19 November 2021
The day started out productively, despite the cold rain outside my windows. This morning, before breakfast, I organized the pre-Thanksgiving decor, largely in anticipation of selecting the prime locations for the Christmas 2021 tree, decorations, floral displays, and ribbon configurations.
NO ONE is stealing Christmas from anyone this year.
I have heard MANY women vow that they are determined and dedicated to wait until the day after Thanksgiving to start Christmas decorating!!! But I think that the post-Turkey-meal this year heralds the start of an entirely new tradition. 7 p.m. is when the Merry Christmas Magic begins!
THERE IS NO BLACK FRIDAY anymore! I’ve gotten Cyber Month alerts all month! And, this morning, one of my 18 emails announced Purple Friday!
Why, yes! Purple Friday is to be celebrated!
After breakfast, I claimed my 1 of the 7 remaining body lotions, from France, at 30% off. I truly do believe that this limited quantity is real, and is not the fake scarcity model that is a sure-fire way to sell out ASAP of whatever it is the Seller must dump ASAP.
I felt very good about my prudent choice. No hoarding going on here.
I’ve come to the observational conclusion that the overly processed foods and cheap Asian crap are the shelf-deprived merchandise. The inventory of spiral hams, as sodium-laden as any American can find, has been rationed to 3 per grabby hand at the local Costco; and the shelves still got cleaned out. But the delicately sliced Virginia ham and Havarti cheese from the Holiday Market down the road (and it’s called Holiday Market all-year round) — made a terrific ham&cheese on rye just an hour ago.
The lunchtime meal progressed without a hitch. Not so the meager food allotment that I call breakfast. A non-morning person is not to be expected to scarf down the Irish farmhouse breakfast of eggs, toast, ham, rashers of bacon, sautéed potatoes, o.j. and tea, or even coffee. The entire menu sounds uncivilized to me!
Breakfast this morning progressed to a horrendous hitch. A near-calamity. At least, Dear Husband fears so. Me, I stated, “Whatever will be, will be.”
Mr. Wonderful, the Webmaster has been upset all day about the Post-Prandial Fluid Accident: the cranberry-juice spill on my “old” refurbed MacBook Pro, the 2014 model.
I ALWAYS keep the laptop far far away from any food or fluid, and I usually work w/o any food or drink in proximity to the digital essay-creator. Yes, I work without a net under the wire.
Today, however, after breakfast — because I do not device during meals — I was perusing The English Tea Store online, and I picked up the fireplace beamer to turn off the flame behind my back. It was a no-look, over-the-shoulder-shot. A 3-pointer.
The tip of the remote hit the tip of the plastic glass.
The liquid moved like a tidal wave over the fabric placemat, table topper, onto my top — and it just seeped into the lower right hand corner of the laptop.
Which is the worst place — the WiFi unit is located there, along with vents — that sucked in the fluid. Such a small area — but it’s where the brains are!
Dear Webmaster is quite worried that my refurbed laptop is now non-functional. He’s ordered tools to take off the back of the thing — because the back is impervious to any entrance other than that made by an Apple-authorized tool from an Apple-authorized Representative.
I suggested he go online and research what has to be the #1 REASON (other than warranty problems) for laptop freak-outs. Me, I am using this 2019 model to type this essay; and the electronic equipment is more horrid than I’d remembered (See My Flying Fingers Essay).
My productivity has exponentially soared since three months ago, when I started using a real, not the virtual or suggested or reminiscent or vestigial memories of an actual — KEYBOARD — that splendidly bedecks my newly purchased vintage refurbished MacBook Pro.
This 2019 model is, basically, a big touch-pad instead of a typist’s keyboard and screen. More accurately, it’s a ginormous i-Phone with a touch-pad.
Mr. Cook has mashed the Apples into Chinesium! That company has been cooked!
I had to complete my purchase order from The English Tea Store upstairs, using my wide-screen monitor. Using the mouse to browse 20 pages of merchandise on a wide-screen apparatus is torture. The widescreen is strictly for work.
I must say that while we Americans specialize in down-home jelly and humble-pie preserves, the Brits make a royal feast of their jams, conserves, and spreads. The inclusion of liqueur sure helps that medicine of modern life go down. In fact, there presently abounds global bad medicine to go around the world for all of us:
We the Little People, the masses whom the Debauched Noblesse “serve”. Or is it we to whom they serve the b.s., at feeding time?
Whilst the protective membrane on my laptop dries, I’m trying to understand why so very many items, including biscuits, from this vendor cannot be shipped to Canada.
“Canada prohibits dairy and beef products manufactured in the United Kingdom to be shipped into Canada. Thank you.”
(I wouldn’t be thanking anyone, but graciousness is nice to see, even online!)
Mad cow disease lingering long into the COVID-4-evah fraud-universe of a dominion trying to be dominant in some way to the UK?
The Duke of Chutney has only 10 units left of that Boxing Day present to a deserving servant! (The chutney complements a cheese board wonderfully.)
Why not order one jar from Mrs. Darlington, darling — if you live beyond those communist confines of Canada, or even California.
You can send the gift to a fellow constituent who slaves away at keeping his or her sanity, every day, stateside. The Citizen Worldwide works mightily to maintain a noble indifference toward the Hautain Haters of Humanity, aka, the Crowned, oh, I mean, the Swelled-Head Klass. We valiantly strive to disregard their stiff disregard of decency and their casual disdain for truth, science, morality.
For all I know, there just might exist a Citizens of the World Unite website, formed as a support group for these WesternCivHicks who know how to take a joke and give one, but are surrounded by the joyless, glum, dare I say — grinches — of Yuletide.
I have hereby triumphantly dominioned myself into the dominant position over this Mac Thing called a laptop. Amazingly, in just half an hour, this essay has been composed and completed — and the mid-afternoon sun has come out.
Surely, the two achievements must be inter-related, even harmonious, without anyone having lifted a finger (except for me, of course, typing). No one has, as yet, payola-legislated the passage of the weather from rain to sun, of the rotation of the Planet a whole 360 degrees to progress from day to evening.
And, with thanks and poetic tribute to the eternal truth from Alan Jay Lerner, I can even say:
Without a single solon pulling it, the tide comes in!
Post-dinner (toast & tea) update: The laptop is working. A diagnostic test verified that the final use of the coiffure blow-dryer has done the trick! Dear Writer added her expertise to the technical fix.