Some days eat dirt

and some weeks chew mud.  Heck.  I can’t decide.  You do it for me.  I’m too tired to figure out success after mayhem.  This week has me shopping big box stores.  I’m fancying all things, kitchen and laundry.  I’ve even purchased several of them.  Normally, I’d brag on such a foray into the shopping arena, but after charcoal-colored interiors of what once was something, white, and a test of the big-bang theory (all my own in the making), I’m simply throwing in the towel and moving.  Well,  that is probably not true, but it does make for wishful thinking, but seriously, since no one was injured, and all that really happened, EXPENSIVE, there’s no need for a photo-op session from the south. I mean, really, how pretty can a transmission be (unless you’re a car enthusiast), if it comes packaged in the interior of a washing machine?  And, although I tend to see things in shades of gray, this week of black and white has me on a re-think.  Of course the thought lingers, “Why can’t we use a steel cup in a microwave?”   We can put a man on the moon, fix an orbiting satellite and grow those babies up so they be gone.  Yet, as this week rolls to a close, I am reminded that there really was some fanfare.  It displayed itself in the grandest of glory and splendor.   Who knew a cook top could be lit up like Disneyland?  (That’s the best danged sparkler I’ve ever seen!)

I can already hear your whimpers.  Thanks.  I needed your sympathy.  At this point, I’m four million dollars behind poor, I do have a new whirl to that washing machine though, and I’ve managed to only open the charred recesses of the microwave to ‘zap’, twice.  The hole left by the diffused ignition on the stove top no longer resembles anything other than a blank stare.  Kind of like the person typing this. 

Now pardon me.  I think I feel another scream-session coming upon me.  Don’t dial 911.  They’ve already come and gone, gone and come, left and driven away as quickly as they could.  I think at this point they fear I’m an arsonist. 

Okay.  I got carried away with that last paragraph.  That really didn’t happen.  The fireman.  He didn’t come and paint over my house numbers.  I never dialed 911.  Okay, so maybe a neighbor or two did, but they canceled as quickly as they dialed.  They showed up on the street in a party of three to ask me how I was faring. 

“Who?  Me?  Why?”

As I said.  I’m exhausted.  Make of this what you will, but heed my warning, “Don’t play with fire!”

~ by coffeegrounded on May 22, 2009.

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