of the year is blasphemy. Everyone loves Christmas! Everyone loves cookies and bulky sweaters and watching snow fall with a steaming cup of cocoa! Everyone loves Christmas movies and carols and figgy pudding and whatever! But hear me out, because I think my aversion to the holiday season is valid.

Firstly, I don’t like gingerbread or eggnog, and peppermint is a case-by-case basis, with the typical outcome being “no thanks.” So, like, half of the seasonal lattes at Starbucks aren’t options for me, and that’s a major bummer. I also dislike snow (when I have to drive in it) and bitter cold, and though I do love a good bulky sweater, they tend to be quite itchy, and no one wants to be itchy all day, fashion be damned.

But, the main reason why I dislike the holiday season is that I work retail full-time. So, you can imagine how that is during the holidays. Last year I worked third shift for all of December and part of January, and it was a magical experience. I didn’t have to interact with people for 6 weeks. I didn’t have to care about my appearance for 6 weeks, I didn’t have to fake holiday cheer for 6 weeks. I could just do my work, listen to my own music, and carry on my own way without being bothered by last-minute shoppers who somehow think it’s my fault that we sold out of a particular item, even though we’ve had it in stock for weeks prior. I’m eternally grateful that I don’t work in the toy department, though. I work across the store, but I’m already sick of hearing about “fingerlings,” whatever those are, and last years “hatchimal” craze was even worse.

This year, I didn’t fare so well with my schedule, as I am on the early/day shift until the week leading up to Christmas – though I will say, in my 9 years of retail, I had my easiest Black Friday shift of all time a couple of weeks ago, so the holiday season didn’t kick off in a majorly disastrous fashion. I enjoy my job most of the time, but this time of year, it is far too easy to spiral into a jumbled mess of stress, irritation, the whole “too much work and not enough time” mentality, impatience, and indulging in too much candy to try and improve my mood, then feeling terrible and spending extra time at the gym to make up for it. It’s difficult to scrounge up enough scraps of “holiday cheer” to convince people that I’m jolly and not grappling with negativity and anxiety at a near constant basis. Hearing people complain about having to buy gifts for people, and seeing dejected relatives buy something that someone “probably won’t like anyway” is flat-out depressing. Enduring the same Christmas songs day in and day out is exhausting – we definitely don’t need to play 6 versions of “Blue Christmas,” but we do, and I hereby elect “Christmas Wrapping” by the Waitresses to be the worst holiday song of all time, with the exception of “I want an Alien for Christmas,” by Fountains of Wayne, which is outright wrong. All of these factors combine to make “Bah Humbug” my personal slogan from late November into January, and it takes me until the tail end of March to actually shake off the lingering doldrums. The actual day of Christmas is so blink-and-you-miss-it in the retail world, because even though we don’t have to work on the actual day, on the 26th, the dreaded returns begin. And nothing is more soul-killing and makes me lose faith in humanity more than listening to people complain about the gifts they’ve gotten, then scoff at the amount of credit they receive for returning the gifts they didn’t want.

But every year, there are little things that make up for the dour feeling of holiday blues. Last weekend, I attended a holiday party hosted by a coworker with some of my favorite folks from work and had an absolute blast, laughing and joking and playing games and eating delicious food. I love buying gifts for friends and family, and seeing their faces light up when they open them. I love Christmas cookies (of the non-gingerbread variety) and decorating the tree. I love going to the movies in the winter, because it’s “Oscar contender” time and the quality of films gracing the screens is top notch. However, if The Disaster Artist and The Shape of Water don’t make their way to my town, I will be devastated. I can’t wait to see The Last Jedi on Christmas Eve, as has become tradition in my family. My mom and I went to see The Man Who Invented Christmas after a particularly stressful day of work last week, and it really did help me get a bit more into the Christmas spirit.

This year, to survive the holidays, I’ve chosen to focus on all the things that make this time of year happy, and not the ones that diminish what the Christmas season is supposed to be about. I’ll cherish time with my family, enjoy the seasonal lattes that aren’t tainted by the foul taste of gingerbread, and not let the cold or the flurries get me down. My “bah, humbugs” might not officially turn into far more chipper, “Ho, ho ho’s,” but I will make an effort to enjoy the little things, and slough off stress whenever I can, so I will not be vanquished by the bleak midwinter.

~~~~~~~~

If you’re in need of a new read, or want to get someone a book for the holidays, check out my YA novel, I’m With You! The ebook is only $1.99 or (£1.55) and paperback is $9.99 (£7.99) on Amazon Amazon UK.  Paperback is also $9.99 on BN.com.

Worth 1000 Words #10: Reese

On a Wednesday night in 2007, I received a cryptic text message from my older sister while watching the latest episode of Lost. The message contained only one word.

Meow.

Some time later, I was dozing off on the couch when my sister returned home and deposited something furry onto my lap. I opened bleary eyes to see a small, mewling tortoise-shell kitten blinking at me.

That is how we came to own Reese. Technically, her full name is Reesie Lynn (my sister is to blame for that abomination of a moniker, we had exactly 0% input) but we have more or less only ever called her Reese. Sometimes, I call her Kit-Kat. Just to be contrary.

IMG_20170629_102725_202.jpgI think Cat People are Cat People for a reason. Cats are often thought of as fuzzy companions who don’t require constant attention; they’re adorable, not terribly messy, and can provide some warm, cuddly comfort on bad or rainy days. But Reese apparently has never read a single page of the “cat manual” because she doesn’t act like a standard cat at all; though Reese does provide ample fodder for my instagram, because she is cute, if nothing else. And if you think I can’t babble on and on about my cat for 1000 words, then think again!

Reese has never been much of a cuddle-buddy; the only time she ever feels like snuggling is at night, but only for about an hour before she gets bored, and she typically only solicits one person to cuddle with before departing back to the bowels of the basement so she can get the couch covered in fur. She loathes being picked up, and in order for us to trim her nails, I have to wait until she is asleep or groggy, then scoop her up when she is vulnerable – often, this results in being kicked in the chest/nose/throat when she inevitably rebels. She refuses to meet strangers, and I suspect some family members might not even know we have a cat, since she won’t show her face in the presence of visitors. My best friend house/cat-sits for us whenever we go away for any length of time, and during a 10 day absence, it took 4 days for Reese to be in the same room with her, and even then, she rubbed her head against my friend’s hand while hissing at her. So, claiming that Reese is fickle would be a drastic understatement. When I went away to college, it took several days during each school break to get her used to me again; I had to endure lots of dismissive tail swishing and scrambling away before she deemed me worthy of her good graces again.

She loves to sit outside on the enclosed patio and cackle at birds and bunnies, either because she wants to be their friend, or she wants to eat them, I’m not entirely sure. She greets me at the door every day when I get home from work or wherever, usually meowing her head off as she gets my black pants covered in her fur. I like to think that it’s because she misses me when I go away, but I’m fairly sure it’s because she’s just hungry. And boy, she’s perpetually hungry. She expects to be fed at around 5/6AM every morning, since there’s a couple of super early-risers in the family, so now, she’s accustomed to a schedule and there’s almost no chance of everyone being able to sleep in – not if Reese has anything to say about it. When she’s hungry, she is vocal. And then, even after breakfast, she expects snacks. Several of them. She also thinks she can trick us into feeding her more if she begs and whines at each person in the family, but fortunately, we are able to see through her ploys. It’s a wonder she isn’t shaped like a bowling ball with how much she tries to eat, though we’ve managed to regulate her diet well, despite her best efforts. Reese also loves to distract me while I’m trying to write; at the moment, she is sitting beside her food bowl and staring at me. She will not break me, though. I am steadfast – I can resist the food-mongering wiles of any cat, no matter how cute! Though, I must admit, she is especially “awwww”-worthy when she chases the laser-pointer around the living room.

A few months ago, I bought Reese a new bed; a nice quality one that I was able to snag at a great discount. Did she appreciate my generosity? NOPE, she actually prefers the comfort of a cardboard box, or a plastic bag laying on the floor. Her idea of a five star resort would be a kingdom of boxes and bags. We actually have fashioned a “cardboard apartment” of sorts for her to use, and she loves it. She’s a creature of simple comforts, I suppose… she did eventually warm up to her new bed, and it is now positioned on the floor beside my bed, so when she gets fed up with me, she has somewhere to escape to.

Reese is not a typical cat; but she’s my cat. She doesn’t like cuddles, but to be totally honest, neither do I, so it works out well. She’s an introvert, and can sometimes be downright obnoxious with her constant appealing for food, but she occasionally shows off her softer side. If I scratch behind her ears or she rolls over to let me pet her tummy, she might even deign to purr a bit, like a fuzzy motorboat. Sometimes, during her rare affectionate moments, she will rub against my legs, even when I’m trying to walk up the stairs… I refuse to believe it’s because she wants to trip me, though, sadly, that wouldn’t be much of a shock. I often suspect she’s the furry offspring of some feline version of Satan, but even if that’s true, she’s my furry offspring of Satan, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Worth 1000 Words #9: Snowtober 2011

Some of you, particularly those of you who reside in the northeastern United States, might remember the freak snowstorm of October 2011, which resulted in near state-wide power outages and general icy desolation in some areas.

383486_2063359704083_2085259487_nIt was Halloween weekend. My parents were visiting for a few days, and would be taking my grandmother (with whom I lived for a year and a half during college) back to PA with them for the winter. Saturday, afternoon, my father dropped me off at my second job, and all proceeded as normal… until the first fateful flakes began to fall. Within an hour or so, it was a full-on snow assault. I made it almost all the way through my shift, worriedly peeking out of the windows as white began to conquer the parking lot, until my dad appeared to pick me up and I bolted out the door.

The journey home was probably the most tense, stressful car ride of my life, but thankfully, my father is a skilled driver and we made it safely home. Had I been by myself, I never would have made it; the highway was a wasteland, the snow plummeted in droves, and cars were careening all over the place as folks tried to make it to their destination, dodging downed tree limbs and power lines.

Once back at home, the power had already gone out, so we dined on cold chicken by candlelight, dug out the spare blankets to stave off the bitter cold, lit a fire in the fireplace and played UNO to fight boredom, and mourned as our electronics slowly died. As the snow continued to fall, I fell asleep (beneath several layers) to the ominous snap-and-thud sound of breaking tree branches in the forest behind the house, praying that none would fall on the roof and crush me during the night.

The next day, New England was buried in snow/ice hell. Power was lost in a huge portion of the region (including almost all of Connecticut, if I remember correctly – I lived about ten minutes from the border) and because the weather was so wonky (it was warm right before the storm, then warm again immediately after) there was extensive damage that reached far beyond just NE. After I called out of work for the day, my parents and my grandmother left me to endure Snowtober alone, since I hadn’t heard anything about classes being cancelled for the following day or any time after. TO THIS DAY I STILL CANNOT FATHOM WHY THEY DID NOT IMMEDIATELY CANCEL CLASSES DUE TO THE DEVASTATION but regardless, I sat and waited it out. It was cold, boring, and I had no means of contact with the outside world. I did manage to get my homework done, though; we were covering Emerson and Thoreau in my American Literature class, and, in a true display of irony, our assignment was to read “Nature.” I didn’t laugh, nor did I develop a deep appreciation for transcendentalism as I paged through my literature textbook by candlelight, munching on a stale bagel.

I am proud of my alma mater, but I was NOT pleased to be going to class the following morning when over half of campus still had no power, despite the fact that the snow had already nearly melted. I am grateful, however, that the Writing Center where I worked still had power… I was able to charge all of my electronics in preparation for the long, dark night ahead. While I was there, doing homework and getting warm, the school released a statement announcing that classes were cancelled for the rest of the week, and students were advised to return home if possible.

This was AFTER they had us go to Monday classes, mind you; so classes were cancelled until the following Monday. I only went to one class on Monday, too, since night classes were cancelled and one of my professors wasn’t able to make it to campus regardless. It was very difficult to tamp the lid down on my rage, since I’d missed a free ride home with my parents the day before, and I couldn’t go for the less-expensive Amtrak option due to the massive power outage. Luckily, my dad loaned me money for a last minute plane ticket (which is quite a price-gouge for a day-before splurge) so I wouldn’t need to drive 6 hours solo through two snowpocalypse-plagued states in order to make my way home.

Driving home from campus that night (after the Writing Center closed) was a total nightmare, since power was still out and none of the traffic lights were operational. It was like driving through the zombie apocalypse sans zombies – though I was pleasantly surprised to see that my across-the-street neighbors, who were lovely people, had left some chopped wood for my fireplace on the front stoop. Things were looking up… until the next morning, I awoke to the shrill, shrieking tones of my burglar alarm blaring throughout the house. There were no intruders, I think it had something to do with the power outage. The alarm company also wouldn’t shut it off, because the house and account are not in my name, so I had to leap through several hoops to get them to have mercy on me (and my neighbors).

Less than five hours later, I’d been ferried to the airport by my godmother, and was nestled safely at home in PA with functional power. While at home, I did manage to snag 36 extra hours of work and by Thursday, I heard that power had been restored to my area of New England – which meant there had been 5 straight days of no power. I returned home on Sunday evening and life resumed as normal, as all traces of the Snowpocalypse began to fade away, and autumn picked up once more. It’s difficult to imagine how much difficulty and suffering a one-night snowfall can bring, but I hope to never experience another storm of the same magnitude ever again.

Worth 1000 Words #8: Coffee

A cup of coffee can either save or ruin an entire day. I guess that also applies to tea or other similar beverages, but I dislike most tea that is not of the iced variety, so this post will strictly deal with coffee.

IMG_20170515_145133_308For several folks all over the world, coffee is what sets the morning in motion. Or it provides a much-needed stimulant in the afternoon. Or it can be the fuel to a productive evening if you don’t have to wake up early the following day. Basically, coffee is a versatile tool that can be utilized whenever someone needs a caffeine-based boost. On many dreary days, it is only the tantalizing scent of coffee that is capable of dragging me out of bed in the morning, and during certain evenings, I look forward to indulging in a cup of “night coffee” as I settle in for an editing session or to read a few chapters of a book.

My personal relationship with coffee has not always been a healthy one; back in my late high-school / early college years, I was averaging about five to seven cups a day. Not good, and quite detrimental to my general state of being. My sleep schedule was terrible, my diet was awful, the caffeine headaches were brutal, I developed the appearance of a zombie raccoon, and I was basically using coffee as a crutch to hobble through each day and night. After receiving doctor’s orders to decrease my caffeine intake, I have managed to scale it back to two or three cups, depending on my work load or the kind of day I’m having, and on (very) rare occasions I even settle for one. I still resemble a zombie raccoon on most days, but I’m starting to think that’s just my natural appearance.

But I am also one of those folks who is not satisfied with just any kind of coffee. No, no… I am a snob. I’m definitely not as bad as some, so I guess you could say I’m a low-tier snob, but over the years, my tastes have evolved so that I can only tolerate certain strains of coffee, with dark roast being the most prominent. I am partial to French roast (the Starbucks kind is probably the best I’ve had, but Victor Allen’s is decent, and so is the Newman’s Own) but I will accept Sumatra, Italian, or any other kind of dark roast. I used to be able to drink any kind of coffee, but now, all variants of light roast taste like a single coffee bean floating in water to me – I call it devil’s swill. I honestly can’t fathom how people even drink light roast; I can tolerate medium roast if there are no other options, but really, the bolder the better.

However, despite my love of all things dark roast, I do have a fondness for sugary, frilly coffee drinks; frapuccinos, machiattos, lattes, blended drinks, etc. Sure, they’re often overpriced and provide about three days’ worth of sugar in a single sip, but they taste delicious! And sometimes, a frou-frou basic-white-girl whipped-cream-topped sweet treat is just what is required to propel someone through a rough patch. I’m off chocolate for the year (which has been a struggle, let me tell you), but if I weren’t, I’d be indulging in a S’mores Frappuccino right about now. Not that it will redeem me any, but I am STRONGLY anti-Pumpkin spiced anything and cannot stand the taste of gingerbread, so in the fall/winter, I am somewhat less of a basic bitch. I also haven’t tried the new Unicorn thing, but I suspect there isn’t any actual coffee in it, so I think I’ll avoid that sugar rush.

I prefer not to take coffee black; I’m not even sure how people do it. If I’m fixing myself a cup at home, I use a splash of creamer – basic vanilla or something simple. Right now, I’m using one called “sweet cream,” but it’s not overly-sweet. Y’all can get out of here with your hazelnut, though, or any of those fancy-pants flavors. If I’m out at a restaurant or something, I go for standard cream and sugar. Not too much; just enough to stave off bitterness.

I also have a mug preference, if I’m at home and am free to select whichever vessel I desire for my caffeinated beverages. My cupboard includes two Star Wars mugs (one is BB8, the other is Rogue One based) an Avengers mug, two Batman mugs, a mug with the logo of my alma mater on it, a Game of Thrones stein (House Baratheon… purchased before season 5 episode 9), and a bunch of plain white mugs for plain days. Sometimes, all it takes is a cup of java in a BB8 mug to lift my mood. Why would I use a plain old mug when I can drink out of a mug with superheroes on it?

Now, coffee is a simple thing, I know; probably not something I should spend 1000 words droning on about. But simple pleasures have power. Besides, you can tell a lot about someone from the way they take their coffee. I like to think I’m as bold as French roast (I’m not) with just a splash of sweetness (I’m not that, either), but a coffee preference can be an integral part of a person’s psyche; something that someone else can identify with. I even try really hard not to judge people who drink light roast, though it’s a daily struggle. Seriously, how does anyone consume that… that… devil’s swill?!?

My coffee order has evolved over the years, and I have changed with it – maybe someday, I’ll be taking my coffee black to match my bright sunshine-y disposition! For now, however, I’ll happily stick to my French roast… I actually just ordered a pack of 200 Victor Allen’s K-cups and I’m curious to see how long it will take me to plow through it.

So, the question is… how do you take your coffee?

Create a free website or blog at WordPress.com.

Up ↑