RIP, Good Grandma

Good Grandma passed away in the wee hours of Sunday morning. It was June 1st 2008, which also happened to be her 84th birthday.

I was there when she died. Other than a quick run home in the evening to tuck the gremlins in, I was at the hospital for her final 12 hours along with my mom (The Madre), my aunt, uncle and many other people. The hospital room resembled more of a frat party until shortly after dinner on Saturday. We even took the time to be highly insensitive and compare cell phone capabilities.

Look: you can't cry all the time.

Meanwhile I would cough now and then. An annoying, persistent cough that prevented me from getting any sleep by her bedside. With only three of us remaining through the night - my mom, aunt and myself - I decided I would do better resting my head by Good Grandma's shoulder and holding her hand. Maybe I could close my eyes for a bit... But between her gasps for air, the nurse's regular visits to the room and my annoying little cough, sleep was about as bad a fit for me as size 2 jeans. So I ate Swiss chocolate squares, drank a Diet Coke (must watch those calories, ladies) and read articles on spirituality in O Magazine.

I've never been with someone when they died. It's a life-changing experience, that's for sure. I realized that it's quite a bit like birth. In most cases it's long, painful and creates a lot of intense emotions. I sobbed like a baby on more than one occasion. They should have called me Wussy Wussofferton, Queen of Little Girl Panty Land.

I'll wear that crown proudly, thank you. She's my grandma and I'll cry if I want to.

She left us at 2:35AM. I cried some more, obviously. Relief, sadness. The works.

But do you know what really did it? What turned me into McCries-a-lot more than anything else that day? A few minutes after he death, my mom and aunt told me she wanted me to have her wedding ring.

Her wedding ring.

I'm crying about it right now, actually.

And now I'm kind of laughing at the same time, because what happened next was so morbid and I'm such a disturbed individual that it's definitely something blog-worthy. We had to take the rings off.

I watch a lot of Discovery and National Geographic and other channels so I can feel like I'm better than you people who only watch sitcoms and other brain-frying telelvision. It allows me to still sit dumbly in front of a box eating junk food, but I get to walk away with useless facts. In my documentary journeys I have traveled to ancient civilizations like Egypt, where they open up tombs and find treasures.

And sometimes they don't find the treasures because the tombs have been robbed. Everything is gone, right down to the jewelry on the Pharaoh's body. It's always those nasty grave robbers. Well I, my lambs, felt exactly like a grave robber.

When it was time to take the rings off, I was mortified at the thought. When they didn't slide off easily that was even worse. And when I had to use soap and some interesting wiggle techniques to remove said rings, it was... wrong. Sooooo wrong.

Then I thought of what my grandma must have been thinking and doing, released from the shackles of her sickly body and making her way into the spirit world. She was probably laughing hysterically at the sight of her eldest grandchild's face, contorted with disgust and apologizing to her now deceased grandmother as she wrenched the rings off fingers as delicately as she could (and truly it wasn't very delicate).

Good Grandma had a wonderful sense of humour. And upon her death, she wanted us to take those rings off. So I started laughing through the tears. Then we were all laughing through our tears. And suddenly things were a little lighter in the room. Soapier, but lighter.

I, The Maven, can rock the death situation like no other.

Incidentally, her ring fits me perfectly. I've realized now that I have the same size fingers as my tiny little grandmother. My belly is fat, my hands are small. Dainty, even.

Oh, and that "pesky little cough"? Pneumonia. I found out today. My friend just came by with coffee and I asked her if maybe she'd like to light my house on fire. I think I could handle a few more crises right now. We've had a boy in the hospital, a grandma pass away and now a Maven with pneumonia. What's a little fire?

I kill me. Off my take my antibiotic.

Three weeks to V-Day

June 20th, 2008.

That's V-Day around here. Not Valentines, kids.

Although you won't hear this on Sesame Street, V is also for vasectomy.

Not mine, obviously. I may wear the pants around here, but I do not sport the twig and berries. After three 10 pound babies, one bout of pre-eclampsia, two bouts of ICP, a hemorrhage, a blood transfusion, and two cesareans, Geekster has understandably offered up his special parts to make sure we don't have any more babies. I've done my duty and it is now his turn to rise to the occasion (I could make a dirty joke here but I'm going to refrain because I'm a very mature thirty-one-year-old woman).

I know what you're thinking: Didn't you want a baby not so long ago, Maven? Weren't you considering it?

Yes, I was. However, I was also being selfish and irrational, which are personality traits I'm boss at.

I eventually put my thoughtful-rational cap on and spent an hour with my therapist. Then I decided that it might be best to stick with three. It just took a little reminding at how scary being pregnant can be in Mavenworld. We escaped with a live mom and three live children who are healthy - well, unless you count the two who are hearing impaired and the one who might be left-handed (isn't that a special need? I, like, might have to buy him special scissors and he could end up playing the guitar upside down!)

Also, with two gremlin hospitalizations inside of a year, I don't think my heart could handle more children. Surgeries, oxygen masks, metal pins in the leg making them all cyborg-y... Too much for me.

Maybe I'll exchange a fourth baby for a toned little hot body. By "toned" I mean a better breast-to-stomach ratio and by "little" I mean probably a 14 or a 12 if I'm eating a lot of lettuce and by "hot" I mean sweaty because I'll be working out a lot.

Toned. Little. Hot. Different.

Different is right. All I've known is having babies. Just as one is getting independent my body decides it wants to ovulate again and we make a new little crumb snatcher. For nearly my entire adult life I've been dealing in diapers. And I'm somewhat proud and somewhat exhausted in the realization that I've been pregnant and/or nursing since March of 2002. I'm a machine, people. A machine who needs to go eat a bean salad with her soon-to-be-snipped husband.

But you know what was the real clincher for me? He doesn't want more children and he's absolutely sure. He was done after the first one and yet he decided to take the long journey down infertility lane to make baby #2 because I wanted that baby oh so badly. We went through at least one miscarriage (one confirmed and several suspected) before Gutsy came along. Then Geekster was absolutely done after the second one... and yet went along with my idea to try for a third until I decided that I was done (and was already pregnant by that point with Spawnling. Hah!)

And you know what? He deserves to have a say as well. It's been all Maven all the time. Don't I owe him some choices? He's a great daddy and I love him and I kind of miss spending time with him and knowing him and having more than superficial two minute conversations with him all the while being interrupted a half-dozen times.

There's more to adult life than babies. Like hanging out with the love of my life and losing some weight and watching my boys grow up.

The light has come on.

I'm ready.

Bring on the snip.

Good idea/Bad idea

The "Do's" and "Dont's" of being a sick mother at home with sick children:

DO allow the television to be on all day. It's a sick day after all. You were out of the running for "Mother of the Year" by mid-January anyway.

DON'T let your toddler wander into the light beige-carpeted living room with an orange popsicle when you're not paying attention.

DO avoid doing housework if at all possible.

DON'T decide that you can't stop at just trying to scrub orange stain out of a beige carpet and thus clean the entire living room, top to bottom, including the furniture, all while running a respectable fever.

DO try to keep everyone hydrated and well fed.

DON'T convince yourself that Kraft Dinner (AKA Mac n' Cheese for you Amurkens) and hotdogs are a good food choice, even if said hot dogs are all beef and the pasta is whole wheat. Nice try, un-mother-of-the-year.

If you must clean something because you're an anal-retentive individual with some OCD tendencies, DO something where you can mostly sit, like sorting through the food/miscellaneous stuff in the pantry.

DON'T forget to put things back into the pantry when your toddler wakes up from his nap, as you may find yourself playing an exciting game of "Find the SOS pads" in the livingroom you have not yet cleaned from top to bottom.

DO think of good friends like Jobthingy who care for your toddler while you visit your sick child in the hospital. Thinking of loved ones is one way to stay mentally healthy when the body feels awful.

DON'T vow to launch the "Tickle Me Elmo Extreme" doll she gave your toddler at her the next time you see her simply because the older ones decided to play with it ten feet from the couch as you were about to doze off this afternoon. Love for Jobthingy. Love. Only love....

DO write in your blog because it's something you can do to pass the time while your husband and gremlins play Wii in the living room where you were happily watching television only a few minutes ago. Sigh.

DON'T expect to come up with anything funny. You're feverish and thus more delirious than usual.

Oh, and everyone DO go here and congratulate a wonderful friend of mine on her new pregnancy - her first one conceived naturally, without any medical interventions. Miracles do happen (I have some of my own). And I might be hacking out a lung, but I'm so damn happy for you.

One return trip to Hell, please

Well that was a fun weekend! It's not a party until someone gets a fever of 105 and needs oxygen, you know.

Gutsy was admitted on Thursday and by Friday was doing much better. He came home Sunday afternoon and is even went outside for a little while. The doctors told us to let him dictate his level of activity and not try and suppress it. In other words, don't be a paranoid mother, Maven. Chill out. Relax. Have some coffee. Write in your blog.

They obviously don't know me very well. I'm The Maven, and I'm an alcoholics. Alcoholics are all about control. What part of pneumonia in my five-year-old was I able to control? Nothing. Not even the fever. His brain was about to turn into an omelette before we brought him in. And was I able to stay with him in the hospital? Why no. I got to stay here with a sickly Spawnling who wanted to nurse day and night. If I wasn't here he would have driven his daddy insane and I would have had pumps attached to my boobies so I wouldn't get mastitis and end up in the hospital next door; the hospital for grownups who are idiots and try to control everything.

So, control I did not. I stayed here and nursed Spawnling and played Mario Kart on the Wii with Intrepid. I ordered us deliciously meaty food we wouldn't normally get because it's expensive and not Geekster-friendly. I felt like I was cheating on my vegetarian husband. Not as naughty as actual infidelity, but close enough that it was downright... exciting. I liked it. Now I want more, but I can't have it. My carnivorous obsession will have to wait.

It would stand to reason that I should pay for my love of ripping flesh from bone. Don't all murderers eventually pay? Did that poultry not have a family? Did they not seek justice from the bottom of a KFC container somewhere, sending ghostly squawks through the cosmos in an attempt to wreak havoc upon my life?

Fear not, dead little chickens. I did pay for my enjoyment of your kin from the higher-end restaurant (The Maven does NOT eat KFC. Pukeness.) Spawnling's cold has taken a turn for the worst. I wouldn't say he has pneumonia, but I would say that it's a possibility we may be making a return trip to the hospital if he doesn't show an improvement in the next 24 hours. He's miserable, he's warm, he kept me up most of the night watching the 24hr preschool channel. Why is it that they put the worst shows on at 3AM? Don't they realize that if you're watching television with your young child at that time of night it needs to be of the highest quality? We watched a puppet raccoon named Jackson make crafts with some lady and then put on a play with said crafts.

Half an hour of watching a low-budget craft-making show with a talking rodent is enough torture; having the next show be about a castle with ballerinas in scary clown costumes brought the night down to an entirely new level.

The good news: The Spawn and I slept until about 9:30AM and I was able to drink a coffee while I had my therapy session at 11. There's nothing like venting for an hour and drinking a coffee with no kids around. My little slice of heaven. If I was rich I'd see my therapist every day. Hell, I'd move a therapist into my house so I could talk to her while I garden. Nay, while I watch my gardener. My very good looking gardener with an exotic name. Meanwhile the nanny would be playing with the kids and my husband would be throwing rose petals around the master bedroom in an attempt to pry my eyes away from the exotically-named gardener.

Ah, fantasy! You are my friend in times of need.

On a positive note that does not involve pretend hired help, Intrepid ran his first 5km race this weekend with the running team at school and thousands of their closest friends. A very sick and grumpy Spawnling made his way through the downtown crowds with me to watch a the proud boy cross the finish line. After two surgeries on his femur this year, he made the run in 47 minutes. Way to go, Intrepid! (If you look closely at the picture, he's the one in grey with the blue bandana, hands and knee up in the air. He's crazy like his mama.)

Another hospital trip? Oh please?

Do you not love how life takes sudden, crazy turns? Here's the note I just posted on Facebook. If figured I would also update my blog before I run off to the hospital.

Please think healing vibes for my boy and coffee/sleep vibes for me, even thought they're sort of counterproductive when put together.

Exhaustively yours on three hours of sleep and a healthy dose of stress,
The Maven

Hi everyone,

I know a lot of people are asking what's going on with our 5yr old son, Gutsy. I thought it would be easier if I wrote a note instead of telling everyone individually. I hope nobody minds, but I'm a bit pressed for time.

Gutsy was admitted last night with a fever near 105, coughing and pain in his chest. We knew it was pneumonia before he even left the house, but it came on within a matter of hours and it was a little scary!

His oxygen saturation levels (OSATs) are 98% with an oxygen mask, but only 88% without. Therefore he'll be staying at the hospital until his OSATs go back up and can be weaned off the mask. Meanwhile, they found a third of his right lung is infected with pneumonia and have started him on on two courses of i.v. antibiotics. He'll be moving to an isolation chamber as soon as one becomes available. The fever, thankfully, is under control now.

Spawnling has just started the cold that turned into pneumonia for Gutsy, so I'm hoping he doesn't end up in the same condition. Anyway, one day at a time and one thing at a time. We'll see what transpires.

I'll update when I can. Thanks to everyone who's been thinking about Gutsy. I'm sure he'll be back to his rambunctious self in no time :)

Take care,
Mavey Mave

The breast-to-stomach ratio

Say it with me now: A brownie does not constitute a dairy serving.

A shame, as it would be the very best of ways to get some calcium.

I'm having coffee and, with it, a brownie. Just a little brownie. Tiny, little, homemade brownie. It has some water, an egg, a little bit of oil and whatever is in that package. And, without the oil and egg, it's not really that high in fat.

...Egg! The egg is a protein serving. There. Dairy from the chocolate chips and protein from the egg. It's a meal fit for the gods.

Good thing I've rekindled my romance with the treadmill or all would be lost.

Despite my love of all things chocolate, I'm attempting to take some pounds off. Slowly, gently, and only because working out while watching television makes more sense than sitting on the couch eating chips. Besides, when I'm sweating profusely on an incline for an hour and watching Lost at the same time, I can imagine I'm on that tropical island with Kate and Jin and... why hello, Sawyer. Care to show me where your tent is? Maybe I could massage those bare, yummy shoulders for you. And stuff.

Exercising can be great fun when you're The Maven.

I'm still doing pilates three to four times per week and hope to molest the treadmill in a similar fashion. Before long I'll be a sexy size... well, it doesn't matter what size. My goal is fairly straightforward: when I sit down, I would like it very much if my stomach did not protrude beyond my breasts.

It's the very simple breast-to-stomach ratio.

Considering I'm a "C" cup, this is a feat in itself. It's about the only time in my life when I wish I had the more ample version of bosoms.

Using "bosom" reminds me of Anne of Green Gables, where they kept using the term "bosom buddies". I, being a young girl, used to giggle quietly to myself every time it was said. Now, as a mature woman and mother of three, I know how to properly incorporate the term into my vocabulary.

My bosom buddy is currently Spawnling, as he enjoys my bosoms. Makes sense, right?

I don't know what Anne and her friend Diana had going on, but they quickly made the switch to calling themselves "kindred spirits". Smells like denial to me. A shame, really. That would have stirred things up on that uptight little island a lot more than the girls getting drunk on some sherry. And, come to think of it, Anne ended up with Gilbert, who did look a little feminine. Just sayin'.

Funny story for the Green Gables fans: All three of my siblings still live at home. Hefner is 19 and has Downs Syndrome, so he's excused. Chux0r and Sisterella, however, are in their early-to-mid 20's and haven't moved out yet. A couple of years ago I predicted that they would never leave and would instead inherit my parents' home and adopt a child to help around the house. From then on I've occasionally referred to them as Matthew and Marilla, the brother and sister in the AOGG story who do just that.

Bitch, thy name is Maven. But thou art a funny bitch.

The Maven: Frittata

Oh, man.

I'm appalled by my lack of writing. When I realized I only had three posts here for May I felt disappointed in myself as a writer, director and producer of chaos. For shame, Maven. For shame.

In my defense, large chunks of our long weekend (which is a week earlier than that of our American counterparts. Neener neener) was taken up by hospital visits. My Good Grandma, who is losing a battle with pancreatic cancer, took a fall in her apartment and wasn't found for - hold on to your stomachs, kids - two days.

Two.
Days.

I was obviously heartbroken to find this out, but she's resting comfortably in the hospital now and is awaiting a bed in a palliative care facility. My strong and stubborn granny knows that it's time to be waited on hand and foot by nurses and doctors instead of doing everything by herself. It took her much longer than most people to figure this out. She's nobody bitch, that lady. And I love her for it.

Gutsy is sick this morning and I'm dragging him to Spawnling's chiropractic appointment. I did what every good mother does: doped him up on acetaminophen to bring his fever down.

I live by the code of over-scheduled families: Illness Shall Not Mess Up Thine Timetable.

In actuality we don't. In fact, being a bon-bon eating, soap-watching mom allows me the flexibility to just say no to not only drugs (except those that bring down fever, apparently) but also to appointments, activities, and other things that get in the way of my family's slacking ways. They just wrote an article about people like us, and I'm damn proud.

The free range parent is most definitely a label I can live with. I'm already an attachment parent, so why not add something else? Although to make it easily printable onto a business card I might have to call myself "Freetachment Parent." It has a special ring to it. It almost sounds like frittata, which is both delicious and satisfying.

I am also delicious and satisfying. Sort of.

In a show of parental excellence, I bought Spawnling a pink stroller on Thursday. Why stroller? Because his friend had one and he was practically beating her off of it with a stick before we left (by that I mean he was yelling 'nono!' and ok! ok!' over and over. No actual sticks were harmed in the lack of sharing). In order to pry his little hands away from her stroller and into the van, I had to reward his bad behaviour by offering to get him one of his own. So, before he had a chance to forget that not sharing = getting a new toy, we went to the toy store.

Why a pink stroller? Why not pink? They had a blue one and a pink one, but his friend has the pink one and that's the one he wanted. He now walks the stroller around the house, the yard or down the road, with an assortment of passengers: sometimes it's Curious George, sometimes it's a stack of DVDs and once it was a bowl of chips. But he loves that stroller dearly and nobody dare touch it lest they are met with 'NONO!' and 'Ok! Ok!' which actually means 'nono' but Spawnling likes to diversify.

That's ok though, because apparently my boy is a genius. The doctor said it, so it must be legit. Why would she say such a thing? Because while the Spawn doesn't have an enormous vocabulary, he does know and say his colours.

He gets it from me. It's all me. Geekster? Not so smart. He married me for my gigantic brain and extraordinary baby-making abilities. I married him because he's cute and looks nice on my arm.

The Spawn will now tell you if something is blue, green, red, yellow, pink or purple. We're not into brown, white or black yet. He's a genius, but not gifted. Definitely not gifted. He wouldn't dare be because he knows how much I dislike that label.

I honestly had no idea that identifying colours at18 months was advanced. That's because, as a Freetachment Parent, I'm too busy co-sleeping and letting my children play outside to be aware of these things.

It's a difficult life, but they're worth it, pink strollers and all.

In-Between Green

I really feel like I'm getting back to my crunchy roots lately, but without sitting atop the high pedestal looking down on the poor souls who aren't as enlightened as I am. I really used to think I was better than you. Much better than you.

Now I'm only a little better than you. I'm only on a footstool and looking at your gray roots. You should try some henna. That's what the hippies use.

Sure, I use regular hair dye but only because I have to balance out my lifestyle. I can't be crunchy all the time. We're not rich enough for that. Only rich people can afford a completely green home where they sit on locally-made furniture comprised of renewable resources, munching on organic pumpkin seed cereal in cane-sugar-sweetened soy milk before they get into their electric cars and carpool to work.

When I win the lottery that will be me. But for now I'm what I like to call "In-Between Green".

In-Between Green isn't so bad. It's the best of both worlds, really. We get to feel good about bringing our own bags to the grocery store (incidentally they're almost all made in China, which has by far some of the lowest environmental standards in manufacturing. My gift of guilt to all of you who think you're so amazing for buying those bags. You're welcome.) We get to pat ourselves on the back for recycling (which is a process that takes up a lot of non-renewable energy in many cases). We feel proud when we shop regularly at second-hand stores for clothes (made of pesticide-laden cotton and toxic dyes and quite often sewn by children. How cute.). And yet we can still enjoy a cup o' java in a disposable cup because, hey, we can't be perfect all the time.

In-Between Green. It's a wonderful, denial-filled state of being. Try it sometime.

Anyway, my crunchiness was sparked by the wonderful Stay-at-Home-Mayhem reader Amy's idea to see a chiropractor for Spawnling's never-ending ear infections. A chiropractor? For ear infections? Really? Is Amy on crack, I wondered? I had to find out (about the chiropractor; Amy can do whatever she likes as long as she keeps making good suggestions. Thanks, Amy!)

I was also fortunate enough to know a chiropractor. A wonderful one who happens to have a toddler Spawnling's age and who also reads my blog occasionally. Sadly, she doesn't live nearby (a shame, as we could share many chai lattes together). She did, however, suggest some chiropractors in the Ottawa area. I picked one. We went. She's amazing. I'm thrilled!

I've always said that I'm an ignorant person when it comes to most things. I know about children. I know about breastfeeding. I know about addiction. I know that singing along to Justin Timberlake songs while blogging gets on my husband's nerves just enough that he'd like to say something but he doesn't, and that this means he either loves me a great deal or he's afraid of me. Either way it's loads of fun and I'm doing it right now.

I honestly thought chiropractors only helped when your back was sore. Get hit by a car? Chiropractor. Fall off your four-wheeler because you wanted to show off to your drunken hillbilly friends? Chiropractor, ya'll. Fall while trying to kick a soccer ball like the girls in Bend it Like Beckham because you hoped to look as good as Keira Knightley? You're following me now.

I honestly had no idea that back and neck experts could help with ears. My chiropractor friend had to basically draw me a diagram in a Facebook message so I could connect the anatomic dots. When it dawned on me it seemed so... simple. Why hadn't I been told about this wonderful alternative to lengthly rounds of antibiotics sooner? Had I been living under a rock? Nay, I had been living under dirty laundry, backpacks and half-eaten dinners. At-home mothers are not privy to water cooler talk which could contain information such as how the marketing manager's daughter is seeing a chiropractor for her ear infections. We are privy to animal rescues on Go Diego Go and whatever Maury guests have to say about not being the father and just maybe whatever information can be gleamed from 10 seconds on a website that is NOT Nick Jr.

I forgive me. Ignorance has been rather blissful.

Now that the Spawn is getting "adjusted" twice weekly (the nearly frightful term used to describe a very gentle manipulation of his neck vertebrae and muscles) we're also reducing dairy and sugar in his diet and in ours, too. It's supposed to help boost immunity. More importantly, I'm down three pounds. I've all but given up peanut M&Ms. I am, however, madly in love with brownies. Dairy-free brownies. Sadly not sugar-free brownies. But I'm down three pounds. Let's keep our focus on that important fact and not on brownies.

We're all on probiotics. We're all eating more vegetables. I'm drinking mostly organic, fair-traded coffee. Farmers everywhere are celebrating me.

I will continue shave my legs and arm pits, however. In-Between Crunchy allows me certain priviledges. Besides, if I ever meet and begin to make out with JT, I would like him to bypass the cellulite because he's too busy enjoying my smooth legs.

Witness to a Crime

I seem to be posting about once per week these days and have been told off for doing so. Today it was mentioned that I do not blog enough for Jobthingy's liking. I apologize Job with Thingy, and will write more for you more often.

It's hard being so loved.

She would like me to talk about The Great Hose Incident of 2006, but I'm apparently too technically inept to add the picture she sent me to post with it. I will have to wait until my husband the geek can make me feel stupid by uploading it in under 30 seconds. It will happen and I will feel stupid. Then I will eat more brownies and I will feel fat, too. But the important thing is that the picture will be uploaded. Setting my eye on the prize makes any inevitable brownie-downing seem trivial.

I do have a traumatic story to tell, however. A tale of shock and awe.

I went to Tim Hortons this evening to stock up on caffeine for my solo parenting night. Geekster was going out to shred some licks with his bass-playing co-worker. Some guy jamming stuff that I am thrilled is not taking place here. Said co-worker has grown children who are no longer at home, thus nobody to wake up if they decide to crank up the amps. In 20 minutes' time I get to have a quiet house with no gremlins trailing messes behind them or demanding food or drinks or boobies (only one demands boobies, just so we're clear).

Anyway, while I was at the counter waiting for my coffee, a woman came in. A very petite woman. Probably 95lbs at most. She told me she was getting coffee for her and her husband in the form of a complaint. "Take your time. I'm in no rush," she said. "If he wanted coffee that fast he could have gotten in the car himself!"

Of course I know that's a false statement: I send my husband out to get coffee all the time and that does not diminish my want of that coffee. It just means I'm lazy.

She's obviously a regular, because they knew her order before she even said it. "Eight sugars, right?"

... I'm sorry, but I must have heard wrong. There's no way...

"Yes, two coffees each with eight sugars. Thanks."

Oh. My. Freaking. God.

I personally witnessed a sin. I'm not a Christian, but if I was I'd fight for an 11th commandment:

Thou shall not defile thine coffee with enough sugar to put thee into insulin shock.

You shouldn't put sugar in coffee at all. It's wrong and it's disgusting. But I'm still accepting of people who do it. I still allow them to be my friends. I'm open-minded enough to know that not everyone has my good sense and excellent taste. But eight sugars? EIGHT?!

Lady, that's not coffee. That's coffee-flavoured icing. What do you do with it? do you take it home and spread it on cupcakes? How do you get any coffee in that cup? How are you 95 pounds? Is this what you consider to be a fat-free drink? I mean, you're right, but damn.

Damn.

I'm mortified at this abomination of my favourite drink. Mortified.

I don't know how I'm going to sleep tonight.