Monsters and Madness and Coffee Machines


So my coffee maker is a jerk.

Hold on……let me come at this from a different angle.  But just so it’s on record, my coffee maker is a total jerk.

My husband and I agree on approximately three things.  That may be too harsh, so let’s round it up to ten.  We agree on ten things.  In this vast wide world…ten.  He hates fabric softener and I like Downy.  He likes Colgate and I prefer Crest.  He likes wimpy Blonde Roast and I like coffee that could pave a driveway.  He fishes for a day and a night and another day in all kinds of weather and I shun the sun. I wear a hat almost everywhere and he worries about his hair.  I am a music fanatic and he is just now learning about Led Zeppelin and Rush.  I want to learn French and he barely manages with the English language.  I bought a honey soap that apparently will be our next common ground.  Take it where ya can get it baby.

We had a Keurig for a long time.  It sounded like an old Boeing 747 taking off.  It was about ten years old and begged me to kill it gently so it could leave this cruel world.  It was tired.  It was old.  It needed diapers.  It was time to get a new one.  I’m an avid follower of reviews.  I don’t even buy soap without reading reviews.  It’s not that I always take heed, it’s that I find them terribly amusing.  People lose their minds over the slightest mishap or what in their minds they feel should be an appropriate response from an appliance.  I read a review on Home Depot for the washer and dryer we have that one person felt the melody at the end sounded sad and therefore they regretted buying it.

So, Magilla wanted a new Keurig.  I’m a bit of an environmentalist hippie and wanted something that wouldn’t make me feel like I needed to confess to the EPA that my household singlehandedly contributed to the point of overflow to one landfill.  So I bought a simple, highly rated coffee maker which in short – sucks.  It’s basic to the point of rude.  There’s no timer to make coffee automatically.  There’s no keep warm button.  Nothing.  You brew and you drink it.  Or else.  It was like Keurig was telling me their version was better and I should take my high-minded ethics and shove them where the sun don’t shine.  I made coffee yesterday that was absolute crap.  It was awful.  I called my coffee maker a few names and Magilla valiantly offered to buy a new one.  All I have to do is pick it out and before anyone says, “Awwww he’s so sweet”, no he’s not.  He’s just trying to preemptively shut me up.




This is possibly the best Q&A I’ve ever seen on Amazon.  Karen’s husband is a genius.  I don’t know him but I love him.  It’s the kind of snarky crap I would come out with out of sheer boredom – or in other terms…this blog.  As I’ve been writing this I’m listening to Monster by Eminem (and yes for the record – I’m a huge fan.  Anyone as crazy and blunt as I am – actually more so – has my undivided attention).  It’s amazing what inspires us to create, draw, write, sing, act.  Could be a crazy review or it could be a song or it could be the need to feed monster that thrives on creation.

Caffeine just fuels the span of attention required to examine this nonsense.

This is my 50th post.  I’ve ranged from humor to tears.  I’ve nailed politics, celebutantes, racism, appliances, family genetic deficiencies and I readily admit that there is no set rules here.  I write about my life.  I write about my quirky, crazy husband, my father’s losing fight with Alzheimer’s, my mother’s propensity at 75 to still think everyone is kind and good and my daughter’s sass.  I write about what I see daily.  My friends will see the left corner of my mouth pull upward into a smirk and probably pray that the words running around my mind like bad children with scissors and a sugar high doesn’t involve them.  It’s not that I don’t care if I offend somebody (though chances are that if you’re reading this you can handle it – it’s not for the faint hearted).   I think most artistic people flirt with madness.  I think most logical people need rhyme and order and meticulous detail.  But what if you have a foot in each world?  Who in their right mind would spawn a tale combining bad appliances, funny reviews and a rapper with a potty mouth?



Yeah, I can’t figure it out either.  Like Eminem, I made friends with the monster under my bed years ago, which is probably was spurs me onward to continue writing.  I think the monster that scares us as children is a matter of perspective.  We’re small and defenseless and he has fangs and claws and scales and yellow eyes and if our foot dangles over the edge of the bed, his putrid curling talon may just scratch the bottom of our foot, drawing blood as he tickles it.  As adults we should have the wherewithal to claim our fears.  The rapist in the alleyway behind a dumpster with their unconscious victim is far more scary than the monster who used to live in my closet or under my bed.  Life is scarier than imagination.

I wake up with the strangest imaginings as an adult.

Questions like:

What if I’m actually a nice person at heart?  But only 15 people have actually seen that?

What if people think I’m weird?  Do I care?

What if they’re the crazy ones?

What if I really unleashed what I thought?

What if you can adopt friends and make them family?  Would it be official?

What if scones could actually induce happiness?  Who would I make them for?

What if I gave more?

What if I showed less?

Is it anti-feminist to flash your boobs for something you really really really want?  Like a Tiffany necklace?

What if?

What if the monster under my bed is just an extension of me?  What if he is the less logical version of me?

What if I brought him out into the light?  Would he cease to be a monster and start to be the adult, rational…….

Worst idea ever!

I’d like him to stay under my bed.  He’s the reason I write.  He’s the artistic side of me.

This is my last post of the year.  I’m putting away my computer now and I’m going to take a nap beside my husband for an hour and then have my parents over to play board games and laugh ourselves stupid.  Old year…new year.  Let’s see what Magilla and I spar over tonight.  Could be Ryan Seacrest versus Dick Clark or it could be which ranch dressing to use for the veggie platter.

What I do know is that I’ll slip a plate of cookies to the edge of my bed while I sip my champagne.  I plan on keeping the monster happy on 2017.

I wish you all a peaceful night.  Feed what you love – even if it’s the side that only you understand.





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