Yeah, the title pretty much says it all. Clem takes decorum to a new low:

There are those who might profess that I am high maintenance. I can't answer to that, as I've always found my maintenance an easy task to complete. Whatever their reasoning might be, I know that my list of needs is well defined, regardless of its length, and the most substantial of these is coffee...particularly of the morningtime variety.

I tried to give it up last summer. My mother, immediately after her oncologist delivered the foreboding "three months" timeline, sought the counsel of a homeopathic facility. They put her on a very strict diet, and my quitting of the java was in support of this, my misery giving hers a little company in the "smell but don't taste" carousel of the cookout season. I think Heaven must be walled with pasta salads. And they're made with Miracle Whip Free.

Well, her misery was a thankless dolt, and a little holier-than-thou if you ask me. It all but kicked me out on my rear after four days. With its jaw grinding and its eyes squinty, it told me in no uncertain terms that the partnership wasn't working for either of us, and that it wanted out. It suggested that we start seeing other people and that I drink coffee again. In the interviews since, I've been made aware that my disposition was less than sunny during my four-day stay in Hell.

I have a particular fondness for Black & Decker coffeemakers. I don't want to cheapen myself by admitting that I've been around the block a few times with this, but the Black & Deckers seem to hold up well. And not spit coffee grounds on counter tops. Any coffeemaker residing with me needs to display a certain willingness to work and earn its keep.

This is all fine and dandy, but I am not living alone. I am living with fellow coffee-drinkers, fellow coffee-drinkers who own a Hamilton Beach coffeemaker. There's no carafe, and it leaves me confused. I cannot make coffee in this coffeemaker. Fortuitously, this task does not fall unto me. Debbie prepares it the night before, and all I have to do is push a button. She has the thing on a timer, but I'm usually up well before 5:00, so the button-pushing is a necessary exercise. She is a schedule-oriented person, my aunt, and prepares the next day's coffee as she cleans up after dinner.

Friday night, we all went out for some Chinese. Mmmm...nobody does steamed broccoli like the Chinese, and I think their displayed aptitude in this might be worth a visit to China. Or the purchasing of a vegetable steamer.

Needless to say, this deviation from schedule caused a disruption in the routine. I awoke at 4:12 Saturday morning, after another pitiful excuse for a restful night. I picked my way up the stairs in the dark, as I always do. I felt in front of me for the corners of the kitchen so I would not have an embarrassing goose-egg on my forehead to display...or explain. I think I must have scary dreams about light switches, and this would explain my avoidance of them. This is the only logical explanation I've discerned.

However clumsily I stumble through the house, I seem to be able to hit bulls-eye with the "on" button of the coffeemaker. At 4:12, it's black as night, and the appliance is peeking demurely from the shadow of the refrigerator. This is the game we lovers play each morning, and I nonchalantly commence the brewing with an air of, "ball's in your court now" before leaving to wash my face.

An acrid scent hung in the kitchen as I returned there that morning. I'd liken the odor to day-old coffee grounds burning, if that helps your immersion in the story. I began to hear my pulse thudding in my ears, and it dawned on me that coffee did not get made that previous night. Turning it off, I looked pleadingly at the coffeemaker. The coy devil played hard-to-get and I was left doe-eyed and whimpering. I gingerly lifted the cover to the water reservoir. I raised my eyebrows and swallowed hard as I gauged whether or not I was up to the task. I poked at it, I wiggled plastic parts, and deemed that I was not.

Discouraged and rather beside myself (in a non schizophrenic sort of way), I returned to my subterranean loft and paced. Eventually TaeBo illuminated the TV screen, and I found myself jabbing at an invisible foe...at the sting of disappointment. Biding my time, and checking the state of the sleeping household every so often, it was a stomach-churning morning.

It was after seven when I heard Debbie step from her bed, and I sprinted up the stairs and fell to her ankles in an incoherent puddle of coffee-deprivation. She looked at me as though I were possessed (or possibly schizophrenic)...but managed to translate my frenzy. "Oh! Dear! I'm sorry!—the coffee! I'm really losing it!" she exclaimed, rushing to complete the task. I remained prostrate upon the floor as I sobbed with relief.