Member-only story
My Espresso Machine Almost Killed Me
Okay, maybe it was my fault
I have an espresso machine in my bathroom. Some people think that’s strange, but it makes perfect sense.
There is a backstory.
I have a moderate-sized house. Since my wife passed away, I’m letting my daughter and her kids stay here for a bit. With four grandkids, chaos, and drama dominate most days.
My solace is hidden in my mancave, my main bedroom converted to a multi-function manly room.
Gone is the bed and fluffy comforter that my wife insisted we have. The lace curtains and frilly pillows are history, as are the serene pictures of flower-laden landscapes. All were replaced with the smell of musk, computer technology, a few weights, and an oversized recliner.
The room is known to the grand peeps as the Kings Quarters, a kid-free zone. It’s where I spend most of my time reading, writing, working out, watching TV, and relaxing.
While I miss my wife dearly, I don’t miss her stuff.
Once I purged the main bedroom, I immediately went after the bathroom.
With years of accumulated makeup, jewelry, perfumes, and nail polish, it took two garbage bags to remove it.
