I belong to one of the largest and most militant groups in the United States. I am a coffee drinker. Those of you who don’t care about coffee probably have something else you are crazy about that you can relate to easily. My mother was a coffee drinker. We all knew that it wasn’t a good idea to talk to her before her first cup. It’s funny, when you are a kid and some grown up lets you taste a little sip, you think it is horrible and cannot imagine why people like it. Then you grow up and the thought of living without it is horrifying.

Seattle in the 70s started a new era of coffee consumption. No longer were people content with just a cup of Joe; we got used to special brews from around the world. With the advent of the chain coffee houses like Starbucks, we all succumbed to what is known as coffee culture. These coffee sanctuaries became a place to meet friends, embark on a new romance, study, do work on your computer, or just contemplate your navel while sipping your signature drink.

For all you coffee drinkers out there, you know what I am talking about.

If you have ever stood in a long line at Starbucks and listened to the ordering going on in front of you, it is pretty intimidating. You need to learn a different language to order coffee in one of these places. The clientele is pretty hip and you would never ask what anything means, so you have to learn the lingo the same way you learned about sex. You listen intently, pretend you get it, nod your head, and then you can eventually piece together all the facts and know what they are talking about. Once you get the jargon down, drinking coffee becomes less stressful and more enjoyable. Back in the day when I was new to the Starbucks routine, I remember the person ahead of me in line ordering a “1/2 caf/decaf cappucino, extra wet. I started to panic about being next. I had no idea how to order and I didn’t want to appear stupid. I was like a deer in headlights when it was my turn. A million thoughts dashed through my brain as I tried to unscramble what I just heard. “Extra wet?” Isn’t coffee already wet?

“How can I help you , Miss?”, asked the young man. “Oh”, I said, flinging my hair and attempting to look very casual. “I just want a regular brewed coffee”, I replied, disguising my angst with the best bored blonde look I could muster up. I was so relieved that he acknowledged my request and poised his fingers over the register keys to ring me up.“Whew!”, I said to myself. “They have just regular coffee here!” “Would you like our Sumatran Gold or the Himalayan Fog?” He queried. Oh, crap! I was terrible at geography in school. “Which region has the best coffee?” He was looking at me like I should know the difference between the two. I decided to look conflicted and it worked like a charm. “You know our House Blend is award winning and also my personal favorite.” I shook my head yes and now looked forward to my lovely cup of coffee. “Shall I make that a Venti?,” he inquired. “Absolutely!” I said with feigned authority. I had no idea what I was ordering until I picked up my schooner of black coffee when they called my name.

You live and learn. And I have learned plenty. When you order a cappuccino wet, it means you want more coffee than foam. To order it dry is just the opposite. Breve is with half and half instead of milk. Order your drink skinny and it’s made with skim milk and sugar free syrup. It’s not rocket science, but pretty close.

People have become so particular about the coffee they drink. I actually think that coffee snobs are worse than wine snobs. The whole thing has no socio-economic connection either. People who consider Cheetos hors d’oerves, are super snooty about their coffee. I have a good friend who roasts his own beans. Now that’s dedication. I must say that I truly understand the importance of coffee. It starts my day and often ends my evening meal. I am really glad that caffeine does not affect my ability to sleep. I would be miserable if I was one of those people who can’t drink a cup after 3 pm or they are up all night. I can pound back a double espresso at midnight and be asleep by 12:10.

I am the opposite of a coffee snob. I like it all. Give me a good hot mug of coffee shop coffee brewed in a Bunn machine. Fabulous! Whether it’s done in a French press, drip brewed, or percolated... it’s all good.

After my divorce, I treated myself to one of the Keurig coffer machines that use little individually packed “pods” to brew a single cup of coffee of your choice. Each serving is a work of art in a cup and since I live alone, sometimes that’s all I want to make. I have a little wooden drawer thing-y where my different varieties of pods, called K-cups, are kept. Each morning I ponder which exotic coffee I will have with the same deep thought as I would select a diamond ring from the jeweler’s case. Sometimes I even have tea. I have a plethora of different mugs from all over the universe on the shelf above my coffee maker, so I can match my coffee choice and my mood. Ok, it doesn’t take much to float my boat, but I love that damn machine. I love my coffee.

If, God forbid, I should ever become homeless and forced to live in the park, I would find a park with an electric outlet for my Keurig. I know they exist because the gardeners don’t use battery powered lawn mowers and hedge clippers, for goodness sake. I would make myself a sign that said “Please Help. Will Work for K-cups”. I will stand by the freeway on ramp during morning rush hour and graciously entertain offers of employment or donations for my coffee pods. You think I’m kidding, right?

For all you coffee drinkers out there, you know what I am talking about. A lot of the pleasure in a cup of coffee has to do with the ceremony of it all. The brewing, the cream, the sweetener... the way you swizzle it around to blend it just the way you like it. When your hands are wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee, the warmth goes right down to your toes. That aroma of the roasted beans wafting upwards is purely intoxicating. Tell me something that tastes better than that first sip in the morning... divine!

Besides the taste and tradition of this beverage, don’t forget how many problems have been solved and relationships begun over a simple cup of coffee. Chances are some of you are reading this article over coffee... that pleases me greatly. I am drinking one as I write this. Cheers!

There is probably no task that I hate more than going to the grocery store. If I ever win the lottery, the first thing I will do is hire an assistant that goes marketing for me.

When I was raising a family, I took food shopping much more seriously than do now. It was part of being the mama lion and nurturing my family and nobody did it better than I did. I used to do the marketing with a shoebox full of carefully catalogued coupons. I was constantly clipping the cents-off coupons from every magazine and newspaper I could get my hands on.

On marketing day, I would spend hours going up and down the aisles stretching every dollar that I could. I often filled up two baskets to the brim. At the end, I turned in all my coupons and tried to guess what my savings would be. It was a game to me and I was good at it.

As I stood by the open tailgate of my “mom van” (yes, I had one of those, but please keep it to yourself) and watched the box person load bag after bag of discounted grocery items, I felt such pride. I stood there clutching my yards of register tape as triumphantly as if I had just won an Oscar.

I would spend hours going up and down the aisles stretching every dollar that I could.

Grocery shopping was a huge deal back in those days. It took the better part of a day to accomplish and you had to have an unstoppable rhythm. I also learned early on that your success as the household shopper had to have a set of stringent rules.

Rule #1 - You NEVER let your husband go with you. Despite the fact that he is good for any heavy lifting of 50lb. bags of dog kibble or the ginormous size laundry detergent, there is no amount of budgeting and coupon clipping that will offset what he sneaks into the basket. It does you no good to scrimp and save and wait for double coupon day, if you end up with garlic-stuffed cannonball olives, an extra large bag of beef jerky, and Macadamia nuts carefully concealed and then revealed at checkout. Men can’t help it, so leave them at home.

Rule #2 - Never ask if anyone needs or wants anything. When you shop with coupons and are a slave to sale items, no special requests. They get what’s on “special” and the fact that someone else is filling the cupboards for their eating pleasure is special enough. Let your family know not to fall in love with anything you bring home, because they might not get it again.

Rule #3 - If you are shopping for a lot of people, it’s a very tiring job. I believe that the shopper is entitled to at least one food favorite as a reward for all their good work. I love Fig Newtons and tried for years to find a hiding place that no one could find. I sucked at it, because when I was ready to relax with a cup of tea and some Newtons a few days later, I would go to the hiding place in the kitchen to find an empty Nabisco package. Kids and husbands have food radar. I should have hidden them behind the ironing board or behind the folded sheets in the linen closet. Not a chance anyone in my family would have found them. You live and learn.

Those days are all behind me now. It’s just me and the dogs. Although I haven’t clipped a coupon in a long time, I still hate going to the store for a whole different reason. Now instead of calculating how much I am paying per ounce to get the best bargain, I calculate if I will be able to eat it or use it before I die.

I usually only make myself go to the market if there is nothing for my dogs to eat and/or there is no creamer for my coffee. Once I am there, I am THERE, so I just move down the aisles as fast as I can. There are no bargains for people who live alone. I don’t need a multi-pack of anything and I don’t want to carry it. I get the essentials, fruit, vegetables, English muffins, milk, eggs, Brie, wine, etc.

Nowadays you bring your own bags for the groceries. I am grateful I did the family shopping in the paper or plastic days or I would have to have brought a complete set of Samsonite. I keep my purchases down to a minimum because I like the convenience and speed of the 15 items or less lane. Nothing aggravates me more than people who abuse this. Often times there is still a line but I keep myself occupied by counting exactly how many items each person puts on the conveyer belt and plotting their death if they go over. It’s not the healthiest thinking, but it keeps me completely amused until it’s my turn.

By the way, don’t ever get talked into doing Self Checkout. It’s some kind of plot. First of all, it’s not that convenient or easy. The people who do it easily think they are so cool and they think they are brilliant. If you look befuddled or don’t go fast enough, the Self Checkout “associate” comes around and flippantly pushes the start button and shows you how to swipe the bar code and then disappears. You start off fine and then you make the mistake of touching the bag at the wrong time and get scolded by some automated voice. I had tried to do this before, but if you don’t do it quickly, the guy behind you in the flip flops with a 12 pack of Corona gets antsy and makes you nervous.

The last time I tried to do this, I bought some kind of produce that was missing its sticker and I didn’t know how to continue. Out of nowhere comes the “associate” to help. I don’t know where the Self Checkout helpers fall in the hierarchy of grocery store employees, but these are not happy people. I described my produce problem and she gave me a look that clearly said “moron!”, shrugged her shoulders, and pushed me out of the way. She made a clicking noise with her tongue while rolling her eyes in disgust. Then she whipped through several screens, pushed too many buttons and asked me for my debit card. She “helped” me complete my transaction and gathered up my bags abruptly, handed them to me and motioned towards the door. Then that brat actually told me to “enjoy the rest of my day”. If I was going to clean the garage for the balance of my day, it would be much more enjoyable than my experience with those people in what I now fondly refer to as “Self Righteous Checkout”.

I think I have let off enough steam for one day. I think I shall now relax with a nice cup of tea... and Fig Newtons.