Mad Woman, Stronger Coffee

So, let me start off by introducing this latest rambling as the sequel to Sad Woman, Happy Coffee. If you’ve read it, you already know how that's gone… thus far.

A weird chain-reaction breakdown of four coffeemakers had me, in my pajamas, fishing a dead Keurig out of the trash for the refund. I used it to buy another machine to replace it, as I was convinced I was Keurig’s bitch.

Well.

Since then, that broke too, and I resigned myself to the ‘reliability’ of a drip pot.

And to be perfectly frank, I hate it. Here’s why:

I have insomnia. Chronic, not the ‘I-drank-caffeine-at-4 pm’ kind that wakes me daily around 3 am, and no matter what I try (and I’ve tried EVERYTHING), nothing changes.

So I program the drip pot for me, which means my dear husband, The Balkan Storm, who swears he doesn’t mind, comes down hours later to a cold pot and has to nuke it.

And then I feel guilty that he has to do that. He works much too hard every day to wake up to shitty coffee.

So when our drip pot broke last week (quelle surprise), I upgraded to a stainless steel carafe for more insulation and less guilt.

And then last weekend I took a road trip and cheated on my morning coffee.

Recently, it was made very clear to me that I needed a little getaway. Not surprising, given that I was face-down in gluten-free tortilla chips every day and treating every request made of me as a personal affront.

The Balkan Storm, to his credit, never once said I was being insufferable. He just began suggesting, with noticeably increasing enthusiasm, that I GO AWAY… for the weekend.

"Go somewhere and don’t think about anything", he said. (Yeah, that ‘not thinking’ part didn’t happen, but that’s a conversation for another day).

So, I spent the weekend in a historic hotel where every sconce, settee, and Sargent felt deliberately chosen, which made me painfully aware that nothing in my own home has been so intentionally selected since before 2015.

I firmly believe your outlook relies, to a certain degree, on the environment you create for yourself. My personal style leans minimalist with clever whimsy (which kind of sounds like a stripper name, tbh).

Walking through that hotel and local art exhibits, I realized how little of my own environment really reflects who I am. Or who we are, for that matter. Most of it has simply accumulated.

From furniture to responsibilities, with a healthy dose of random Target crap, I realized I wasn’t designing my lifestyle; I was maintaining an existence. (Sounds so existential, doesn’t it?)

So I came back home with a list of improvements I plan to make, but with no real budget to actually make them. DIY-Tok, here I come.

But the thing I became most intrigued with wasn’t the décor, or the Art Deco, the vintage elements, or the striped desk chair that made me feel ready to negotiate a hostile corporate takeover.

It was the espresso.

I’d always ranked espresso up there with silk pajamas and first-class tickets: bougie, unnecessary stuff that other people had.

I’ve tried to become a practical, drip-pot coffee person, I really have.

Honestly, I’ve missed the convenience of on-demand coffee. There’s something truly satisfying about shuffling half awake into a dim kitchen and immediately having fresh, hot coffee without me having to wash and set up the pot the night before.

‘Practical’ assumes a level of organization of me that strictly depends on the day.

Espresso felt expensive, complicated, and definitely unnecessary - until I discovered the hotel was using a Lavazza currently available for half price on Amazon.

Lavazza is everyday-level luxury, emphasis on everyday. It's not a first-class ticket, but it feels like first-class to me, and tastes like it too, and that's all that matters.

Which was why I'd ordered everything before I ever checked out of the hotel.

So I’m not Keurig’s bitch. I’m Amazon’s.

I dislike it when people make a ‘thing’ their entire personality. Booze, politics, the military, pets, mental health, ‘hustle bro’s/boss babes’. And yes, coffee.

Which, given the last 600 words, is rich coming from me.
I heard it even as I typed it.

But when I sat in that hotel room full of stylish furniture that didn’t hold a single crumb or dog hair for me to clean up, sipping espresso from a demitasse while looking out over the city, it felt…elegant and intentional, as cheesy as it sounds.

 Like a ‘this moment belongs only to me’ vibe.

I didn’t want to leave. Yes, obviously, the room was nicer than home, but that wasn’t the reason I lingered - I didn't want to lose that feeling of being somewhere that didn't need anything from me.

For too long I’ve been living like the best part of my life is somewhere a few years ahead: ‘once things settle’ or ‘once the timing is better’, once ‘the next thing’ is resolved.

Now, I say that to say this: I'm very blessed. I know I'm blessed. I have a whole list of things I'd be an ass to overlook. I'm not complaining, it's just that sometimes gratitude and burnout aren't mutually exclusive.

So I wait, and I maintain. I help keep our existing life running and tell myself the making-something-better part has to wait until later.

The convenience and indulgence of the instant espresso was me calling my own bluff, so to speak. If I’ve learned anything by now, it’s that there may never be a later.

There’s really only ‘just now’, which gave me the gumption to stop living my life from God's waiting room.

So I bought the damn thing in a moment of defiant impulsiveness (which sounds bolder than it is; it’s a $60 machine marked down from $120, not a new Bentley).  

I went away to rest and reflect, hoping to come back a calmer, more centered woman.

I came back with yet another coffeemaker purchase, and stupidly excited about it.

Also, an ample supply of espresso and, of course, double-walled glass demitasses. Gotta do it right, of course.

It comes in handy to wield a veritable shot of caffeine in one hand and brush dog hair off the couch (that she’s totally not allowed on, btw) with the other, so I can sit and have my magic moment.

I'm trying to achieve what the Italians call Sprezzatura.

Perspective, capiche?

Naturally, The Balkan Storm found this whole setup hilarious. To date, I've killed more machines than Sarah Connor, so he's been smirking behind his cup of nuked coffee every morning.

“What is it with you and all this coffee stuff? “he asked me in a tone half amused and half…well, exasperated.

Now, to be fair, from his perspective, I’d just come home from a weekend getaway, and the very next day on our porch, we had Yet Another Coffee Contraption.™

Given my provided history, this is not an unreasonable observation.

And I know he wasn't really making fun of me, but my pattern, and I get it, I really do. It's a fair question after all. It’s just coffee.

But between the hotel, my adorable glass mugs, and discussing crema like I know what I'm talking about, this wasn’t just coffee.

You see, for the past few years, it’s felt like every conversation in my life has been about something that needs fixing. Everything related to that is practical and necessary and mind-numbingly BORING.

All within a space of accumulated décor that doesn’t match my vibe in the slightest (which is a first-world problem, to be sure- I’m very self-aware), so there's not much around me that actually feels like mine.

The stupid little espresso machine is neither practical nor necessary – it just brought me a little joy, and I've come to realize things like that deserve a little more respect than I've been giving them.

That's also why I'm not in your inbox every week right now.

Posting weekly began to feel as practical and joyless as using a drip pot, so I made the tough call to slow down to every other week for now. A few of my most loyal readers have reached out to inform me that every other week isn't enough for them.

I broke down and cried in frustration. As a writer, it’s a great problem to have, but it’s still a problem. But here’s what I want to convey: UB isn’t going anywhere. This is still where I do my actual thinking and writing.

But if I want to reach anyone past the loyal core (and bless every one of you), the numbers don’t lie – the math says that’s happening on TikTok.

So that’s where the energy I’m not spending on a weekly deadline is going: answering comments, creating requested content, a few things my daughter and I have coming by popular demand, and live streams coming soon.

Oh! Also, the book. The book I've been working on for years is finally taking shape.

I won't say more on that yet, because I'm superstitious and don't have a cover blurb ready.

But it’s looking extremely promising, and it's another reason some of my energy had to be redirected.

So.

If you'd like to keep me around a little more, here’s how with minimal effort: share the work you like, leave a comment so I have proof of life, and come find me on TikTok because that's where a lot of good stuff is happening, and you're missing it.

This blog is where I think and create intentionally (using that word a lot today). TikTok is where I let it all hang out, much to the chagrin of my family and friends.

Oh well. Carpe diem and all that.

The point of all this is that yet again, I spent a year viewing any innocuous treat as a luxury I hadn't yet earned, and a delicious espresso in a quiet hotel room reminded me that it’s the small things that help us get through the big things.  

The Balkan Storm agrees: "Hey," he said. "Whatever brings you joy brings me joy."

So here I am with a book to finish, a feed to feed, and a house to refurnish on a shoestring budget without buying anything that already has someone else’s dog hair on it.

I’m gonna need a bigger cup.

Heather Papovich is the voice behind Unfinished Business. She's seen some things. She'll tell you about them.