Most couples have little endearing pet names for each other: Sweetie. Honey. Snookums. My husband calls me “Two Sips.” This comes from my tendency to make myself a cup of coffee, take two sips, and then absentmindedly leave the cup somewhere in the house.
Most couples have little endearing pet names for each other: Sweetie. Honey. Snookums. My husband calls me “Two Sips.”
Isn’t that romantic?
This comes from my tendency to make myself a cup of coffee, take two sips, and then absentmindedly leave the cup somewhere in the house.
“Hey, Two Sips,” he will say, entering the kitchen with an armful of old coffee mugs. “I collected your stash.” I will glower at him, snatch the cups and then surreptitiously check to see if any of them are still drinkable.
I like to think that this is one of my more charming habits. But according to my husband, it is simply gross. On occasion, a forgotten coffee cup will escape his roving eye and then the remaining coffee will start to resemble a science experiment gone horribly wrong. This is usually the time when my husband will find the cup and then wave it disgustedly under my nose complaining that we are not zoned to grow toxic substances in our house.
Although I have to admit my guilt in this matter, he is not without his faults either. For every half-filled cup of coffee I leave around the house, he matches me in shoes.
“Hey, honey, have you seen my boots?” he will ask.
“They are in the dining room,” I will answer without even looking up.
“Hey, honey, have you seen my black sneakers?” he will ask another day.
“They are in the office,” I respond.
“My brown shoes?”
“In the family room.”
Eventually we will locate every pair of shoes in a different room. I have thought about giving him a nickname, like Shoeless Joe, or Sock-it-to-Me, but they just don’t have the same ring as Two Sips, and besides, his lost shoes are usually a foot or so away from one of my abandoned coffee cups, so I keep my mouth shut.
Things went along like this for a while. Then one day, our worlds collided.
In one of my momentary fits of cleanliness, I walked around the house and collected all of my unfinished coffee cups myself. As I headed back to the kitchen, the dog got under my feet and I went sprawling, hurling cold coffee across the floor. Unfortunately, one of my husband’s lost pair of shoes was tucked under the dining room table, and as the coffee went flying, it made a direct hit with my husband’s shoes.
While the dog took care of cleaning up most of the mess, I rescued my husband’s shoes and tried to figure out how to get them de-coffeefied. I toweled off the coffee, blotted up the liquid inside the shoe, and then shined them up with a buffing cloth. As I stood back and admired my work, I thought that they actually looked better than before and my husband probably wouldn’t even notice that the shoes had been harmed in any way.
Except for the fact that they smelled like hazlenut.
For more Lost in Suburbia, visit Tracy’s blog at www.lostinsuburbia.net.