Burning socks, drowning electronics

We've had our new microwave for four days now, and already, I've burned up two pairs of socks. It's not funny. 

Let me explain: It's freaking cold outside (30s) and my hands are terribly prone to freezing, so I like to carry hot bags of rice or other grain or legume in my mittens. 

The first hosiery execution can be chalked up to the newness factor of the microwave -- there's always a learning curve while you get used to a new appliance, its whims and personality. This one is just plain prejudiced against socks. White socks. (Hey, maybe it's a certain neighboring state's baseball team it doesn't like.)

Tonight I put a pair of rice-filled cotton anklets in for just 36 seconds. A whirling black fog practically hurled me across the room when I opened up the door. It continued to smolder for a half hour in the trashcan outside. Thanks to my dogs needing certain byproducts to be disposed of, I opened the trash can (again, to a whirling black fog) and found it continuing to smoke and smolder. 

From now on, I'm pledging to heat the rice up separately (in a bowl) and spoon it into the socks, rather than heating up the socks. 

Speaking of issues with new electronics, my significant other's new SanDisk MP3 player arrived a handful of days ago. It's a replacement of the one I accidentally dropped in the toilet when I forgot it was clipped to the waistband of my sweatpants. (Oops ...)

 

Just had a mini anxiety attack when, in the midst of writing something on deadline, I forgot how to spell the word anxiety.

Note to Self

Must remember to remove Icy Hot tube from toothpaste drawer.

It took me three months 

... to reply to a letter from my perfect, wonderful tenant, who has offered to BUY MY HOUSE several times over the past year. But I finally did it yesterday. TRIUMPH!

This presented a huge "drauma" for me -- dramatic and traumatic. I sweated and shook as I wrote the letter in the smallest print possible, to disguise my quakes and discourage anyone from reading it.

The letter basically said nothing, other than maybe buying me a few more months to make up my damned mind. I really love that house but have no business being its owner. For one thing, I'm 72 miles away from it. For another, in the event that a roof or furnace needed replacing ... OMG. Enough said.

My wonderful and loving partner (WALP?)  is saying, "MEA, LET IT GO, TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN LIKE HELL." He doesn't understand the mental hold that big old place has for me. I can't explain it, either, and it makes no sense. But then, so little of my life actually does, so why would it?

And en route to the library to photocopy said letter (yes, it was written in that prehistoric medium called ink) drauma struck again.

After climbing through the huge construction zone on the main drag (I'd parked on the opposite side because I'm too cheap to pay 25 cents to park at the library) and nearing the building, I noticed that my eyeglasses were not hooked on my shirt-neck, where I had tucked them to make room on my face for sunglasses. 


PANIC!

This discovery required poring through the construction rubble, attempting to retrace steps (but since I had taken a winding and random route, not finding them), running home to see if I lost them there, frantically searching the house as well and yard between the back door andcar, lamenting and berating myself and finally accepting the fact that yet another pair of eyeglasses were lost and this was one seriously expensive letter I had written, and why the hell didn't I park near the library? 

Returning to the library in a depressed state, I planned to park closer this time. But then, thanks to the ADHDer's lack of impulse control, I swerved around at the last minute and parked where I'd parked before. One last attempt at retracing my initial blase route through gravel, outhouse-sized holes in the road, damp cement and sweaty guys in chartreuse shirts.

Then yelling HOLYSH**!! when I saw them literally in the middle of the road, smack dab underneath a rope I had lifted to duck under. My spectacles were within feet of a cement mixer. But saved and unscathed!

Then, I was smiling like Stevie Wonder, saying what a wonderful day this was and being inside the library calmed me down immeasurably, because libraries elicit that wonderful calming response for me. 

Copy made, I hazarded the construction zone again to the post office a block away to mail the damn letter.

I got within two yards of the front entrance, but since I was on the street-rubble side of the fence, there was no easy way to actually get IN the post office. A kind stranger on the other side of the fence saw my lame leaping and halted high-jumping the fence and offered to post my letter for me.

What a great day it turned out to be.

Scatterbrainedly yours,
Mea

Still rehabilitating from Thanksgiving

I made it through an overnight trip out of town and back without leaving anything behind besides a coat. For three days afterward, I couldn't find my polar fleece hat and my latest book, but they turned up in the bottom of my bag and in a pillowcase, respectively. The logistical situation, I declare, was a success. 


Never did find the MasterCard I lost last month, or the eyeglasses that fell into a black hole in September, but welcome to my life.

For the most part,  I'm still plugging along without Adderall --  with the exception of two doses of 1/4 tablet each on Thanksgiving, in order to sort out and pay attention to all of the various kinfolk conversation-strings being strung and woven across the room. I really haven't noticed much of a difference, since it never seemed like I was that much sharper on Adderall than off it. Dull on both sides of the knife, I guess.

Yamming it up in Scatternoggenville,
Mea

The sheer number of stupid things I've done in the last four days alone has prompted me to take up this blog again.

As I pen this, my cell phone is sitting on a brick outside in the sun. Drying out. Yes, I washed it. In the high-efficiency front-loading Fisher & Paykel. Not just a wash cycle, but an added spin cycle for good measure. 

Today is Thursday. It happened Wednesday, the same day I misplaced my credit card for the second time in three days. Wednesday is also the day I discovered I had a whole series of books-on-CD overdue at the library. And stepped in a paint-can lid loaded with of wet, black flat interior latex. And used my mate's BP savings card to put in eight gallons of gasoline when he specifically told me an hour prior that 10 gallons was the magic number to achieve the savings tally. (In my defense, I had just picked up my terrier from cancer surgery and was not all there. Not that I ever am.)

Tuesday, I lost my cell phone, literally. On the trail near our house. I finally found it in some long grass after two laps of the trail on my bike, with my mate at home repeatedly dialing my number and random strangers being alerted to be on the lookout. 

Monday, I discovered that my overdue library magazines are at my mother's house 72 miles away. And don't get me started on how many items I misplaced at my parents' house.

My own house is a disaster. Hobbies in progress, projects in progress, unfinished projects, paper lists of to-do's, stacks of bills, scattered newspapers, prospective "merchandise" for my mother's resale business, cans of paint, paintbrushes, lampshades, broken knickknacks that need gluing or touching up. My purse sags with a disorganized array of coupons, grocery lists, lip gloss, a tape measure, Swiss army knife, toothpaste. Checkout counters mean a red face and a major archaeological dig to find my driver's license.

She's baaaack

And just as spacey as ever.

2014 was supposed to be The Year of Getting Things Done.

But have I?

1. Here it is, mid-August, and I STILL HAVE NOT FILED MY TAX DOCUMENTS. WTF?

People just don't understand this, and yes, it makes absolutely no sense. (Yes, I filed for an extension, wonder of all wonders).

I've had plenty of free time -- I'm unconstrained by kids, needy parents or a real job of any kind other than writing my brains out and occasionally helping my parents at their store. Surely plenty of time exists for making messes around the house? But seemingly none to clean them up.

2. After being out of town for three weeks working at said store, I've been home for five whole days now -- 120 hours -- AND IS MY SUITCASE UNPACKED? Hell no.

It's wide open, in the middle of the hallway, a humongous green zit that just got popped. And it took me till yesterday to notice that the butt-cushion I'd been driving around with in my car is actually a Sendik's bag filled with dirty laundry from said trip.

3. I still  haven't sent out my Christmas cards. Is that really even still on my to-do list?

Give it up!

Scatterbrainedly yours,
Mea