I stood in the kitchen as my wife whipped up a batch of homemade frappachino for me. The coffee had been brewing for an hour that morning and had made the house have an odor like Barnes and Noble, you know the ones with the Starbucks located inside them. I was waiting for the concoction of coffee, milk, sugar and whipped cream to be mixed up so I could have some.
I was hooked.
It wasn't that what my wife had not made it before or that I hadn't had a bottle of it, ice cold from a convenience store. But the damned stuff cost $3 a bottle at the retail outlet and I just couldn't bring myself to spend that much on a little glass jar of pure caffeine pleasure all the time. Now recently she had been making it at home; it tasted just as good and was a lot less expensive.
I went outside for an hour to change the lawn sprinklers, mess with the dogs kennels and do a couple of other things. By the time I came in it was noon and it was hot. I looked in the refrigerator and there it was sitting ready to be taken in; ice cold refreshment. I got a glass, hit the ice button on the freezer side of the fridge, and opened the door to get the container out.
The "frap" as I call it, was in one of those plastic pitchers like we made Kool-Aid in when I was a kid; plastic with a snap top and an oblong shape. I shook it up a little, sat it on the island and popped the top.
The light brown substance from inside splattered everywhere, from the islands upper surface to the cupboards above the sink and onto the ceiling, which is still raw sheet rock because I haven't finished the ceiling in the kitchen from our seven-going-on-eight year remodeling project. As bad fortune would have it that very moment my wife walked in the kitchen.
"Look what you did," she said as she grabbed a dish cloth and started to clean up the sweet nectar of cows juice, cane sugar and coffee beans.
"It wasn't me," I said in disbelief. "It was the coffee."
She looked at me, as I formulated my legitimate reasons for have sprayed bean juice all over the kitchen.
"I have noted over the years that coffee is the messiest beverage known to man," I said in my scientific voice. "My experience is that coffee or coffee like substances, which is what this very thing is, spills about 10 times more than say soda or juice."
She rolled her eyes.
"I have proof," I said as I helped to clean up the spill, but only seemed to make things worse. "I have experience with these things, and not just personal experience but the experience of others. I believe that coffee has a messy life of its own. It tends to leak, splatter, spill, seep, drip, puddle, disperse, slosh, slop, ooze, diffuse, dribble and splay more than anything in nature. The gulf oil spill has nothing on coffee as far as messiness goes."
She put her dish cloth in the sink to rinse it.
"Does this mean you are a victim?" she asked. "You hate people who think they are victims of everything. What is it you say? People need to take responsibility for their actions? How is this any different?"
"Well for one, coffee, when spilled, makes a very obvious track," I said. "If that had been a pitcher of water, you would not have even noticed the liquid that flew about."
"Are you kidding?" she said. "You get water all over everything whether you are getting a drink of water or washing your hands. You are a water shedder."
"Okay, maybe that was the wrong point to make," I said backing off, knowing that I had dug myself a deeper hole than ever. "Let's look at soda then. When I open a can or a bottle of that I seldom spill. Why then does coffee spill when I have it in hand nine times out of 10? One liquid should be like another. Each liquids propensity for spillage should be the same if their physical characteristics are similar. Tell me about that?"
I had her now, I thought.
She walked over to the wall where a spot of orange was apparent and pointed.
"You opened a can of Orange Crush here yesterday and behold the evidence," she said.
I thought quickly.
"Grandkids," I blurted out. "Why they were just in here the night before last having ice cream and pop."
I walked over to the wall to which she was referring and pointed to the stain.
"Besides, does that look like an adult spill," I inquired. "No that looks more like a kid splash."
"We bought the Orange Crush yesterday," she said with an all knowing look on her face. "There was none in the house when the kids were here."
I quickly changed strategies.
"Don't you remember helping me with my cleaning business years ago, when we did that one office in Taylorsville where everyone drank coffee," I said quickly as I took a wet paper towel to the orange mark hoping the evidence would disappear. "That was the messiest place. I mean everyone seemed to have their own coffee pot. There were spills everywhere. All those people can't have been coffee klutzes. There must be a reason for the messiness and I think it lies in the makeup of coffee itself. It must have physical properties that beckons it to be flung far and wide."
"Yeah and I remember the people that worked there too," she said. "They were all ADD adults like you. They had more energy than anyone has a right to have, like you. They were self absorbed like you. They were also just as messy with white out, soda, ink and any other liquids they dealt with, like you. Let's face it, coffee is not what is at fault here."
She left to go back to looking at her Facebook page, probably to post something about her insane, messy husband.
I went back to pouring myself some frap. I mean, what else could I do?