Advertisements

Blog Archives

Okay Cups – The Truth About Your Beloved Keurig

The Keurig. It’s been around for a while now. It began as an idea in 1995 and has been in stores since at least 2010. This popular apparatus is from the same era as the iPhone 4, so why does it seem like people just discovered them all of the sudden ? Admittedly, I didn’t do enough research to find out the exact date it went to market, because I am lazy. This can only mean one thing: I obviously own Keurig.

STOP: Speaking of lazy, if you are too lazy to read this post, you can actually watch it instead! Click here.

I heard about this sassy machine at some point in fall 2013 from several different people. Oddly, those people fell into a precise target market. Over 30, married, smokers. Maybe that was a coincidence, but if you’re a 30 year old married smoker, I bet you’d punt a penguin to have a Donut Shop or Dark Roast after reading this post.

keurig

Becca shows the expression of both excitement and skepticism.

The Keurig has brought us to believe that brewing a pot of coffee is like rolling your own cigarettes. One convenience of the machine is that you don’t really have to clean it, unless of course your cat throws up on it. Which is pretty incredible. The self cleaning mechanism, not the cat puke. I wish they made cats that self clean their own puke.

Oh yes, we were talking about coffee. And cigarettes. And the Keurig. It seems like it has gotten to the point that people are as obsessed with their K-cups as they are with Starbucks, Miley Cyrus, memes, or even Miley Cyrus memes about Starbucks. Here is how to tell if you are one of those people (which for the record, I am not).

1. Since your mother-in-law gifted you your Keurig for Christmas, you have updated your stand-by resume with the added qualification of Barista.

2. You are a heterosexual man who is more excited over mention of K-cups than C-cups.

3. The largest brew setting is a crushing disappointment in your opinion.

4. You are not even slightly terrified of the massive needle used to pierce your K-cup, bleeding its contents into your greedy mug. In fact, you find it excitingly sadistic.

5. An annoying amount of your kitchen counter top space is bombarded with accessories like this:

k-cup holder

Keurigs really are great, I get it. Like I said, I have and use one of my own. Sure, it makes me look suave when I offer customized coffee at the end of all the fancy dinner parties I don’t have, but I still love-hate it for so many reasons:

1. The largest brew setting is a crushing disappointment, even for the non obsessed. But I guess that is what happens when the inventor himself had caffeine poisoning during its making. Pansy.

2. Inserting a K-Cup is like feeding a Piraña.

3. The Starbucks K-cups are still not as good as actual Starbucks. But that’s okay, I can only afford to buy the Great Value K-cups anyway.

4. Speaking of the K-cups, where the hell are the Black Tar roasts? I like a little coffee with my water please.

5. Fuck you “add water” light. Who has time to fill a water reservoir anymore? Give me a coffee maker that connects directly to my water line and creates a perpetual coffee-fall, and then we will talk.

What do you think about these java beasts? Love them? Hate them? Love and hate them? Let’s talk about it.

becca cord signature

Advertisements

Ordinary Boston

I am not one to let news tragedies affect me and certainly not the ridiculous media coverage that accompanies them, but the Boston Marathon bombing really jarred me. I’ve never felt such hopelessness in humanity. I cried on and off the whole day. What you are about to read is a re-post from almost a year ago about my first experience with traveling out of the south as an adult. It’s about the city of Boston as a place that holds special importance to me. It is a place where I conquered multiple fears at once, where I ejected myself from my comfort zone, and where I took risks. It is just such a stunning place, and in light of recent events, I just want to share this piece again. Thanks for reading. 

Boston Copley

The Stoop

I attempt frugality. As well, I pride myself in my research abilities (most of the time). So, when looking for a place to stay in Boston, I luckily found a steal of a crash pad. The place my friend Ellen and I stayed was The Copley House in the Back Bay area of Boston. After my friend in the area convinced me that it was in a safe area and conveniently located in the center of the attractions, I eagerly made a booking.

Instead of a full-blown generic hotel, each room they offered was an individual and unique apartment. After checking in to the main office on Newton St., we drove to our unit around the corner on a different street. Key in hand, we pulled up and grabbed our bags out of the bed of the truck. As I used my key to turn the old rim dead bolt, I felt like I was in a movie scene yet again. You know, the one where I am a successful full-time writer entering her humble city dwelling.

I almost feel like I am cheating readers by making such a lackluster claim, but the apartment we shacked up in was one of my favorite parts of the trip. I am so glad we did not opt for a cookie cutter corporate hotel. Not only would we have spent a fortune, leaving us little money for gorging Lobster and drowning ourselves in Irish car bombs, but the whole experience would have been completely different; think way less traditional character and a lot more generic plastic key card. Read the rest of this entry

10 Things You Should Know About Your First “Real” Job

letter opener

Not just some strange office supply guillotine

1. Go ahead and come to terms with the fact that after the initial month or so of getting used to your new schedule, you may never sleep past 8:00 again.  Also, your hang-overs just automatically went from a 3 to a 10 on the I’m-never-drinking-again scale, so be prepared.

2. You can be twenty minutes early every day to work, and no one will notice, but the one day you are late will live in infamy.

3. The picture up there? That is a letter opener. The only one I saw before looked like a dagger out of a scene from The Princess Bride.

princess bride dagger

4. Do not, under any circumstances, disclose information regarding your personal life unless you are one hundred percent ok with the entire office knowing about it. Your “work wife/husband” will betray you and  you won’t get half of his/her paycheck in the divorce. My advice is: be so vague that you are borderline vogue.

5. You are young, so if you have a significant other, you are facing two options. At some point, someone will inquire about your relationship status. If you claim single, people will either perpetually ask you how your weekend was with that insinuating eyebrow lift, or they will try to set you up with anyone with a pulse. This is usually accompanied by the same look one gives an orphan puppy. In the case that you do admit to a taken status, everyone will want to know your significant other’s entire pedigree. Cue advice you didn’t ask for.

6. No one is going to remind to take your vacation days. No one will nag you to join in on the company insurance plan. No one will automatically sign you up for that 401K plan promised to you. You have to keep up with making sure these things get put in to action.

7. The phrase “just kidding,” or “you know not to take it seriously,” or any such equivalent is simply a cop-out for people to feel like they aren’t really actually sexually harassing you.

8. You can’t just sit anywhere at the Christmas party brunch. If you are the newest member to ABC Inc., you sit last. Same goes with parking. On any day.

9. Never pay for coffee. My love affair with Starbucks is strong too, but for $4 a day, you mind as well be a pack a day smoker. Minus the whole cancer thing.

10. Be aware of the sneaky Bcc (blind carbon copy) in e-mails. If you are anything like me, you didn’t even know what the plain cc meant let alone one with sight issues. Bcc is a way of attaching multiple recipients to an e-mail without those recipients being able to see everyone attached. So, if Suzie isn’t getting her part of a project done, and I send her an e-mail addressing the problem with a Bcc to our supervisor, Suzie’s response could either doom or save her all while she has no idea boss woman is watching. Shady? Yes. Does anyone care? No.

becca cord signature

Ordinary Boston

I am not one to let news tragedies affect me and certainly not the ridiculous media coverage that accompanies them, but the Boston Marathon bombing really jarred me. I’ve never felt such hopelessness in humanity and for many reasons. I think I cried on and off the whole day. What you are about to read is a re-post from almost a year ago about my first experience with traveling out of the south as an adult. It’s about the city of Boston as a place that holds special importance to me. It is a place where I conquered multiple fears at once, where I ejected myself from my comfort zone, and where I took risks. It is just such a stunning place, and in light of recent events, I just want to share this piece again. Thanks for reading. 

Boston Copley

The Stoop

I attempt frugality. As well, I pride myself in my research abilities (most of the time). So, when looking for a place to stay in Boston, I luckily found a steal of a crash pad. The place we stayed was The Copley House in the Back Bay area of Boston. After my friend, convinced me it was in a safe area and conveniently located in the center of the attractions, I eagerly made a booking.

Instead of a full-blown generic hotel, each room they offered was an individual and unique apartment. After checking in to the main office on Newton St., we drove to our unit around the corner on a different street. Key in hand, we pulled up and grabbed our bags out of the bed of the truck. As I used my key to turn the old rim dead bolt, I felt like I was in a movie scene yet again. You know, one where I am Carrie Bradshaw the successful/chic writer entering her New York Boston apartment. I hate that I encompass that girly cliché, but alas, it is my chronic fantasy. And I am, in fact, a girl.

I almost feel like I am cheating readers by making such a lackluster claim, but the apartment we shacked up in was one of my favorite parts of the trip.I am so glad we did not opt for a Ramada Inn or some other cookie cutter corporate hotel. Not only would we have spent a fortune, leaving us little money for gorging Lobster and drowning ourselves in Irish car bombs, but the whole experience would have been completely different. Think way less traditional character and a lot more generic plastic key card.

We had the maximum amount of privacy. Hell, we barely even ran into any other guests staying in our building. We were tourists who didn’t have to look like tourists (at least until we spoke), and after a day of settling in we started to actually feel like we blended in. Before we knew it, we were eating clam “chowda” and drinking our pre-dinner cocktails at a tiny wooden dinner table by the window of our apartment that overlooked the street.

I particularly enjoyed morning coffee compliments of Dunkin’ Donuts (careful, they are hard to find if you don’t walk more than a foot). I’d enjoy my joe on The Stoop where I could take in the air and watch the Bostonians pass by and ignore me. I imagined what it would be like to be one of them. I assumed by the way most of them walked with such purpose and disconnect to anything other than their own path, that they grew up there. They went to school there and found their people there. City veterans, all of them. The Stoop was where I found excitement in their mundane.

I watched them briskly zip by in suits or saunter along walking their dogs, all while paying no attention to anything other than the gaps hiding in the brick sidewalk. At first, the detached demeanor of the people in the city had me disgruntled. For example, after a man bumped in to me in an old clothing boutique, I reflexively exclaimed, “Oh, I am so sorry!” as if it was my fault. Silence. I was invisible. This sort of thing just doesn’t occur in the South.

Like I said, at first this disconnect was unnerving, but the more I became immersed in the crowd, the flow of the city, and the collective feel of Boston, I began to enjoy their way. No one cares what you are doing, where you are walking, how you are walking, what you are wearing, or why you are even there. Everyone seemed dedicated to their own world and possessed no interest in invading another’s. It was a refreshing change from the over friendly, intrusive way of Southerners. The scope of the existing cultural polarity had really hit me, and it was just what I so desperately needed. It was more than lack of obligatory small talk. It was full opposition.

I could ramble on and on about the beautiful architecture of the old buildings and the rich historical scenery of Boston. Relishing in our field seats at Fenway Park was also well worth putting in to words. I could even elaborate on how wonderful the harbor is in person or the overwhelming beauty of viewing such a vast city from atop the Prudential Center, but I won’t. I wont, because sitting on that stoop at ground level with all of ordinary Boston surrounding me was, for me, more breath-taking than all of the main attractions. Just like the perfect air, I couldn’t inhale enough of ordinary Boston.

becca cord signature

The Little Things

Flowers in a Purple vase

I make an effort to buy two different flower arrangements (the cheap ones that are usually ignored but are still just as pretty) once every week or two for each of my vases. I starting doing this when I heard or read somewhere that it can help brighten your mood. I’ve kept doing it ever since, so I guess it works. These flowers were my favorite of the two I picked up yesterday. I didn’t even catch what the name of these were, and I don’t even care. Lie! If you have an eye for this sort of thing , speak up… learn me something. The point is, when I wake up with this little bit of life staring me in the face and give them a whiff, I am suddenly able to hone in on my optimistic side. It’s the little positive things… Do them because you can.

coffee break

Before my horticultural hunt Sunday morning, I slept in until my eyes would stay sealed no more. That’s when I made a grocery list (laughing at myself later for forgetting trash bags). So, while my trash would be chilling in the nude shortly due to my lackluster list making skills, I did manage to grab something not on my grocery list (naturally). Coffee. I have been the obviously not so proud owner of a single cup coffee brewer since I moved away from home six years ago. It has never been used. Quite sadly, not once. Read the rest of this entry

%d bloggers like this: