A knackered slacker; it’s cold and likely to rain, and some last things
The morning was completely upended over the affair, but we were forced to consign our no longer competent 8-inch skillet to the trash. Its offense was unpardonable: the nonstick coating had failed. One does not expect this from five-year-old Farberware that has been treated well, but it seems to be the way of so many things these days. The other way of so many things these days is that things you toss out are no longer replaceable. One of these things, it turns out, is a competent 8-inch nonstick skillet. Why do they put stupid metal rivets on the insides of these things — just to be egg catchers and give you something to scrub? Why don’t they have lids anymore? Why are they so heavy? Oh, that one is easy. Because the Green beans insist on ceramic, which is heavier by an order of magnitude than petroleum-derived Teflon. So after visiting three stores, and finding a uniform prohibition on efficiency and competence in cookware, we settled on something just because I was too hungry to go on and needed to get home and put eggs and sausage in it. Unfortunately, it was too late, and my glucose/cortisol cycle was askew, and I bonked. More coffee is not the answer to everything.
Like our own lives as we prepare to move, and like the state of cookware, it seems that transition is occurring everywhere I look, including my own neighborhood. We seem to be escaping just in time from a neighborhood at the vanguard of transition. For the first time, our quiet residential Tacoma street looks like Fremont. The Xers’ children, programmed for tolerance at the cost of reality, have declared gender specificity an abomination, and now they stalk our streets, daring us to meet their gaze without looking as though we are trying to guess whether they are male or female. My affable husband’s response is to look them in the eye with a broadbeam avuncular smile. My response is to stare at the bottom of his (generic sense) left ear with an expression of growing alarm, wondering why he (generic sense) does not sense that a spider the size of a Bayliner is about to consume his (generic sense) very ear. But we are invisible to them.
The hammer of Fall has dropped, and we will likely have an encore of last night’s rain along with the cold. Today would have been our last church picnic with our present church: a landmark Last Thing. I had looked forward to attending, but may have to invoke the fair weather defense.
I have checked off other last things. My last trip to my friendly independent pharmacy was a checkpoint, but nevertheless quite perfunctory. It’s a fact of life that my pharmacy is an important relationship in my life.
I cleaned our dining room chandelier for the last time in anticipation of the showing that resulted in the apparent sale of our house. The chandelier has 70 crystals suspended from 16 skeuomorphic arms with no end of gaudy gold curlicues. How happy I am that our new house has few but streamlined fixtures. Light fixture design is one area where the 90s clearly outclass the 50s.
We enjoyed a last waterfront lunch at Redondo Beach last Thursday. It was a beautiful sunny day, and between our waitress and the chef, my gluten intolerance was perfectly and deliciously accommodated. I could look out on Puget Sound with the happy thoughts that it is very attractive, and that I will not miss it. I am ready to set contented eyes upon the rolling hills of the Palouse and the Snake River Valley.
And there will be more Last Things, before the taking of toast and tea in Clarkston.