duck-shaped pain

Caf� Bustelo.

Cuban-style espresso coffee in a brick. Purchased not because of its taste (although it tastes fine), but because of its nifty circa-1930 packaging. But because of it, I started the new year with one more hair on my chest than I had yesterday.

It makes (at least in my espresso maker) the darkest, thickest, angriest coffee I've ever had. I got up this morning, unsuspectingly went through the motions of making coffee and was rewarded at the end with a steaming cup of�hell. Or motor oil. Or something. All the hot water I had could not tamper with the viscosity of Caf� Bustelo.

So it was not the groggy, laid-back kind of day I expected, although I tried my best to make it that way. Ever since I got back, I've been lazing about the house, reading books and catching up in my long-neglected paper journal.

I've written before that I'm not fond of pajamas. Too unflattering. Usually only available in suspect patterns such as plaid or tiny teapots and cookies on a sea of pink. Just all-around wrong. Turns out I just hadn�t met the right ones. I finally found some I liked (solid colors, especially when that solid color is red, will do that to you), bought them, and have been slacking ever since.

It's not often that a piece of clothing can change your entire worldview about working, achieving or even leaving the house. But it happens. I slip these pajamas on and all of a sudden, I feel complete just to spend the day laying around on the couch, reading and consuming vast quantities of tomato soup. These could be dangerous pajamas.

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