My search for the ideal stimulant continues. I’m trying to find that elusive pick-me-up that I can down sometime around 10 p.m. that will keep me alert until 1 a.m., but still let me sleep afterward. Two cups of coffee handle the stay-awake part, but sour my stomach for sleeping. Energy drinks make me feel like a 51-year-old in baggy shorts, tryin’ to hang with the kids. Today I got a brainstorm — a memory, actually. Morning Thunder.
My friend Paul hated coffee but needed serious stimulation to get going in the morning, and used to drink a gigantic tankard of Celestial Seasonings’ Morning Thunder tea, with four or five bags steeping in there. It was a pretty vile drink, but it did the trick. I tried it for a while (one bag at a time), but dropped it when I got tired of people making poop jokes about my beverage. (What brings on the famous 10 a.m. session with the morning paper, anyway? Is it the alimentary canal making room for breakfast, the hot liquid or the caffeine? And why does it mostly affect men? I’ve never known one who didn’t need a little me-time at midmorning.) After a while, it made me associate Morning Thunder with boom-booms, and by then I had developed the obligatory journalist’s taste for rancid newsroom coffee, which was free.
But with this unusual need for a specific eye-opener, maybe it’s time to check out the M.T. again. So I stopped where I never do — the tea section at the supermarket.
It’s kind of depressing. Tea runs in cycles like everything else, and now we’re deep into the relaxation thing. With eye-opening delegated to Starbucks and dark-roast arabica beans, tea has to take the opposite tack, and the most common word is decaffeinated, along with calming and serenity. No Morning Thunder in evidence. Ah, well.
Last night a triple-e from Starbucks at 8:45 did the trick magnificently. Drowsiness arrived at 12:55 a.m. If I try it tonight, it’ll either be too much or too little.
Do the guys at Starbucks try to speak Italian to you, too? “Here’s your tripplio,” or whatever; I wasn’t taking notes. Sometimes, when I feel like making my triple a dessert, I’ll order it with whipped cream. Tripplio con panna, the baristas say. They’re probably the same wiseasses who refer to Detroit as day-twah. Blech.
What a pleasant weekend, made for long bike rides, a little weightlifting and a pass through the Nordstrom’s shoe sale. The Steve Madden boots I’ve been eyeing keep falling in price, but they’re still not a justifiable purchase. I don’t have the legs, or the youth, to stuff jeans into boots anymore. And Kate will give up her Ed Hardy sneakers when they pry them off her cold, dead feet. Best would be a cool pair of ankle boots, but the only ones like that they’re making these days have towering heels. My knees hurt just looking at them. Where is a woman somewhere between stilettos and Hush Puppies to find her footwear? Not at Nordstrom’s shoe sale, evidently.
As you can see, friends, I have very little today. I stayed away from my computer for a couple of days and strongly recommend it, except for the pile of e-mail that accumulates under the slot. And I didn’t get too much bloggage, but a little:
New York magazine looks at the birther/wacker far right. What a bunch of maroons.
And now off to begin manic Monday. Kate woke up with a sore throat and informs me it’s sweepin’ the schoolyard. Oh, joy.