CRAIG’S list had an ad and I troll thru morning pages, thinking i can find my work place, my work pace, somewhere in this distant land of our fathers, and I came across an ad (under legal) which advertised for receptionist in medical office (go figure) and thought Spanish helpful, and wanted resume and instructions on how one described fixing their breakfast. Well, don’t think i am really up to working, but couldn’t resist the breakfast description. I had fun with it!
I can send my resume, which is 98 years of being a legal secretary, and delightful epochs of teaching creative writing, and references that would be quite telling in my affability, friendliness and reliability. But, I am not sure, as I do not speak Spanish, that I would serve you to the best of your needs.
But I would like to tell you how I make breakfast. First, the night before, I pray for the golden light of dawn to shine upon my coffee pot with exceptional rays of sun and warmth, Then when I lift the top to my iron lung where I am encased in the deepest slumber, I look up, swing my legs over the end of the bed and stagger (2 seconds) to my nook of a kitchen and flip the switch. I feel like Ayn Rand, author of I am powerful type books, men running railroads, women loving those men.
Then, knowing coffee or the like will be sludging happily through my rather long body, I survey my breakfast possibilities:
1. Trader Joe’s breakfast bar, “sweet, savory, tart trail mix, and so much more, blended with organic oats and crispy rice,” and think “Why not,” and proceed to a flick of the wrist, a sound of tearing cellophane green packing over bar, and voila, breakfast is accomplished, with that consumption and a lonely half banana crying out to become one with me.
2. That’s Monday. But wait, Tuesdays, after two cups of coffee (nonfat cream and pink sugar substitute) I haul out my large Quaker Oats box, and scoop a half cup of oatmeal into a plastic measuring cup. But first, and I explain this, in case you are from another planet and wouldn’t know our utensils or what a pan is, first I would take a small sauce pan, fill it with a cup of water, and maybe a small slop of apple juice and bring this liquid to a boil (bubbles appear on surface-of the pan, not my brain). Then slowly I pour the lovely flaked, beige and paper thin oatmeal gently into this liquid boil, and stir with a wooden spoon, all the while ambidextrously turning the flame of my gas stove down to a low output.
The oatmeal is cooked, and it sits cooling off as I search for a bowl, large, curved, and dig raisins, walnuts, and maybe a blueberry or two out from confines of my kitchen. A little nonfat milk is poured upon this offering to the Gods, and I top it with not frosting, no frosting on the cake for me, but maple syrup, a simple one tablespoon (well it spills over) serving, and I go to my living room which is an inch away, settle my expectant body down on a black leather couch, and lift the spoon towards my mouth-a spoon filled with promise. Pepsi moment has nothing on this. Crunch, crunch, sip, slog, sounds Gulliver like in Lilliputian land fill my head, and my head lifts, and then I go to Craig’s List on my computer and hit this ad!
This is my writing voice. My regular earth school tell it like it is; speak, be friendly, kind and helpful is sort of a low nasal New England twang in the background, soothing to people when reading my literary work, annoying once upon a time to a son, when this same voice said “clean your room,” and so goes life.
Wishing you well