PSA

I clearly remember a few years back when third hand smoke joined the long list of reasons to abstain from tobacco. About a year later, I got a BFP (big fat positive, as in on a pregnancy test for those not familiar with the acronym.) I became concerned about the copy of Under The Dome by Stephen King I had borrowed from the library when my wait list number came up. I'm pretty sure that a previous reader was blowing smoke directly into the pulpy pages, because that's the only explanation for why this book smelled so much like the dive bar I used to go to when I was underage in college. Too stubborn to find something else to read and too paranoid to simply enjoy the book, I donned latex gloves and a face mask favored by those fearful of bird flu or SARS when reading the thriller. The smell of latex still brings back the waves of nausea I associate with the majority of my first trimester.

This PSA, however, is not about tobacco. It's about the third hand effects of another addictive substance, coffee.  I personally am not a coffee imbiber, with the exception of the rare heavily sugared iced coffee from Dunkin Donuts on a hot day. But two of the people closest to me, Jack and Shakira, both have the habit pretty bad.

Smears from filters on the lid of my white trash can. Coffee grounds coating Petal's bottle carousel. Dried droplets spattered on exposed surfaces both probable and improbable, coffee detritus is insidious indeed. Living with the brown gunk is not new to me; I grew up with a mother who frequently left cold, abandoned mugs of the stuff in her children's closets while putting their clothes away. But today the Colombian menace launched a bold attack into previously unmolested territory: my purse.

I suppose it was my fault really. I took Jack's car out yesterday evening (my vehicle has the car seat installed, and we try to ensure that whomever is caring for Petal has the means to transport her if necessary.) When I returned home, I thoughtfully removed the assorted remains of Jack's breakfast from the cup holder.  I shoved the nearly empty coffee cup into the brown paper sack and then jammed the whole thing into my purse. I tossed the mess into the garbage can when I got inside and forgot about it.

Until this morning, when I reached into my purse and noted that my checkbook was covered in brown, sticky stains. And that the little pocket I use for gift certificates was, um, moist. Even my glasses cases smelled weird.

The problem wasn't insurmountable (though I did already have Petal strapped into her car seat.) I dumped out the contents of the purse, rinsed off the essential elements and stuck them in the diaper bag. I put the check that had born the brunt of the assault in the to be shredded pile. And I liberally applied vinegar and water to the lining of the purse (no harsh cleaning chemicals in this house, thankyouverymuch.)

But I couldn't help feeling that as a committed tea drinker, this shouldn't have happened to me. It should have happened to some caffeine fiend jittery and looking for her next fix. I guess this is what I signed on for when I said I Do. Well, my parents have made it work for 38 and a half years and my dad never touches the stuff. I'm sure Jack and I will be able to follow in their brown, gritty footsteps.