“Where is my Coffee?” Part Two

I began my last post with the story of my husband Mowgli (not his real name) coming downstairs and asking “Where is my coffee?” and then segued into the serving protocol in traditional Indian homes. I thought the resolution to the initial Coffee Question Incident might be a good topic for my second post. Also, I suspect some of my readers might be curious to know what happened. For those of you who have confessed to feeling like a spy reading about my home life: I’m not going to tell you anything I wouldn’t tell you over lunch. That’s one of my rules.

What happened immediately was we went to work, came home, fed and walked the dogs, ate, griped about our days, walked the dogs again and went to sleep.

Then we woke up. Well, I woke up. It is mind-blowing to me when Mowgli wakes up first because it happens roughly as often as a Black man is elected President of the U.S. I get up, feed and walk the dogs, make the first pot of coffee, look at e-mail, eat, maybe exercise, and then decide whether to make another pot of coffee. Big decision.

I’ve been trying to cut back on coffee, and if I make a second pot that is supposedly for Mowgli, I generally drink more because it smells so yummy and I’m so tired and the coffee at work is not that great. I wasn’t feeling strong enough to resist the lovely aroma, plus I was a little ticked about the Coffee Question Incident and therefore not feeling as takey-carey as usual, so I didn’t make more coffee. Also, I wanted to test my darling love, because I am a little devious, and because he sometimes does that to me.

So Mowgli comes downstairs and asks, “Where is my coffee?”

Me: I think the coffeemaker’s on strike.

Him: What? Why?

Me: Are you trying to say you appreciate it when I make coffee for you?

Him: Yes.*

Me: Well, I might start doing it again if you ask me nicely.

Him: No, no. I’ll do it myself.

Me: Right. Because Heaven forbid you ask your wife nicely.

And then I left for work with a “Bye, Honey” yelled up the stairs with a touch of “you jerk” in it. Not my proudest moment, but then, not his either. I resolved not to make coffee for him ever again, since he didn’t even have the decency to acknowledge his appreciation unless I dragged it out of him.

At home that night, he said he was just giving me trouble by asking “Where’s my coffee?” I should know after six years of togetherness that he is nothing if not a provocateur. I feel like a gullible, easily riled American whenever we have one of these exchanges, and I want to dope-slap myself when I realize I’ve taken the bait yet again.

I made us a second pot of coffee the next morning. But then, my first pot had been mostly decaf. And I got a “Thank you, baby.”




*This is the only line of dialogue neither of us could remember clearly. The rest of it is verbatim.