I have measured out my life with instant coffee packets

I apologize to Frankie Muniz, but the following post is PG 13.

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Each morning I rise to the same rousing routine, which, sadly to say, centers around a harrowing addiction I like to call the beverage breakfast. I peel off my limited edition “Caroline in the City” comforter, walk over to Scott’s bed, softly kiss his forehead, make sure he’s bundled up tight in his bounty of blankets, and then make fast for the faucet. I turn the tap and am met with a friendly flow that’s home to a microscopic wonderland. Now granted, there are some times when I start to think that yeah, my intestines have had it way too good for way too long. That maybe I should joust them off their high horse and lap up a bit of this thriving ecosystem. But in the end, as in all situations, I find my mind wondering to that aquatic epic written and directed by Kevin Costner, and I realize that water has already hurt enough people. So I fill my water cooker to a strange line that reads “0.5L” and boil the contents.

Then, as all of those well meaning pathogens, which could have met a perfectly happy end living it up in some delightful Petri dish, are fatally scorched, I try also to put to death all of my many impossible longings. Most notably would be the desire for a more expansive roster of East Asian imports.

However, I am constantly surprised by those enticing entities that the U.S. has chosen to send to other side of the world. These are the true American ambassadors, and you won’t find them stamping visas at any embassy, but rather, lining the shelves of the many markets that situate themselves throughout the city. In this case, I have had to forgo my fondness of a fresh brew from that wonderful well, known as the coffee maker, and instead, resign myself to mixing this newly liberated liquid with a packet of instant powder. I’m not sure why the former has never really caught on here. Like any good American complaint though, this can be directed at the French and their freedom press, which is strangely popular here.

Most Americans, from my experience, don’t usually flock to instant mix, but for whatever reason, it reigns as the import of choice. This cultural divide of preference doesn’t end there though, but sometimes expands as one moves from the field of consumable commodities to those of a more expressive nature.

Last week, on Thanksgiving in fact, a first year student approached my desk in the following inquisitive fashion. She held out a legal pad with the phrase “long ass games” neatly written on it in perfect penmanship. She asked me what it meant and I had no answer. I gave “ass” the semantic benefit of the doubt, figuring that this phrase must be drawing on some strange outdated meaning. In turn, I was clueless and told her as such. However, she still wasn’t satisfied, even when I gave her the standard response that typically results from being backed into a linguistic corner. “I’m sorry, it must be some term not used in American English.”

“No, that can’t be. I read it in an American novel.” She crumbled my only defense. I wasn’t going to get off that easy.

“What novel?” I asked, expecting to hear the name of some classic American text that has long regaled its readers with its tales of heroic Michael Landon-esque pioneers. I figured the phrase alluded to some type of contest in which children gathered around the tallest donkey and attempted to be the first to mount the creature.

I was a bit naïve.

She removed a piece of paper from a notebook she was carrying and pointed to a set of underlined words etched near the top of the page. “How Stella Got Her Groove Back.” I suddenly felt sorry for Tennessee Williams and any other author whose fictional Stella had just been internationally dethroned by this new protagonist, doing all that she could to get her “groove” back.

At this point I had a better idea of what this fragment in question might mean. I told her that, in American slang, sometimes “ass” is placed after an adjective to amplify its meaning. Then, just so I would be able to sleep at night, I advised her never to use this grammatical device in the classroom.

In light of all this, you have to give T.S. Eliot the nod. I think he summed it up pretty well when he wrote…..

“In the room the women come and go
Talking of Tony Orlando.”