Winter 1936, LIFE Magazine*
“You want to cry aloud for your mistakes. But to tell the truth the world doesn’t need any more of that sound.” ~ Mary Oliver
Well, more mellow today. The day began inauspiciously: Our coffee maker died. Just died. No power button, no mellow gurgling, no sweet, sweet smell of the elixir. I was seriously put out. Luckily, I went online to cuisinart.com, found the number, and called customer service. Seems our coffee maker has a three-year limited warranty, and just dying for no reason seems to be covered.
Hooray . . . almost. That particular style, because it is so popular, is on backorder, and they won’t be able to ship it right away. I can live with that given the fact that I am getting my most favorite brewing system ever replaced at no charge. It’s a Cuisinart Coffee-on-Demand, which means that the coffee does not drip into a carafe; instead, it is stored in the double-insulated well until you push the little lever that delivers the tasty brew to your cup. The rest of the coffee remains very fresh until you are ready for more.
The very nice man on the other end of the telephone offered to send me a different model that could be shipped right away, but it was a model with a carafe. I explained ever-so-nicely to him that I am very rough on carafes, having broken at least a dozen of those suckers over the years. I know for a fact, in my heart of hearts, that all coffee carafes have a sweet spot somewhere on one of the curves so that if you happen to tap that precise spot on the bottom of the sink, the entire thing shatters. No more carafes for me.
“If they give you ruled paper, write the other way.” ~ Juan Ramon Jimenez
Anyway, the lack of a fresh, hot cup of coffee threatened to make a very bad day, as did the realization that we do not have enough icicle lights to do the outside of the house. I like blue icicle lights. Blue lights remind me of my father for some reason, so for the past four or so years, we have put up blue outdoor lights. Brett saved the day by stringing plain blue lights along the rooftop.
I sat myself down and told myself to get over it, so I did. Good enough.
Corey’s cold isn’t getting better. In fact, I’m fairly certain that he feels much worse than he is letting on. With any luck, though, it won’t last too long. His colds don’t usually move into his chest the way that mine do, so here’s hoping.
We leave tomorrow afternoon for Ohio. Ironically, it’s supposed to snow here this weekend. Who knows what will happen. It is rather cold at the moment. We need to get the front tire fixed before we leave; it seems to have a slow leak. Other than that, I think that we will be good to go.
“Sit, be still, and listen,
because you’re drunk
and we’re at
the edge of the roof.” ~ Rumi
I was reading the news and came across the most outlandish article: Apparently, a four-year-old boy from Chattanooga, Tennessee was found “roaming his neighborhood in the night, drinking beer and wearing a little girl’s dress taken from under a neighbor’s Christmas tree.” The boy’s mothers claims that the boy wants to go to jail because that’s where his daddy is.
Okay. So many things wrong with this story. First, where was his mom when the four-year-old left the house? How did this small child manage to break into his neighbor’s house to steal the dress? What’s with the beer?
I could go off on one of my curmudgeonly rants about kids having kids, lack of parental control, bad role models, ya da ya da ya da, but something else here is really bothering me, and it’s not the dress: Someone at some point taught this child how to open a beer bottle. Look, I have problems with screw top caps, granted, that’s probably a reflection of my own ineptitude, but please, a beer bottle?
The story does not detail why the father is in jail. The parents of this young boy are apparently in the midst of a divorce, and the mother, after speaking with child protective services, is going to be able to keep her son. No judgements here. Children all over the place figure out how to elude child-proof locks all of the time. If the mother is a sound sleeper, it’s entirely possible she didn’t even know that her son was out. I’m just hoping that someone gets this child some help, if for no other reason than to teach him that it’s illegal to enter other people’s houses and steal things from under a Christmas tree.
“We do not see things as they are. We see them as we are.” ~ Anais Nin
Okay, one other bit of random news. I know that I have said that I don’t watch most reality television because it makes my brain freeze, and I want to scream at the participants, but I do admit to watching “Project Runway,” (fierce), and “Real Housewives of Orange County” and “RH of New York.” Yes, those shows have their share of cluelessness, cattiness, and backstabbing, but such nice homes, such good jewelry, Tim Gunn for gosh’s sake.
Anyway, I’m reading this story that says that the Real Housewives are feeling the money crunch just like other Americans. Let us pause here to let this statement sink in. The housewives of Orange County live in the gated community of Cota in million-dollar homes. One housewife just received a seven-carat diamond necklace just because. They shop at La Perla for lingerie.
So Tamra has to clean her own house. OMIGAWD. Stop the presses. Life is so hard for these women. Look, they are publicity whores. They get paid a minimal stipend for appearing on the show, nothing to cover the cost of those mortgages. But they back-stab each other at the drop of a hat, talk trash constantly, and to boot, have overbearing, possessive, controlling husbands (with the exception of Don, who is just so laid back). So forgive me if my heart does not weep that Tamra must dust her furniture or Vicki cannot buy a yacht or Lynn’s husband is not doing well with his construction company. It didn’t stop her from getting a facelift and treating her daughter to a nose job.
But will I keep watching? You betcha. It’s my vicarious pleasure, and hey, I have to take them where I can find them.
“I can believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny and the Beatles and Marilyn Monroe and Elvis and Mister Ed. Listen—I believe that people are perfectable, that knowledge is infinite, that the world is run by secret banking cartels and is visited by aliens on a regular basis, nice ones that look like wrinkled lemurs and bad ones who mutilate cattle and want our water and our women.” ~ Neil Gaiman
I need to stop now because I have to polish my furniture. Tamra’s plight made me feel so compassionate that in her honor, I am going to de-grime the piano and other various items. It does pain me to clean the cobwebs because they are rather splendid, and I have become so accustomed to seeing them there in the corners (kidding).
Actually, the deal was that if Brett put up the outside lights today, I would polish the furniture, which is usually his job. But I really don’t know how I can keep up this pace and still get my Botox (Tamra, Lynn, Alexis), fit in my spray tan (all of them), go to the gym five times a week (Lynn, Alexis), and still wear Jimmy Choo’s everywhere I go. And did I mention the diamond encrusted Rolexes? The Cristal?
In the meantime, those of us who are warming our tootsies with space heaters will continue to warm our cockles by watching our dogs sneak ornaments off the Christmas tree while enjoying a nice glass of Crystal Light.
More later. Peace.
And now, the weepiest, saddest Christmas song ever. I play it only to torture myself, and it seemed somehow appropriate in light of seven-carat necklaces: “Christmas Shoes”