The miracle of the timer on the home coffee brewer impresses me after many years. There are many things to remember, retirement notwithstanding, and Saturday night I changed the time even as the second day of standard time lent an ease to this morning's arising. But now I remember something from Sunday night. In the same foppish spirit as the long time bachelor sniffing the shirts during laundry roundup as I sniff the coffee and wonder as to dumping and starting anew.

After the coffee decision I make a skillet breakfast. Two Saturdays ago after a similar morning---I'm retired so Saturday, Monday, small details---I put soapy water in the skillet and fired up the stove. I'm close to another lower end skillet but keep thinking I am going to get certain residuals down if not out; reminds me of certain recurring front page world topic in the paper I read over breakfast.

Too much to eat the last two days so I will take the bicycle the nearly five miles to my Saturday cardio box class; okay, details at least one up on me. Actually more than five miles today, for I walk the bike and its soft front tire the opposite direction to get free air at the one service station within miles which has same. The pocket of quarters I remembered will serve me well; someone is filling tires on an SUV and today free sounds like low pressure, so it's across the street for 75 cents. I remind myself there is a nearby station on the way to the gym and I am not broke.

Class begins and a half hour in I recall the skillet. What was that golden oldie where the hick-voiced fellow goes back and forth between, "No, that's bad. No, that's good?" I recall taking the skillet from the flame and even scrubbing it. But pre-workout it's coffee and through the rest of the day it's stove top ice tea and what was this about another pan I fired up to add to my stash? With the tire business I truly have been gone a while.

It is said even a rigorous class can be adjusted to with regularity. I often cruise through this one but now my real workout of the day begins. Outside to change shoes, hop on the bike and roar home, the liver taste of oxygen debit in my mouth and visions of the outcome tormenting me with each red light and knowledge of how far from home.

I hear no smoke detector but the door lock is the usual, unlike the time my manager graciously answered the chirp in my absence. A HUD inspection and my swearing over my precious morning coffee my ways have changed mean the place at least won't get me in trouble. Heat and mild burned pan smell are in the air, though. Fortunately I add the tea after the boil, the glory of which Mr. Absent Minded missed, or else the alarm indeed would have whistled off the wall.

There is another name/title, Mr. Doesn't Like To Sit On His Wallet. The other evening before bed I checked for keys and a wallet which has enjoyed rides in various containers not known as a pocket. The latter was in a white bag my music teacher earlier had set out for me with the tuner and metronome I'd left at her place from a lesson.

Where was the white bag? With my place much tidier there was seemingly nowhere for it to hide. Up and down the stairs, another workout: not in the car. With no other solution in sight, I'll bet I left it on the trunk as I locked the security gate behind me some other tenants often ignore and a naughty passerby has it.

Look in the dumpster, trash cans. It's 2014 though it may be 1994; I call a live voice on the land line, not online, and cancel the Magic Card. Almost as big a deal as oxygen is this debit. The whirlwind in the cranium reminds me of the inevitable one at the DMV but wait----I have an ongoing plundered pallet of Fresh & Easy liter waters by the door and sitting watching me this entire crisis is the white bag, blending in tattered siblinghood with the bottles and frayed white plastic.

Last night I brewed plain water in the coffee maker and put a little dish soap in the carafe. Most of the water was emptied but a little was left to do a moment of scrubbing. Sniffing the coffee I wondered, did the moment come to pass? The coffee tastes good, not watered down.

Okay, breakfast time; last Saturday a replacement card arrived to ensure more supplies for these adventures, the recounting of any of which in the couple of psych-oriented community college classes I took long ago would draw a, "Dan, have you sought help?" from the lady teachers.

If there was a little soap, maybe it made its way upstairs.