Moms Who Need Coffee and the Things We Think
Moms need coffee…so cliché, like moms in yoga pants and moms drinking wine. Yeah, I get it. But I love my coffee. You probably do, too.
I love coffee hard. If coffee were a man, I’d make out with him, even if he were the most physically repulsive and unappealing man on the planet. If coffee were a man with a 1970’s porno movie mustachio (and 1970’s porno movie manscaping) whose breath smelled like dirty sweat socks and old cheese…I would still make out with him.
If coffee were a woman, you bet your butt I’d be raising my hand to switch sides. Penises? Pffft. The rush I get when I take my first sip of coffee will win over floppy man bits, any day.
[Tweet “Things caffiene addicted moms think in the @Starbucks line “]
So yeah…I love coffee. Like…alot.
I don’t do the Starbucks thing often. My children need to wear shoes and we need to pay our bills and stuff like that. Buying a fancy coffee drink is a special occasion, like when I have a free morning…also known as the days I wake up to find glittery unicorn kitty cats frolicking on my lawn…or when I’ve had that extra shitty school drop-off morning and just need to do something nice for myself that will keep me from stabbing someone before lunchtime. You know the kind I’m talking about…where you get stuck behind a jerk parent (or maybe just a rookie) who doesn’t know the rules of drop-off…or you have to deal with someone who actually tries to…you know…talk to you.
In my neck of the woods, it works like this: the line inside will have about three people waiting to get their caffeine on. The drive-through will have roughly 673 cars waiting. Yes, I know I could park, go inside, tell the barista my name is something exotic like Lola or Delicious and be quickly on my way.
But, I swing the minivan into the ass end of the line most of the time.
Because I’m not wearing a bra.
Or shoes.
Because the extra 15 minutes I’m going to wait to have my beloved caffeine coursing through my veins will be semi-tolerable because I am alone in the driver’s seat, listening to inappropriate rap songs that no one knows I know all the words to. Just me, my empty mind, my music, my uncombed hair and the caffeine monkey perched on my shoulder, waiting for the magical little voice that trills “what can I get started for you?”
Here are some of the random thoughts I have in the Starbucks drive-thru line:
Did I remember to turn the crockpot on?
When was the last time I shaved my legs?
Oooh…scratchy. Like sandpaper or those things I bought to scrub the pots…what are those called? Brillo Pads…I wonder where I put those…
Is that another effing chin hair?
Why can’t I remember to put tweezers in the glove box like any decent woman would? The review mirror is evil. I’m not looking…
Would I really stoop so low as to pluck chin hairs in the coffee line?
Yes…the answer is yes.
I wonder what age I’ll be when I have to start really worrying about nose hair…
…shit. Looks like now. I should really keep tweezers in here.
I think I’m getting a zit on the inside of my nose.
I wonder if this will be the day the person in front of me randomly buys my coffee…
…yeah, that random acts of kindness crap never happens to me.
How many calories are in one of those blueberry scone thingies?
Probably a lot…I might as well just duct tape one to each ass cheek…same result.
Girls who play loud Katy Perry music with their windows down shouldn’t be allowed in line behind me.
Or on the road, ever. I don’t want to hear about how someone “freaks in their Jeep” or “melts my popsicle.” Eminem would never sing about stupid stuff like that.
I need to pee…
…aaaand I hear the voice of my mother in my head: “why didn’t you go before you left the house?”
I should call my mother…
Damn…my phone is at 14 percent? I guess mom has to wait.
I’m having a hot flash.
I’m freaking ancient. With chin hair and a weak bladder.
I wonder if the drive-thru guy would be mad if I paid for my coffee using this crusty sludge-covered change that’s stuck to the bottom of my cupholder
I probably don’t want to think too hard about what this sludge actually is…it smells funny.
Dora, Dora, Dora the Explorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreerrrrrrrrrrr…
What the hell? Why am I singing that shit? I’m never letting my kids watch TV before school ever again.
Why is this taking so long?
Is girlfriend in the pink Mini Cooper ordering lattes for her entire office? Move along, people…I have to pee and my phone is dying….this is an emergency…and pink Mini Coopers are dumb.
If I pee my pants while I’m sitting here, will the guy at the window be able to tell?
Could I MacGyver a urinal out of that discarded water bottle I spot in the back of the van?
I have 10 plus years of Girl Scouts under my belt…I can make freaking anything.
Why is this jackwagon riding my bumper like that?
Back the freak off, dude. If my bra-less ass has to get out of this van and go caffeine-deprived psycho on you, it will be ugly.
These thoughts disappear in a fluffy cloud of caffeine-induced euphoria once that plastic cup of goodness is placed into my eager, trembling little hands.
Have you ever seen a dog getting a belly rub? They wriggle around on their backs and do that little twerky move with their foot? That’s how I feel when I get coffee.
Moms and coffee…so cliché. But clichés exist for a reason…there’s usually more than a sliver of truth in there. The proof is in the pudding…or in my extra fancy super-sized double-shot cup of caffeinated happiness.
A version of this post originally appeared on Blunt Moms.
