We had quite the exciting day at our house on Wednesday. The arrival of a new television is always big for us, as we almost never get new and better until what we have is old and broken. And so the Amazon delivery first thing in the morning of a great big HD television for our bedroom made it a red letter day.
To fully appreciate that, you need to know that the bedroom never gets a new television. The bedroom gets the old television when a new television goes in the den. That was the pattern when this recently departed television made its move to the back of the house in 2007. 10 years, you gasp? Indeed, and that was after 15 years of faithful service in the front of the house, for a total of 25 years of active duty. When Karl took the set to the curb (someone picked it up immediately), I felt kind of guilty that we didn’t give it a proper burial.
That doesn’t mean that the set in the den is 10 years old; it’s not. The new television that we got in 2007 died a couple of years ago. The slacker. They just don’t make them that good anymore.
Then, around mid-afternoon, I asked my nephew, Scott, if he’d have some coffee if I brewed a fresh pot. He said he would, so I went to the kitchen to make it. Coffee in the basket, water in the tank on the side of the coffee maker, and flicked the switch when Eddie and Wallis (the two Maltese who actually own the house and allow we humans to live there) began what wasn’t barking or yapping, but what was downright doggie screaming from the den.
I put the coffee carafe down and rushed to the front of the house, fully expecting to find a dinosaur standing in front of the window. But it was only Bodie, the big dog who lives next door who had gotten out and come to the window to say hello to Eddie and Wallis. He was completely happy; they were hysterical.
So I went out the back door through the garage to get Bodie. As I feared he had grown bored with the screaming and wandered down to the sidewalk to check out the street traffic. But being the big sweet dog that he is—he weighs 75 pounds if he weighs an ounce—he immediately came to me when I called him and went out to the backyard for a nice roam around. Bodie got to actually meet the dog on the other side of our house that he has probably never seen before, but only talked to through neighborhood barking contests. We called the neighbors, and Bodie was home with his humans in short order.
So my nephew and I go into the kitchen, ready for a cup of freshly brewed java, only to find that I had put the carafe on the stove instead of in the coffee maker. All but a basketful of coffee had leaked through the top of the coffee maker, with grounds and coffee spread all over the counter, on the floor, on the coffee maker. Everywhere.
I hate coffee grounds. Just emptying the basket into the trash is kind of nasty. You thump the basket hard to try to get the used grounds to all come out in one piece. They never do. There’s always residue in the almost empty basket. I hate coffee grounds.
Even more than that, I hate cleaning up coffee grounds. What‘s worse than that is having to clean up coffee grounds you didn’t spill in the first place. That’s what Scott did. After mopping up the coffee, using sponges and half a roll of paper towels to try to get all the grounds off the counter and the floor, I think we managed to get the kitchen back to order. Needless to say, Scott made the next pot of coffee.
Now whether or not there is some subconscious or subtextual meaning to this, I can’t say. Feel free to connect the dots, if you see any. It does seem to me that we, like my nephew and Christina Crawford, sometimes have to clean up a mess not of our own making. And sometimes we have to clean up after ourselves, and appreciate any help that we may get in doing so.
And when it is unclear how to “clean up this mess,” and you reasonably ask “How?”—well, Mommie Dearest will be there to tell you.
“You figure it out.”