That's right. You know who you are, staying up late to read blogs. You like to live dangerously, just like me.
For instance, I was just sitting down with a fresh cup of home brewed hazelnut coffee. That's right. Coffee at nearly 10:30 pm Central Time. I made that coffee in a purple Soviet era economy class coffee maker, that was probably marketed for girls' dorm rooms, based on the aforementioned color and that it was a billion percent off at the Gordman's.
We have well water here, of a tart and hearty stock that seems to take special pride in annihilating coffee makers, toilet tanks, and any light colored clothing that dares breach its foul depths. We blow through four or five coffee makers a year. So I buy the cheap ones, and when they burn out, I shed not a tear. I simply put another notch in the Well Water vs Coffee Maker tally column, say the traditional rites over the garbage can, and consign the poor sacrificial device to ye old local landfill. (only the non recyclable parts, of course)
Our previous machine, Mr. Coffee - he preferred to be addressed by is professional name - got an extra two months of life with the cunning use of pouring near-boiling water over the grounds manually. But alas, eventually that too ended, when the glass cracked, and the carafe began hemorrhaging all over the counters and down the side of the cabinet.
It was only after assassinating twenty or thirty odd mechanical coffee makers (30 Odd Mechanical Coffee Makers - the original name of Russell Crowe's band?) that it occurred to me that perhaps my hipster brother was on to something, and there was more purpose to the old fashioned french press style coffee maker than simply looking very pretentious while using it.So I set out to find one. Though many were available online, for a house that drinks two pots of coffee a day minimum, the waiting time, even with overnight shipping, simply would not do. The french presses I found in store were lovely, and either the size of a thimble, or three times the price of the lowly purple machine on infinite clearance in the back of the third store in which I attempted to procure my new machine. So Violet Beauregard (stage name) came home with us. Which is fitting, as we have a purple kitchen.
So, where am I going with this? Well, I just now sat down with my laptop, my mug of coffee (with a big L for My Mug, Not Yours stamped in the very earthenware of the vessel) prepared to spend a few hours of my quiet evening revising my current manuscript, and feeling quite content indeed, when the thunderstorm began. Driving, pounding rain, with a customary howling wind and rumbling thunder, which was all fine until I remembered The Umbrella.
We have the cutest patio umbrella. It's rainbow. It's got a little scalloped edge. And it loves to escape and roam the neighborhood. Especially in wind storms.
Mr. is not home. He's still on his way back from Chicago, where he was shooting a spot for Pop Tarts or something, and I am alone, listening to soothing summer rain and realizing that I will have to go out in it to close the damn umbrella before it launches itself to freedom and does some legitimate damage to the house. Or someone else's house.
But all is well. The umbrella is safely closed and secured. I just spent five minutes wrestling with a metal pole in the middle of my yard in a lightning storm, but, like one glorious Gloria Gaynor, I have survived. As I said at the beginning, I like to live dangerously. Happy Saturday Night, you wild and crazy kids.