Embarrassing, but true. We all vent a bit about things that aren’t much more than minor annoyances. You know the type of thing: OMG, my Kindle died., or That freaking GPS took me to the wrong address., or my personal favourite, What? I have to pay for Wi-Fi on the the cruise?
I’ve been known to weep and moan when the internet goes down, but the award for Best In Class Whiner goes to my husband. He walks around the house, saying really rude things to our Google speaker.
Just between you and I… I don’t think Google likes him.
She answers his requests with a “Sorry, I can’t help you with that yet.” She refuses to let him add anything to our shopping list, telling him that she doesn’t recognize his voice.
To be fair to my husband, Google can be a bit of a princess. She’s moody and mercurial. Some days, she’ll accommodate him, be all sweetness and light. She’ll even let him add to his calendar. The next day, she won’t acknowledge his existence, telling him that she’s not authorized to answer his request.
Totally frustrating, true. Every second day, he’s in the Google Home App activating voice recognition—again. I sympathize…really.
I’m filled with admiration for his determination. He won’t admit defeat, won’t give up.
God forbid, he goes back to tapping appointments into his phone—gasp!—himself.
It’s a slippery slope, one becomes two, becomes a collection, becomes … oh, my God, when did I buy all this stuff?
I’ve fallen a time or two myself so I understand the climb. It’s starts out innocently enough with one particular object or interest. One of my falls down that slippery slope began with a book, a biography of the actor, Montgomery Clift. Within a matter of months, I had collected every movie the man had ever made and had a drawer full of absolute necessities like a Montgomery Clift watch, cuff links, and license plate frame.
Fickle creature that I am, eventually I abandoned Monty and moved on, but some collectors are more faithful than I.
Andrea Katelnikoff has been collecting Barbies since 1988. At last count, she had over 3,000 dolls, all stored and displayed on the second floor addition to her house purpose built for the dolls.
Collectors don’t subscribe to the philosophy that less is more, but when, I’m wondering, is enough enough?
No offense to Barbara or Neil, but you can skip the real flowers. Bring me gelato shaped into rose petals and we’ll talk.
Cold, sweet decadence. One taste and you’re making the kind of sounds usually reserved for the bedroom. It’s that good.
If you see one of these winged cupids flying from a store front awning, count yourself blessed, and act accordingly.
If, like mine, your part of the world exists in the desert of Amorino deprivation, get on a plane, a train, a mule. Whatever it takes because Amorino artisanal gelato isn’t a dessert, it’s an experience.
I’d like to tell you that on a recent trip to New York, I spent all my time traipsing through places like the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the Guggenheim, but I’d be lying.
I spent an obscene amount of time on the Upper West Side, making pilgrimages to Amorino for gelato and to Levain Bakery for cookies—but that’s another story 🙂