I am so ready that all I need is an iced coffee for the road. Yes, a simple thing, and then I'm out the door. I'll drag my suitcase and bags to the car, throw everything but the iced coffee in the trunk, and start heading north toward Sugarloaf, Maine. I'm even going to put the iced coffee into a disposable cup so I don't have to bring home four-day old coffee crud in a travel mug. Oh, sure, I could buy an iced coffee at Dunkins, but their iced coffee is never quite perfect. Mine is perfect. Perfectly perfect.
Which is why the next thing I have to tell you is so horrifyingly tragic that I still cry a little bit as I recall the devastating events that are about to unfold.
I have a cooler with me on its way to Maine. It's a great cooler, made of waterproof fabric, so it's flexible and has a long strap attached. It has some beer in it and some wine in it and some waters in it, along with a crapload of ice to keep everything cold on this 90+ degree day. The cooler sits next to my suitcase and my shoe bag.
For some reason, this also looks like a grand location at which to place my iced coffee.
As soon as I move the shoe bag, the suitcase wiggles, which in turn causes the cooler to buckle ever so slightly. I watch with frightful anticipation as the cooler nudges the container of iced coffee, and, like The House That Jack Built, a chain reaction from one to the other to the other leads to the inevitable: over goes the coffee cup.I swear a little under my breath because my son is still sleeping in his room at the top of the stairs, which is about ten yards from where the coffee has tipped over. I notice that some coffee is spilling from the straw, which is being held in place by the cover I snapped on ... lightly ... apparently too lightly.
As soon as I reach for the cup, the entire top pops off with a sound that resembles a slap across the face, and the entire contents of iced coffee (cream, sugar, ice cubes, and all) rushes across the floor toward my packed bags (and some of my son's gear) with a whooshing sound that kind of seems to whisper "suuuuuuuuuucker" as it oozes across the entryway.
Now I'm swearing for real but still trying to do so through clenched teeth because, yes, my son is still sleeping, despite the sound of my packed bags flying across the den to avoid getting drenched and the stomping of my feet to the kitchen to grab paper towels. The whole entire roll of paper towels -- which turns out to really be the end of a roll of paper towels.
After throwing down whatever paper towels I have in my immediate vicinity, I realize that's not going to be exceptionally helpful, so I run to the pantry closet and grab a full roll of paper towels to add to the ones already sopping wet on the floor. Like a mantra, my mouth continues spewing swears faster than the nearly empty cup is spewing iced coffee.
The towels, dripping with sugary, creamy, coffee-stinking liquid, only make it partially to the trash can because I am so mad at this point that I sort of throw them into the barrel, but they sort of miss. Now I have iced coffee on the trash can lid, running down the front of the can, slopping in huge droplets on the tile floor, and spattering the wall like some kind of surreal Andy Warhol pop art creation.
Sonofabitch.
Finally, I get as much cleaned up as I can, leave one final dry paper towel on the floor, write my kid a note, throw away the damn empty cup, lid, and straw, put my gear in the car, and take off. If this is the worst part of my day (and it is), then I'm a damn lucky person. Coffee-less, but lucky, just the same.
