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Dejected Reflections of a Depressed Blender
Today is the day!
Longingly, I stare at the avocado sitting in the fruit bowl, wishing I could transform it into a fresh bowl of guacamole. Sandra awakens me from my reverie as she rushes through the sliding glass door, toting along several plastic shopping bags brimming with various groceries. Maybe she’ll want to blend something. She passes me several times without glancing at my sleek silver paint, my 400 watt motor, or the still shimmering fifteen year old magenta lettering on my body which reads, “Hamilton Beach 500.” Before my usual sulking can begin, Sandra gets a phone call. “Yes, you all can watch the game here,” she says into the telephone. Suddenly, I have purpose. A party means salsa! A party means hummus! A party might even mean smoothies! I’ve waited for today for over a decade.
Sandra is obviously stressed by the prospect of entertaining and feeding a number of guests, but I know that with my powerful motor and razor sharp blades, preparing food for this party will be a breeze for Sandra. She enthralls me when she opens a bag of tortilla chips and empties the contents onto a pellucid plastic platter. Bewitched, I stare as she removes several tomatoes, an onion, and a bell pepper from a shopping bag, and puts the produce on the counter next to me. She wants salsa! Sandra scurries around the kitchen making party preparations. She hurriedly arranges disposable beverage cups, which she juxtaposes perfectly to the array of soft drinks displayed on the kitchen table. For a short while I lose hope, briefly believing she has forgotten me and my salsa making abilities, but as she walks towards me, she entrances me yet again. As she nears my allotted portion of the faux granite countertop, my exuberance builds to a climax. I’ve waited for this moment since the end of the Smoothie Rush of ‘99, and have prepared for it since the Milkshake Drought of ‘01. Then suddenly, my hopes are destroyed, like the flesh of a strawberry in my ensiform blades. She walks up to my corner, reaches into the cabinet above me, and pulls out a jar of pre-made Salsa. She dumps the red paste into a dish which boasts in white lettering “Garden Fresh Salsa.” It is a ceramic bowl filled with lies, and mediocre dip. She puts away the vegetables, which seem to taunt me as they’re moved to a different part of the counter. As guests begin to trickle in, I realize that she’s not going to use me for anything tonight.
Dejected yet Hopeful
The disappointment I feel overwhelms me. My thoughts wander morbidly, and I fantasize about someone accidentally knocking my plastic body off of my countertop home into the darkest of abysses, the kitchen floor. I curse my inability to move under my own power. My suicidal musings cease suddenly when I see Sandra sauntering towards me, smiling. Although she walks right past me, the thought that maybe she was smiling at me refuses to leave my thoughts. That smile will give me reason to go on, to hope, and to dream.