Tuesday, September 6, 2011

Ode on a Coffee Urn

Ode on a Coffe Urn
By Marianne the Chicago Bogger

Thou still unravished pot of Starbucks bean
Thou foster child of cocoa and green tea
Target bought brewer with brown stains to bear
Set each morning to rendezvous with me.

With dried crust set sweetly around your rim
In need of sayers to determine our fate
You prayed I would simply put you through the washer
But my passion has found your chance too late.

I rinse it out each morning.  And afternoon.  And evening.  I like coffee.

Holy crap, trying to match Keats' meter and rhyme just took all the fun out of expressing my immortal love for that first morning cup.  Because with a 6 am wake-up time throughout the remainder of the school year, I am going to be worshipping the stuff.

The Chicago Public School year begins!!!

So here's what we got:

  • Danny dropped off at bus stop for selective enrollment school: crack o' dawn
  • Jack picked up by stiff uncle still recovering from roof fall during a fire: slightly after crack o' dawn
  • Joey picked up by big yellow school bus: your guess is as good as mine
A few short hours later (and if Joey's big yellow school bus can find us), I reclaim Daniel, Jack and whatever the last one's name is.  There's some kind of special order that I'm supposed to perform this all in, but I just can't keep it straight right now.

Oh, but there's more...

Without a full understanding of how many actual hours I have to work with, I managed to inject daily doses of study in the areas of  swimming, chess, basketball, hockey, violin, and piano.

I know I have no right to complain.  I did it all to myself.  This is going to suck. Yet even armed with that knowledge, I'm still researching a day that can work for us to fit in the White Sox baseball training program. 

If anyone's listening, can you please call Dr. Drew?

In the meantime, I'll make coffee.


  1. Greta starts next week and by the time I drop her off at preschool, I will have been up for three hours with nothing to show for it (well except three kids have hopefully made their way to school... I guess I have no proof if the older two make it). But all in a day's work right??

    And if you call Dr. Drew, please give him my number. Not like I would "ever" need therapy (insert laugh here) but just so I can have a nice look. There is something I love about his gray hair and ties, and when he swears at Steven Adler.... dreamy!!

    Enjoy your quiet today!!

  2. Cool-you wrote 'bogger'
    I like that-it makes you sound like a grumpy, coffee addicted troll

  3. Robyn - you're spot on with the three hour timeframe - that's exactly how long it took from the time I woke up until the last one was out. Dr. Drew is my boyfriend.

    Gweenbrick - I was about to fix that, but decided to leave it up just for you. Signed, The Bogger Troll (:

  4. No lie. I read this post this am. I put the water and the beans in the pot and turned it on. Nothing happened. It was dead. Dead! God hasn't forgiven me for taunting you about my awesome school bus service. I repent. I REPENT!



  5. Meg - The Lord forgives you. Go in peace and sin no more.


    Thou ev'r ravishing bride of wakefulness,
    Thou third shift nurse of insomnia and procrastination,
    Silver centurion, who canst thus express
    A rousing elixir more sweetly than your station:
    What caffeine-fring'd promise tempts about thy shape
    Of overdrive and overtime, overwrought,
    In Hades or the toil of Ev'ryday?
    What gods of men make thee! Your Wonderwomen rock!
    What hot pursuit? What impossible due date?
    What bells and whistles? What fine print pay to play?

    Heard morning people are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter; therefore, ye percolater, perk on;
    Not to the sunrise ear, but, more endear'd,
    Perk to the spirit ditties of no REM:
    Frazzled moms, deep in the weeds, thou canst not leave
    Thy sigh, nor ever can to-do lists end;
    Tired daddies, never, never canst thou rest,
    Though never near the goal yet, do not ease;
    You cannot fade, though thou art'nt at thy best,
    For ever wilt thou rise, Blue Mountain ascend!

    Ah, happy, happy bed! that cannot shed
    Your fatigue, nor ever bid the work bon nuit;
    Unhappy night owls, wearied,
    For ever java jiving ennui;
    Chock Full o' Nuts! Can do with a bottomless cup!
    For ever to the brim to be enjoy'd,
    For ever steaming ahead, forever young;
    All breathing human resource booting up,
    That leaves a spirit depleted but deployed,
    Carpal tunnel, sciatica rump

    Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
    To what green altar, O capitalist priest,
    Lead'st thou we oxen pulled to all sides,
    And all our neck deep files with paper waste?
    What commute long by subway or ride-share,
    Or office-park with retread conference wares,
    Is empty of folk yet, this pious morn?
    As, little light, the seven-ish sun scant'ly bears
    Will silent be; to not a soul declare
    What magnetism, the steel urn.

    O tip-top shape! Good attitude! with speed
    Of middle management on your mark get set rush,
    With decision tree branches chase ev'ry lead;
    Thou, silent form, dost cheer us on to push
    As doth eternity: Hot Sisyphus!
    When old age shall this generation stall,
    Thou shalt remain, for other on with the shows
    Than ours, a friend to larks, with whom thou calls,
    "Alert is alive, alive alert, go on, fill a thermos
    Our worth we all know, And still we need a cup o' Joe