From the blustery city, good morning all:

“The problem with winter sports is that – follow me closely here – they generally take place in winter.” — Dave Barry

Our stash of Pepper Peddler coffee is finished (thanks Pieter). This brings us back to our regular, but not boring, Tim Hortons. Problem was, we bought our usual 40 oz bag of whole bean and only then discovered that the in-store grinder was ‘kaput’. Last night I ground 40 oz of coffee with our tiny little “Bistro style” coffee mill. That effort is making the actual handling of my morning mug a bit more difficult. Luckily the flavor is all there.

This week I really got into the spirit of the SOTU thing (State Of The Union). At least I did for the first ten or so minutes. Marcia had poured some hot chocolate and set out dips and pound bags of chips (scoop kind) and cheesy stuff. Ten minutes into the event and our dip stash began to wane.

Twenty minutes and I started to discuss the SOOCST thing (State Of Our Cabin’s Septic Tank)—and was immediately shushed into silence by Marcia. I felt that I was focused and staying on target by initiating a discussion on the state of something. However, my sidetrack could have been caused by migrating to wine. When the assembled masses (except for the Supremes and abundantly medaled generals, and Republicans) had risen more times than the average 10-year old can count, I’d had it.

Certain that neighbors would ask salient SOTU questions at tonight’s party I then forced myself to stay through to the bitter end. Let me just say that when the second-hand crossed the one hour mark that all I could think of was my last colonoscopy (possibly this was due to me by now sipping a Scotch); I understood that it was all important ‘stuff’, but at the same time wanted desperately for the whole thing to be over.

What I do remember is noting the never-ending smiles on our Veep’s and Speaker’s faces along with innumerable standing “Os’, and so must assume that either the reading of the speech or its content was very good. That’s my assessment and I am sticking with it.

Last weekend our old bed was put to rest (pun). Marcia and I finally selected the perfect mattress. We purchased one that comes with thousands of specially formulated steel springs and various pads covering the base of the thing. We now have a “memory” pad along with something called the “Euro” pad all of which ‘breathe’ together. Then we can’t forget the “matching to the mattress” box spring which made for a perfect pairing.

When Marcia concluded the assembly by getting a newly purchased set of sheets and our old down comforter loaded on top of the whole, we stood back in admiration and consternation. It was at this time that we realized that the place where we sleep (the top of the mattress) was a solid three feet from the floor.

At this stage of our lives I am still able to bend down, cup my hands, and give Marcia the “up and into the stirrups” lift. Personally, I take one step and try to do a back-roll high jump to get aboard. Since then we have discovered that we’re waking up much more refreshed. The latter probably due to the fact that neither of us gets up during the night; it’s now a logistics thing.

I have a sneaking suspicion that shortly we’ll be visiting Ikea for a pair of matching bedroom suite step stools.

Tonight it’s the neighborhood’s annual Progressive Dinner—four houses and umpteen courses. With the temperature dropping to a nippy eleven degrees the formal name for the event should be “The Dash Between the Houses.” The final home (deserts) happens to have a 5-foot fire-pit in the back patio. I do believe a late evening glass of Scotch, a cigar, and possibly accompanied by some classic Little Feat sounds all next to a roaring fire will be the perfect way to end.

Make it a great week everyone.

Cheers,

Dirk