Notes from a Sunday morning

Crack and beans

Do me a favor. (Please.) Even if you don't read the rest of this, leave me a comment letting me know what kind of coffee you drink. Specifically, I'm interested in the kind of brew you make in your home coffee pot. Thank you.

I'm asking because we are having coffee trouble at my house. Last year, before Graci and I were sharing an apartment, we both bought our coffee every morning, often in the hospital. This year, we decided that we would buy a coffee pot and make our own. Saving money, waking up to caffeine. It sounded like a good idea at the time.

The first coffee that Graci bought was called Ugly Mug. It was on sale. We tried it. We liked it. We have tried several other kinds of coffee since. We haven't really liked them. So, last night, we were at the store picking up chips and salsa for a Saturday night margaritas and a movie get together when we wandered into the coffee aisle to pick up some more Ugly Mug. No longer on sale, it was TWELVE DOLLARS for a single bag. TWELVE DOLLARS.

It reminds me of the way dealers get you to buy crack. They give you the first hit for free, and then...wham, you're hooked. And you have to start paying TWELVE DOLLARS a bag for the stuff. Nice try, Ugly Mug pushers, but my roommate and I aren't falling for this shit.

So...if you have a minute, tell me a bit about your morning brew.


Massive transfusion protocol (courtesy of not yet a doctor, not quite an economist)

Watching the national news coverage this week and Meet the Press this morning, I have decided that our Congress men and women need to spend a Saturday night in a trauma bay. Not as the trauma... although, I must admit, I have occasionally been tempted to swing blunt objects in their general direction.

No, I'm actually suggesting that we build them some kind of observation booth (heaven forbid they should get bodily fluids on their shoes) so that they can watch a trauma team deal with massive blood loss. Because right now, while our economy hemorrhages, our elected officials are fighting about fighting. And, they are saying things like "we need to slow down here" and "let's have a series of procedural votes."

Tell you what, people, next time you find yourself in that trauma bay as a patient, we'll have a series of procedural votes. Literally. We'll vote about each and every procedure before we do it--everything from the rectal exam to the chest compressions. We'll slow down and put it to a vote.

Because, as you said, that's what the American people would want us to do.

On the policy end, let me just say, giving working families more of their dollars sounds great. But, fewer families are working right now. Those people don't need an income tax cut, they need an INCOME. Spending on infrastructure not only shores up our shitty, shitty infrastructure (if you'd like a tour of said shittyness, spend a few months traveling around the country, using only public transportation), but it also creates jobs.

Loosely returning to the above trauma analogy: If you lose blood, we can temporarily restore your blood pressure with IV fluids; but, in order to save your life, we have to give you blood. Tax cuts are like IV fluids. Spending on infrastructure is blood.

And, fighting about fighting is a good way to lose the patient.


All the weird love that's fit to print

On Sunday mornings, I flip through The New York Times online. I pretend that I'm interested in the national news. Honestly, I am there for the wedding announcements. I know, I know. It doesn't get much more stereotypically desperate, single woman than that. But, although I am certainly not looking to get married again, I have not sworn off relationships forever.

I'm cynical, but I'm not bitter.

There is always one couple in The Times that reinforces my optimistic suspicion that there may, in fact, be someone for everyone. This week, that couple is Rachel and Seth. They are the first people featured in a video about half way down the page--a video that starts and ends with a small dog obsessively licking a bald man's cranium. They fell for each other in an anti-Oprah succession book club. (And really, who hasn't met the love of their life at one of those?) But, my favorite part is when they show you the picture of the two of them trying to reenact the famous lift from Dirty Dancing.

Something about it makes me laugh. With them, not at them. Like I said, I may be cynical, but I'm not bitter.