Last night I was introduced to the Calimocho. Perhaps you know what it is, maybe you know it by another name. Whatever the case, if you know the Calimocho, you know it simply as one half red wine, one half Coca-Cola. Now I know what you're thinking, either "ewww" or perhaps you just threw up a bit in your mouth thinking about it. But let me tell you this much; until you've actually put a cup of this sweet nectar to your lips, you will never know how good it is. It could be that the greatest part about the calimocho is that there are an almost limitless number of flavor combinations that you could make given the near limitless types of red wines that exist and the wide selection of cola products and flavors out there.
When served with ice, the calimocho combines the cold refreshment of an iced soft drink with the rich boldness of a dark red wine. And with recent summer days creeping a little too close to triple digits for comfort, a nice tall calimocho has been a great defense in combating the heat!
Tomorrow Mourning.
Tomorrow will be the morning. I tell myself that tomorrow will be the day I wake up early, brew a nice mug of coffee, open up a blank page in Word, and with a sense of purpose and a clarity of mind, write. For something like an hour even. But with my head on my pillow, sinking into my memory foam mattress topper like a dead vampire being swallowed by the earth, I already know how tomorrow will unfold.
My alarm will sound, I will press snooze. I will do this at least three times until I finally disable the alarm clock altogether. I will then wake up several hours later on my own around eleven A.M. with a feeling of guilt and dread. I will throw the sheets off of me and sit on the edge of my bed for a moment, my forearms on the tops of my knees. I will probably cough a few times and contemplate my health. I will carry myself awkwardly to my door and open it, peering down the hallway looking for signs of life. Listening for the TV in the family room, the clashes of dishes from the kitchen, or the running of water of a shower or a flushed toilet. There will be none of these sounds and I will be convinced that the house is empty, my roommates at their respective jobs earning respectable pay.
I will scratch myself as I yawn into the mirror of the bathroom, trying to recognize what I am looking at. Walking out of the bathroom I will stretch by putting my elbows above my head and my hands—clenched like fists and shaking slightly—behind my head, reaching for the middle of my back. I will walk barefoot in my underwear and wrinkled shirt to the kitchen, put the kettle on and attempt to decide which type of coffee might best suit my mood, the weather, the season, the day, or whatever. I will pretend for a moment that my choice will make a difference while knowing in the back of my mind that I am full of shit, but I will enjoy the ritual of the lie.
I will plunge the press after the appropriate amount of time has passed, I will pour myself a cup, I will make my way back to my computer with the mug of hot coffee close to my face. I will open the computer, I will check my email, my facebook, my spam, my advertisements, my checking account, my latest products, my life improvements, my recent news, my breaking developments, my political biases, my thoughts, my comments, and my opinions. I will note the time and consider how so many hours have passed so discretely. I will shower and get ready for work and leave early so I can sit in my car on the freeway. I will watch the other people in their cars and ponder their situations. I will work my shift, I will count my tips, I will wish it was more but I will be happy I can go home and get back to my life. I will take pride in the idea that I enjoy life’s little things such as a drive home.
I will arrive home and kick off my shoes, I will cook a humble meal and watch some TV. I will get into bed with a book; I will read three pages of the book. And as I start to drift into sleep, I will think about how I have been meaning to write for months and I will tell myself I will do it tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the morning.
My alarm will sound, I will press snooze. I will do this at least three times until I finally disable the alarm clock altogether. I will then wake up several hours later on my own around eleven A.M. with a feeling of guilt and dread. I will throw the sheets off of me and sit on the edge of my bed for a moment, my forearms on the tops of my knees. I will probably cough a few times and contemplate my health. I will carry myself awkwardly to my door and open it, peering down the hallway looking for signs of life. Listening for the TV in the family room, the clashes of dishes from the kitchen, or the running of water of a shower or a flushed toilet. There will be none of these sounds and I will be convinced that the house is empty, my roommates at their respective jobs earning respectable pay.
I will scratch myself as I yawn into the mirror of the bathroom, trying to recognize what I am looking at. Walking out of the bathroom I will stretch by putting my elbows above my head and my hands—clenched like fists and shaking slightly—behind my head, reaching for the middle of my back. I will walk barefoot in my underwear and wrinkled shirt to the kitchen, put the kettle on and attempt to decide which type of coffee might best suit my mood, the weather, the season, the day, or whatever. I will pretend for a moment that my choice will make a difference while knowing in the back of my mind that I am full of shit, but I will enjoy the ritual of the lie.
I will plunge the press after the appropriate amount of time has passed, I will pour myself a cup, I will make my way back to my computer with the mug of hot coffee close to my face. I will open the computer, I will check my email, my facebook, my spam, my advertisements, my checking account, my latest products, my life improvements, my recent news, my breaking developments, my political biases, my thoughts, my comments, and my opinions. I will note the time and consider how so many hours have passed so discretely. I will shower and get ready for work and leave early so I can sit in my car on the freeway. I will watch the other people in their cars and ponder their situations. I will work my shift, I will count my tips, I will wish it was more but I will be happy I can go home and get back to my life. I will take pride in the idea that I enjoy life’s little things such as a drive home.
I will arrive home and kick off my shoes, I will cook a humble meal and watch some TV. I will get into bed with a book; I will read three pages of the book. And as I start to drift into sleep, I will think about how I have been meaning to write for months and I will tell myself I will do it tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the morning.
