My husband, The Captain, and I had a bet. I lost.
I must preface this by saying I knew I was going to lose. I agreed to the bet on the undeniable fact that I was going to lose. Heck, I actually wanted to lose. But I made the bet anyway.
It was: whoever has the most shoes must buy a Keurig.
Going into this, I was aware of my not-so-small
obsession collection of shoes. I am not a shoe crazed maniac or anything (unless I am in DSW with a time limit), but I like shoes. They always fit. They always look good. They are amazing.
Even this mug needs a Keurig.
But, I digress. I wanted a Keurig. Badly. Since our visit to my dad’s home in Houston this past spring, the Keurig was on my mind. It was so easy to use, and there are oh-so-many flavors to pick from. It was like a home Starbucks where pajamas and bed-head hair were welcomed with open arms and good coffee creamer. The Keurig was Heaven in a coffee maker. I had to have one.
Summer approached quickly, and I couldn’t justify to The Captain why I needed to drop some cash on the Keurig. Here is a sample of one of our little “discussions” on the topic:
“I really want a Keurig.”
“We have a coffee maker. We don’t need a Keurig. Plus, we are going on some vacations this summer,” he said.
“I really want a Keurig.”
“We don’t need a Keurig. Stop it with the Keurig already. Geez,” he stated, adding a classic eye roll for effect.
“I really, really want a Keurig.” By this time, The Captain has left the building (or room if I must get technical).
So, I put on my thinking cap. “I am going to get that Keurig if it is the last thing I do before the school year ends.” And then I laughed. Loud enough to sound like a complete maniac. Game on, Captain, game on.
A few weeks later, after setting around hints like leaving the computer on pages advertising the Keurig and posting Keurig sale flyers on the family bulletin board, I came up with the ultimate plan. “I’ll get you, my Keurig, and your little K-cups, too!”
The Captain’s shoes before the bet.
The Captain was standing in the kitchen (he really likes it there, but that is another post for another day), and I began tossing jibes at him.
“You know, for a guy, you really have a massive amount of shoes.”
“No I don’t. You have tons of shoes,” he said as he began concentrating on loading the dishwasher perfectly.
“I think you have more shoes than I do. Seriously. When was the last time you counted your shoes?”
“What are you getting at? I don’t have more shoes than you do. No one but your mother has more shoes than you do,” he said.
“I think you do. Let’s bet on it,” I stated innocently as my plan was unfolding brilliantly!
“OK. What do we win if we have the fewest shoes?” he asked. Dang, I thought, this was way too easy.
“The loser buys a Keurig,” I replied trying to stop my pinkie finger from touching my lip a la Dr. Evil.
“You’re on,” he said, “but there are some stipulations.”
Ugh. I thought. He is on to me.
“OK. Spill,” I said, waiting for my plan to evaporate.
“All shoes count. Even those we don’t wear, OK?” he said, looking to me as if I was going to challenge his little rules.
“Perfect,” I said with a grin spread from cheek to cheek knowing full well the outcome of this bet.
And, as I said, I lost. My final shoe count was 126 (not including the shoes my mother had dropped off that were hiding in the trunk of my car). His was 62, although I seem to recall that his was more like 82, but I won’t get technical today.
Home, sweet Keurig.
Surprisingly enough, we are both very much enjoying the Keurig. My plan worked amazingly well. Next time, I am going to go for something bigger. A new TV perhaps. Wahhahahaha!