Which is an odd and convoluted path of reasoning. But basically it comes from the fact that the nearest Armadillo Willys (which has all-you-can-eat ribs on Monday nights) is located next to a Bed, Bath and Beyond. (I'm going to have to watch out how often I go for ribs, if I'm going to be as helpless a consumer as I was this week).
But while I was there, I finally broke down and bought a Mr. Coffee. I'ld been thinking about it ever since coming back from home over Christmas (wherin coffee was good for bonding with Jaime and Dad), but I'ld been having that great-sage-and-eminent-junkie feeling of, 'Well at least I'm not making it at home'. Well like any addict, I eventually crossed that line.
And it was so nice to head off to the gym this morning with the timer set, and come home to a nice hot pot of coffee. The problem is that the coffee machine makes 12 cups, and I'm an American. This means that I can't settle for less than the absolute maximum unless I've already had a bad experience. So before work I drank 10 cups of a strong Kenyan roast, and am now starting to crash at 4 in the afternoon. (Those missing two cups would be what ended up on my porch when I tried to take Ishy for a walk with an open mug)
This is going to be interresting for where I end up in a month or so.