Miles wants this cake. I saw the instructions and went, “Dude, I am not an artist.”
“But you’re a baker,” he countered, “you can bake anything.”
dear herr krups,
i am writing to express my extreme annoyance at the design of my (your) espresso machine.
i don’t know the model number, nor do i have my original receipt. what i do have are second degree burns on my thigh from the damn lid falling off the carafe whilst pouring my daily cup of awesome locally-roasted black stuff.
i noticed this problem when i first acquired the machine, and solved it (sorta) by not using the lid–by storing the lid in the cabinet–thus avoiding plastic-top-falling-onto-counter-every-time-i-pour syndrome, but resulting in tiny little coffee drips all over my counter from the espressing coffee drops being forced into the carafe. that’s messy. i don’t like messy.
so i resumed use of the lid, which has a pour spout and a center opening for the tip of the coffee chamber, sealing off the spattering spray of white-hot liquid from its surroundings. i realize the value of the black plastic lid. it has saved my countertop from daily pinpricks of coffee spots, but has required that i tip my cup up and brace the lid against its rim to avoid a brown deluge which spreads over my counter and floor and sometimes, the clean dishes in the drainboard. that is a drag, man.
i can do the whole bracing thing, but on mornings like this one, when i wake up as if from a hundred years’ sleep, i sorta forget. i sorta just pour and realize just as the lid is tipping off that “shit, i forgot to brace it on the cup rim” and it’s part in my cup, part on the counter, part splashed onto my naked thigh. and it hurts, herr krups. it hurts me real bad.
so, even though i bought it four years ago at a garage sale for five dollars, i really don’t want a newer, replacement machine. i like this one’s simplicity and workhorse durability. i don’t care for the frothing, the self-timers, the auto-grind features of fancypants machines. i just want mine to brew great coffee. which it does.
then i have to figure out how to pour it. i hope you understand what a problem this task is first thing in the morning for someone who has not had coffee yet.
please send a custom lid to me at the enclosed address.
I woke up at 6:13, made it to the kitchen to make coffee and barely noticed that the water pressure was significantly lower than usual. It’s an old house; someone takes a shower or runs the washer, the rest of the faucets run low.
Then, as my espresso was espressing (right?) I started filling the sink to wash the few cups left from last night and get ready for the sticky mess my mixer bowl would be when I started mixing flour, yeast and water for bread. Monday morning, wee hours. Bread baking time.
But the water was a mere drizzle. Nobody was taking a shower. The last load of laundry I did was at 8PM last night. I walked downstairs and heard the washing machine filling. Uh, oh. I rounded the corner and found an inch of water on the floor of my laundry room, and the washer taking on more and more water. Overflowing.
I shut off the machine, and unplugged it, even. Probably not a great idea in retrospect, seeing as how I was standing in water and there’s this thing about water and electricity, yeah? Anyway.
But the water continued. I turned off the taps to the washer. Finally it stopped pouring in, but there I was, sloshing through water in my basement, a fully loaded schedule today and no washing machine repair people to call at 6:30 in the freaking morning.
Whatevs, I called at 9, after canceling one of my clients, they said they’d work me in. The dude called when I was getting my hair cut and I didn’t hear the phone. When I called back he was all accusatory that I didn’t answer my phone. So I kissed his ass and apologized and he came over.
Eighty-five dollars and a new water valve later, my washing machine works. I met my friends for lunch at a new place where they give you those little number cards on metal stands when you order.
Oh, I think you know my number.
wow, daniel is the biggest dumbass on the planet.
he did something so incredibly stupid, so embarrassingly irresponsible while the kids were with him last month that i’m rendered speechless. aghast. agape. agog.
the fact that he made them promise not to tell me about it says a lot. i’m not sure i’m prepared to talk about it here, but suffice it to say, it is the mothership of stupidity and cluelessness in a parent.
i’ve talked with friends and lovers, consulted with joe, my fuckbuddy-cum-attorney, and cleaned my house in frustration and freaked-outedness.
it is very disconcerting to realize that, even though every second of every day the possibility of something terrible happening to one of your children exists, and i understand and respect that, mine are disturbingly unsafe when they’re with their father.
he is consistently raising the bar for stupidity in parenting, and this time it involved child endangerment and the police (the motherfucking police!) in his city, whom i’ll be phoning tomorrow to get to the bottom of the most disturbing words i’ve ever heard my children say.
and they’ve been known to drop f-bombs. just saying.
My babies come home tomorrow!
I’ve missed them terribly, but I’ve also really enjoyed the last three weeks of relative solace. It’s strange to be suddenly free of direct parental responsibility and able to do Whatever I Want.
Some highlights: A pool party at Joe’s house (he invited me as his co-host…eep). Thomas’ first overnight in my new house. My friend Aaron from LA coming to town, which was at once hell damn fun (Simpsons movie, midnight burritos and hilarity) and strained (awkward sex moments which pissed me off and reminded me why I’m always a little cautious with my emotions when we’re together). It worked itself out in the end, though, so that’s good. And a semi-new lad whom I’ve yet to blog, but who seems to be sticking around for a good while, so more news when I’m caught up with other stuff.
Like, did you know, I have a DOG?
He is awesome, and I can’t believe that some dumbass person just left him for whatever reason. He was waiting for me at the Humane Society last Saturday and after a few baths and a clip he is sweet and gorgeous. And big. Because little dogs bug me. He’s a Standard Poodle and his head comes to my waist and his name is Churchill.
So, he has an allover afro, because I don’t rock that whole foo-foo Poodle cut. Also, check the Paul Smith-esque collar and lead. Aw, yeah, when we go walking, heads turn at the hottness.
So, boys! Dog! House with a yard! Which I MOW! With my push reel, Norman Rockwell blade-type mower! It’s almost too much, right? Your brain is reeling, yeah? Mine, too.
Finally, last night I was out with friends at a local bar where I sweetly requested a bourbon on the rocks, “But, like, really small rocks, like pebbles, really. Bourbon on the Pebbles.” The bartender looked at my cleavage, smirked over his soul patch and drawled, “Aiight, darlin’.”
This is what he poured me.
I believe I will be paying another visit to Soul Patch Boy, whose real name is Walker. Gotta love a dude who was named after a whiskey. (Hopefully he wasn’t named after the Texas Ranger, though if it yields me cheap, strong drinks and free pool, I really don’t care. Chuck Norris is a badass.)
I also believe that I am a much better pool player when my props are the above glass and a pool cue which I semi-consciously kept caressing like a you-know-what.