When you grow up and own a house you will discover that houses, like weblogs, hairstyles, pets, and biceps, require maintenance. Often, this maintenance comes in the form of a large man who likes to bowl arriving at your home at 7:30 in the morning to resurface your floors. Assuming you are female and have issued social-class-indicators such as “hey man” and “shit it’s early,” you will be pounded companionably on the back and asked for coffee.
Herein lies a difficulty. In the hope of being judged as a comrade and therefore avoiding the spurious charges and bill-padding that are the norm for your ivy-covered neighborhood, you have opened yourself up to requests for coffee. However, all of this back-thumping and dude-ing has been a ruse. You are really a cuisinart-owning rhododendron-tending yuppie who only drinks tea.
Tea. You can’t offer this man tea. If you offer him tea, you might as well come down the stairs in a ballgown carrying a Persian cat. My god, your very house is at stake. He could use the cheap leveling compound if he thinks you don’t know any better. You have to find coffee.
Ohthankgod. You have coffee. Sort of. In the back of the cupboard is some instant that you keep for when your parents visit. Maybe he won’t notice. You make it extra strong and dump in a bunch of sugar to mask the taste. He calls you sweetie and says thanks. Sweetie? Shit. Now the girl thing is going to kick you in the ass. He’s probably down there screwing up the water/concrete ratio right now.