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This morning when I was coming downstairs, all groggy with sleep and comfy in my sweatshirt (!), seeking coffee, I suddenly remembered the Very Sad Thing that happened last weekend, and I realized that I just had to share.  You see, usually I make my coffee on the weekends in a little stovetop espresso maker.  I love it, and it has faithfully seen me through many, many sleepy mornings.  On Sunday afternoon I had just put it on the stove to make my second cup of coffee of the day, when one of my neighbors came knocking on my door.  His car’s battery was dead, and he desperately needed a jump so that his wife could get to work.  Could I help?  Yes I could.  Immediately I put on my sandals, grabbed my car keys, and went out to give him a jump.

It took a while, and it wasn’t until I was coming back up the front steps afterwards and smelled that acrid burning smell that I even remembered that I had been doing something before I left.  I hastily unlocked the door, and rushed to the kitchen, dreading what I was going to see.  There was my poor little coffee pot, boiled dry, smoking away.  Both the Bakelite lid handle and pouring handle had melted off, and one of them was burning merrily on the stove top.  Quickly I turned off the stove, put the handle out with a little water, and sadly realized that I would never make coffee in my beloved little pot again.  And then I forgot about it (except when Rosie told me that she put it in the recycling sometime midweek) until this morning when I was bumbling downstairs in search of caffeine.  I was sad for a moment, and then I remembered the French press pot I keep on hands for times when larger amounts of coffee are needed, and then I was happy again.

That’s one thing I kinda like about myself.  I do not generally seem to be able to stay unhappy or depressed for long (well, except for Freshman year of high school, or frankly just about anytime when I was in high school, but we don’t talk about that).  Some of this is a deliberate choice, learned behavior, but some of it I think is just a gift from God, along with my curly hair and skin that stays clear even though I generally neglect it shamefully.  Ironically, usually when I finally work up the nerve or whatever to tell people that I’m not doing so well is right about when the badness lifts, and I start getting back to normal.  I’m not sure if there’s a causal relationship (telling people is freeing enough that it starts me on the path to feeling better), or if the fact that I’m able to tell people means that I’ve already started feeling better.  Either way, the same thing happened this time.  Things were awful, awful, awful, I finally decided to just tell people, and right about then I started to feel better.

One of the big things that helped a lot was that Rosie & Johnnycakes threw a party last Saturday night.  This meant that Rosie had to finish painting the living room (which she did about four hours before the party was to start), and we could at long last clean & put the house back together.  Not only was the downstairs pretty, but now we could actually use the furniture in it.  Plus, the stair rail, which had been lurking under plastic on the living room floor just waiting to stub toes for the last month, was now firmly affixed to the wall again.  I was able to mop the floors.  It was glorious.

And then there was the party itself.  When I was talking with Atlas the day before, I had told him that I needed something to be fun again – not work, not ministry, just fun.  Something where I didn’t need to take care of, or look after anyone but myself.  This party fit the bill.  I wasn’t throwing it, so I didn’t have to care that there were still some dirty dishes in the kitchen sink, or that the kitchen floor wasn’t spotless.  I could just show up, play games, win prizes, and dance in the dining room with the girls to Right Said Fred.  When I was tired, I curled up in the corner of the living room, and listened to people saying amusing things.  It was just about perfect.

Sunday was a spectacularly lazy day.  I barely even did laundry.  I did go over to the Family Homestead for dinner, which was great.  Afterwards Dad & AnniPotts & AP came over and watched Hot Fuzz.  How is it that I had never watched that movie before?  I loved it so, so much.  It was even worth staying up much too late, and being really sleepy at work the whole next day.  And now I need to see Shaun of the Dead.  I have it out from Netflix now, which makes me happy.

I’m glad that my dark mood broke when it did.  The new schedule started this week.  While I’m still not sure that this is going to work, at least I managed to get through in one piece, and without tears (something I can’t say about the previous two weeks).  We’ll have to continue to see how it shakes out.

In other news, on Wednesday The Duchess arrived back home in Dayton.  She’s due to have her first baby at the beginning of September, and she wanted to have her baby at home.  When she first floated the idea a few months ago, it seemed like it would never work, and she and mom came up with a Plan B that involved Mom heading to Philly for about a month and a half to be with her.  However, more recently AP and AnniPotts came up with a scheme to make room for The Duchess and 007 at the Homestead.  It involves multiple room switches and Indy going to stay with Mariah for a while, but it all worked out.  Right now The Duchess is staying with Sae and Mr. T for a little while until the room is ready, but soon she’ll be moving in, and when 007 gets finished with the job he’s currently working on he’ll come out to join her.  And then sooner or later we’ll have a baby at Mom & Dad’s house for the first time in over twenty years.  And it will be awesome.

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