When I turned 50, one of my friends sent me a much needed brain cell.
When we started redoing our house 2 or 3 years ago, I packed away my brain cell, and last week I found it while unpacking items stored in a box.
You know, sometimes this is the only brain cell I have. Why did I pack it away?
Saturdays are spent doing 4 to 6 loads of washing, cleaning floors, making bread, etc., that I don’t do during the week when I try to write on my book as much as possible.
We have a load limiter for our electricity, so weekends electricity is cheap. During the week it’s cheap from 9:15 at night until 8:45 in the morning. This means that the clothes dryer doesn’t really dry clothes if it is on a week day after 9.
It’s been a bit of a flurry of activity here at the Crazy Smith house.
A couple weeks ago, I took 2 of 4 (remember the Borg?) to the airport for a week’s vacation.
We had a guest coming in the afternoon and I needed to put clean sheets on the queen guest bed that 2 of 4 normally slept on. But Monday morning, before driving to the airport, 2 of 4 confirmed that maybe the basket of 3 sets of sheets I thought I had washed on Saturday (basket photo #1), had not indeed gone through the washer or dryer recently.
When I arrived back home, I ended up using a mismatched set of not that attractive of sheets. Oh well. That’s how it goes sometimes.
when I get to the second stop of my morning and get a call from my husband that my license that I used for ID because I thought it would be quicker to make deposits in the drive through (not knowing I would need an ID—I haven’t gone through a drive through in a long time) is still at the bank?
Did I not see it when I took out the receipts, or was it not in the tube?
What does it mean when I can keep rough track of some 900 events and people in the book I have written, but I can’t remember that I need to make sure I get my driver’s license before leaving the bank?
My sister visited last week. Fortunately, she called to let me know that her plane was late. Had she not, I wouldn’t have gone to the airport to pick her up. I wrote down her arrival as a week later even though she had sent me her flight times. Fortunately (#2) she laughed about the episode and we had a grand time taking in some Arizona sites.
I recently acquired a new cellphone number—long story.
I keep hoping I don’t lose the half page orange sticky note that the number is written on. It took me four years to memorize my last cellphone number. There’s no chance of me memorizing this number.
Maybe I should have a listing for myself in my own address book?
Phone Stats for Hero and Super Mom’s family
Land lines: 2
What’s wrong with one phone number per family? Fifty years later, I still remember our phone number from our house in Michigan on treeless Peach Street—282-4908.
“Swiping the credit card and figuring out what keys to push on yet a different machine,” thought Super Mom to herself, “has been driving me crazy for a long time. I think that’s something to post about.”
“Hero’s ‘muffin faux pax,’ should make another great post,” mused Super Mom outloud as she planned another scenario for her blog.
A yellow traffic light flashed its ugly smile and Super Mom, back in reality, decided to stop.
But the speed to distance ratio was not in favor of a slow gradual stop.
“Bummer,” thought our heroine as she brought Jeepers to a very abrupt stop and the $6/3-pound glass bottle of honey dashed to the front seats of the Jeep, hitting she didn’t know what, and seeped honey out of the new hole in the jar.
Super Mom thought about the 2 bottles of Safflower oil that had also rolled out of the bag, and that she had ignored the thought when putting the bag in the back of the Jeep, that the glass bottle and jars she put in back might fall over when she turned a corner.
Nor had Super Mom remembered to take the package carrier/tote Hero had bought to contain groceries. It wasn’t that she had purposely not taken it. But the tote had been used for taking items out of the pantry which Hero was tiling, and SM forgot—Apparently, the old brain, short memory problem.
“Sounds like another Super Mom Post,” our former heroine thought to herself, as she cleaned up honey from the mat—the only place the honey spilled, fortunately.
So why is it when you check out of any store, each credit/debit machine is different?
It’s not enough that the digits and words (yes/no/enter/credit/debit) are never in the same location, but sometimes there is a stylus, and sometimes its “finger touch.” And almost always you feel pressure from the cashier and folk in line to “hurry up.”
It’s been in place some time now (but this is the first chance I’ve had to complain about it), but what’s up with the machines that use both “finger touch” and a stylus…it just drives me crazy.
Maybe my problem is that I have an old brain.
