1:11 a.m. Ah, the magic continues. I'm building a new book, which I'm very excited about. I'm grateful I can work at something I can get excited about. I wish we had some money. I wish Christmas didn't depend, at base, on money. I wish I had a whistling tea kettle.

3:00. I wish I had more discipline. I ended up playing around on Catherine's weblog, and the new journals she recommends are tempting, as usual, but tonight she's got a whole lot of geeky toys to check out and so now I have a Blink account and I'm still waiting on my report from LinkAlarm, and there goes the night, thank you very much. Stay away from Catherine's site unless you're prepared to spend some time.

I guess the thing to do is to just give in. Let the time flow over you and relax. There will be world enough. There may not be money enough, but money is so highly overrated, don't you think?

Sure, it buys things. Sure, it pays bills. But it will not give you health, or peace of mind, or a feeling of self-worth. Or common sense.

However, if I had some extra cash, I'd go right out and get a new tea kettle -- one that makes a whistling noise, or a cheep, or a beep. I've had it with the achingly arch Robert AM Stern number that I just had to have when I saw it at Crate & Barrel two Christmases ago.

It is (was) chrome; faux riveted and studded. It has (had) a fetching little blue marble as the lid handle. The very first time the water boiled out and I forgot about it there on the stove, the whole thing turned an angry brackish color, except around the burner, where it was as red as the gas flame. The marble began to melt and droop over on its little upright point, so that by the time the smoke alarm finally came on, it only needed a nudge from my oven-mitted thumb to go careening across the counter like a white-hot meteor, burning up the Formica as it rolled.

These days, if you want to remove the lid, you have to pinch at the peak with your fingers and really grip it. But that's ok. And the wooden handle? Well, it has only burst into flames a couple of times since and I've been able to put it out by pounding it with the mitt. The handle is still usable, but pretty much charred on one side and splintered on the other.

And then, tonight. Once again I let the water boil off because I was playing around with LinkAlert and looking at the goofy gif on the Gus' front page. That gif always mesmerizes me. I think I sort of smell something funky from the kitchen area, but never mind, no need to get up ... but then I remember ... the tea! The tea!

... and by the time I've got the burner turned off the metal is fluttering off those invisible waves of heat that you can actually see with the naked eye. It's not yet making that ticking, rivet-melting cracking sound, however, so I'm lulled into a false sense of cleverness.

I think I'll just put it in the sink and run cold water over it, just for the fun of watching it sizzle and make a nice loud steaming fit. I've begun to really dislike this object. So I put it in the sink, turn on the water ...

... and I just wish I'd thought to get out of the way of it sooner. Whoooie, but steam really hurts. And it's fast! I tell you; searingly swift.

You can't fool around with inanimate objects and expect to win. Basic, basic science. Ice cubes soothe. Blisters form. Money doesn't make you smart.

So, now I've scrubbed the damn thing up again and scraped off the sponge material that had gotten welded to it when I put it in the sink. I've shaken out those weird bits of -- what? calcium slivers -- that have built up on the inside, and now I finally have a nice mug of green tea to go with some nice chocolate chip cookies.

Forgive me for not waxing more poetic now that I'm back at the machine. My entire left hand is killing me and if I knew what was good for me, I really would plunge it into a bowl of ice. I fought the laws of physics and the laws won.

The next tea kettle I buy is not going to be architecturally distinguished or beautiful, and it's not going to match the cutlery or look good on the shelf. It's going to be a Bogart. As in: "You do know how to whistle, don't you?"