Thursday, July 03, 2008

el jacuzzi está muerto


If this was the opening scene of a costume drama, the high priestess would slash open some poor small critter, and pull out its entrails. The crowd would gasp. The omens are bad.


Well, I am not launching a thousand ships to assist in fetching the wandering wife of a minor Greek potentate. I am simply planning on moving to Mexico. And I am not certain what the omens are telling me.


Let's start with the prop in the center of the stage. You have all met Mr. Hot Tub. I dine there. I read there. I relax there.


It was the first item I bought for my move to Salem in 1993. In fact, the hot tub was set up even before the remodeling on the house was complete. If I were ever to describe myself as a person of place, the place would be the hot tub.


And you may recall my cries of anguish when I thought it was dieing. In
tub with a view, I concluded that the tub had stopped heating water. In tinkering with tomorrow, we learned that I think I have no handyman skills. In smug as a bug in a tub, we learned I am handier than I thought: I fixed the heater.


But maybe not. Now I have lost all power to and through the tub. Nothing works. Nada.


And here is where the omens come into play. To get a repairman to simply come out and look at the tub: $150. Then there will be the cost of replacing aging electronics.


If the hot tub is the symbol of why I came and stayed in Salem, my decision to not resuscitate it may be the omen that it is time to move on to Mexico. But we already knew I was going to do that. It just feels good that everything is pushing me that way.


If I see the spirit of Maria Callas hanging out at the hot tub, I will know why she is here. She is merely auditioning for another stab at Medea.