Morning Becomes Electric...

A couple of days ago while nursing the latest of a long line of toothaches, I decided that I will only be able to subsist on a liquid diet of pureed fruits, all organic, as is befitting my inner svelte goddess.

Having embarked on such a journey, at least in my mind, I decided last night to get out my expensive blender. This blender deserves special mention, as I bought it to match all my other appliances when I lived in a house and not in a hovel, and had dreams of becoming a domestic diva. That one crashed. At any rate, I get out the blender, a 20 pound Black-and-Decker behemoth with shiny chrome accruements, and proceeded to make smoothies as a dessert treat for my family and my best friend who is always game for my impromptu dinner parties. Last night’s theme was white trash cooking, complete with pigs in a blanket, and generic out-of-the-box macaroni and cheese, with a side of “French” green beans (shredded fresh out of the can, no doubt). At any rate, the dessert smoothies were a hit, and the process went off well… almost.

Imagine my surprise when my fancy, expensive blender emitted more noise than a dozen wheat threshers at harvest time. The smell of the pureed fruit that was enjoyed by my diners was lost on me; I was still suspiciously sniffing the hint of acrid burning that I swear still haunts my nostrils. And finally, having lugged the heavy glass container to the sink for a soak, I was disillusioned. Once again.

So my dreams are dashed of having an early morning smoothie before I go off to work my eighteen-hour days. My neighbor, who falls all over herself to make witty conversation with St Timothy of Bad Television, complains if my dog utters a single bark. I am sure she will go into apoplexy if I run my Fruit Mashing Burning Machine yet another time. Living with two loud children, an exuberant dog, and a drunk, I have to ration my noisemaking opportunities.

Guess I will keep using the hotpot to make strong, overly sweet Irish breakfast tea every morning to get that get-up-and-go.

And it will get up and go to my flab. Inner Skinny Chick, Shut Up.