A Case of the Blues

Before I explain why I have a case of the blues, I need to give you the back-story.

Christmas 2006. Yep. That's when the back-story begins. For Christmas 2006, the hubs (then just the boyfriend) bought me a French press. (It's important to note that a French press wasn't my only gift for those of you who are thinking, "Wow - what a crappy gift." And for those who love coffee, such as myself, a French press is a splendid gift. Especially when it also comes with a pair of diamond earrings.) So the French press from 2006 lasted until July 2010 when I ever-so-gingerly bumped it on the side of the sink and it shattered. So I bought a new one, which we had for about a week until it shattered on a camping trip. (There has to be a better option for making coffee while camping.) Then I learned that one can purchase a replacement carafe (I suppose carafe-shattering is a relatively common occurrence) and did just that. The replacement carafe arrived via UPS yesterday, and I was glad to see how perfectly it fit into the French press. But then it took a fall out of the cabinet not three hours after it was received and it, too, shattered.

Perhaps this is a message from above that we are no longer French press people. Perhaps we are automatic drip people. Luckily, after the shattering of the second carafe I must have had a hunch that we have evolved into automatic drip people and began researching coffee makers. My Cuisinart Brew Central coffee maker arrived today!

OK, now onto the blues.

When the French press carafe shattered on the kitchen floor yesterday, it prompted a necessary thorough sweeping, vacuuming, and mopping of the kitchen floor. Thus, the rugs we have at the back door and in front of the sink needed to be picked up. The hubs placed the rugs outside, and neither one of us thought to grab them when the floor dried. Of course, there was a torrential thunderstorm last night, so the rugs were drenched.

This morning I took out the recycling and when I returned inside, I noticed that my Crocs were leaving blue footprints on the kitchen floor. I looked outside and noticed that there were dark blue puddles under where the rugs were hung, and I put two and two together and realized the dye from the rugs had bled onto the ground. First, I threw my Crocs in the sink to make sure I didn't track the dye any farther. Then I grabbed the rugs, holding them away from myself as not to stain my clothes, and brought them inside to take to the washing machine. Two steps into the kitchen, I realized that the rugs were still dripping. It looked as if someone was dripping blue food coloring all over the kitchen. I was able to wrap up the rugs in such a way to contain the dripping, and I successfully got them into the washer without staining the carpet.

After turning on the washer, I realized my hands were completely blue. I tried to wash them with soap and water, which proved to be futile. I came upstairs and wiped up the kitchen floor and then went up to the bathroom. I squirted soap on my nail brush and scrubbed. And scrubbed. And scrubbed. And after about five solid minutes of scrubbing, my hands were no longer a dark blue but rather a lighter blue. That was as good as it was going to get.

After an hour of my hands sweating through a Body Pump class at the gym, washing some dishes, and showering, I was able to get the rest of the dye off of my hands. The rugs are now clean and dry, and I ran an empty cycle with bleach through the washer.

Hopefully now that we have a regular coffee maker, these types of things won't happen anymore.