The little coffeemaker that could
We, well I do anyway, call our coffeemaker Sisyphus. While it may not be as mythic as the ancient Greek figure, it is just as heroic, or at least it acts like it.
Our little coffeemaker grunts, groans and from the sound of it even heaves its way into making 12 cups of coffee, and like the Corinth king of old, is destined to do this every morning until the day it dies.
Innuh. Ooomph, Umph, Ohhuh, Un-uh. It actually makes these noises, using different vowels and in a perfect rhythmic cycle, complete with diphthong. But it makes perfect pot of Folgers coffee every time.
For those keeping score at home, you by now know that our house hums, our coffee mugs are disappearing, the coffemaker grunts, and that our 4-year-old grandson is turning one of our bathrooms into his personal library. Marsha and I totally understand how important reading is at a young age, but this is getting to be a little much. Besides that, he’s crowding me out.
I finally got around to fixing our toilet-roll holder (TRH). The serpentine-shaped object appears to resemble more of a relic from the bronze age for it is way, way too heavy for its purpose. It has a square nub that is supposed to fit into a square slot on the part that is screwed into the wall. Beneath the nub is a hole where a set screw is supposed to come up and keep the TRH firmly in place. For years, we’d been missing that set screw. Now if one were careful, I mean more careful, when rolling out the sheets of TP then the heavy holder stays in place and it’s fine. But someone in this house isn’t that careful. I’m not going to say who, but she just isn’t.
The toilet in the other bathroom is the same way. No broken toes or cracked tiles — but that day is surely coming. Or would be, but I fixed them. I took the TRH to Ace, squinted over various batches of set screws, fumbled a few of the tiny things while testing them out, found the set screw that looked like it fit, and then fumbled a few of those. I did guess right when choosing the allen wrench and presto! A fit.
Now I just need to put in a few waist-high bookshelves so the little shit (TLS), I mean, our grandson, can have his library. He has discovered the bathroom bliss men have enjoyed for decades. And Grandma, if the house seems too quiet and can’t find either of us around, she won’t have to worry. She’ll know where we’ll be. He’ll be reading in one and I’ll be reading in the other.
He’s only 4, and he thinks I’m about one of the best things around. I think he’s on the road to becoming president. It sure isn’t going to be pope.
