What is “it” ?
“It” is my grip on reality. Now we could look at this situation and get very depressed OR we could see it as prime breeding ground for a little self-deriding humor. I’m going for the latter.
Today I had several things to do around my house. I started by washing some curtains and hanging them in my kitchen. I washed all the bedclothes, made split pea soup and generally straightened up.
I had errands to run. I needed gas in the car, (it was almost empty) and I had to go to the vet and get flea medicine to annihilate the fleas that Robbie picked up when he was there for his operations a few weeks ago.
So I finished cooking my soup and headed out to the grocery hoping to cash a couple of money orders that I had. At the store (5 miles away) I learned that they don’t CASH money orders, although you can BUY them there. What’s up with that ? So I realized I had to go back home to get some cash for gas since the banks were closed for the holiday.
I was headed back to the car in the parking lot when I had this thought…
Did you turn off the gas under that split pea soup ? Eeek ! Oh boy, off I went back home. I nipped into the house and there is my lovely homemade soup sitting over a very low flame. Oy gevalt ! It wasn’t burned or ruined, although it would have been in about 10 more minutes. But the facts are clear. I left the house with a pot of food still cooking on the stove.
Calling myself several derogatory names, I turned off the stove and apologized to the soup. I then went in and raided my gambling money stash. I took 5.75 out of my carefully hoarded 35.00 that I am keeping in case someone takes me to a casino with nickel slot machines. (But that’s ANOTHER story)
So, back to the car I went, feeling very foolish AND with an even emptier gas tank. I hauled over to the gas station, got my gas and then to the vet, got the flea killer, which I had to pay WAY too much money for. I should have demanded it free as THEY gave my dog the fleas in the first place, but they fixed his eyelid so nicely, I hated to be nasty to them, so I was polite, but it cost me, it cost me big. . .in dollars and in self control.
Came home, got out of the car, slammed the door, stomped into the house, feeling like 20 kinds of a fool, called my oldest friend on the phone and vented for 10 minutes and started to feel somewhat better about myself. Then I began making up songs to amuse myself about the gruesome death of nasty ner-do-well fleas that plague innocent Shelties of sterling character.
I dosed Robbie with gentle and soothing words about exploding vermin soon to be falling off his sweetness. And I vowed to do better in the memory department for the rest of the day. . . I was going to be the epitome of “on top of it”. HA ! fat chance.
Much later, I headed out for yoga class. When I got to the gym I realized I had left without my yoga mat and towel. They were at home on the kitchen counter where I put them, “So as not to forget them !” I had to use the club’s rather nasty old mats that are not really the proper thing as your feet slide around too much. I had to modify several moves and LOOK like I was following Sarah’s instructions. I was very thankful that my permanent place is in the back row so I did not disgrace myself too badly.
But the whole time I was supposed to be focusing on my “breath”, I was reviewing my day and thinking. . . WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME ????
When I got home I found out.
My mother called me to tell me about her day. She was baking brownies for my brother who was coming to visit the next day. Her recipe calls for buttermilk. She uses powdered buttermilk that comes in a box. She got out all the ingredients and lined them up on the counter and started in. When she came to the buttermilk powder, she could not, for the life of her find out how much powder to add to the water to make three quarters of a cup. She said there were directions for lemon pudding, gravy and all manner of other things, but not the amounts to use for her purpose. She even read it carefully enough to notice that they had a web site and considered looking it up on her computer, but decided just to wing it and mixed some up and put it in her batter. She got her brownies in the oven. She then started to put away all the things she had gotten out. She opened the cupboard door and there starting her right in the face. . . was the box of buttermilk powder. She grabbed the box that she HAD used and looked at it again. Corn Starch. She had used corn starch in her brownies instead of buttermilk.
So the answer to the question, WHAT’S WRONG WITH ME ? is simple.
It’s hereditary.
P.S. Don’t worry chickens, the brownies and the split pea soup turned out just fine and so we can use the standard disclaimer:
“No food was harmed during the living of this absentminded, hereditarily challenged, post and peri-menopausal day.”
Thank you and goodnight.