Sometimes It's Better to Laugh at Yourself

For starters, my computer died. Yep. Just like that. Wes thinks it's the motherboard, which means I should be able to (eventually) retrieve all the stuff I was careless enough to not back up somewhere. Mostly pictures and music.

So I'm writing from Dad's computer. And trying to get used to the fact that when I get a new computer (I'd already determined to save for one before mine kicked the bucket), it won't be anything like my old one. These new, shallower keys and funky mousepads tick me off, especially when they have invisible scroll bars my hands too often settle over.

Either way. That's not why I'm posting. And yes! I did have more of a reason to post besides the old "It's been a week, so it's time to post" reason.

I didn't work yesterday. Not "work" work, that is. I babysat from around 9 to 11:30, and then rushed off to join Mom on paper routes. Thus far, work has not prevented me from the Thursday route routine. Not that I'm complaining.

As usual, we had to wait for papers. Good thing I usually have a book with me. This sitting around waiting in line is another part of the routine, and I don't know why we keep expecting it to change.

Mom has a new route in the downtown area of...town. There's about 40 papers, and it takes around 45 minutes to deliver them every day. Lots of businesses and official buildings and stairs and hallways and poor little people suffering in their cubicles. I think I've mentioned this before now, to some degree. Oh, well.

The last part of the route involved me speedwalking/jogging a couple blocks to deliver to four places. One is a congressman's office, and there's always one guy in there who's really nice. It also tends to smell strongly of coffee. Another place is a jewelry store, and the old lady who owns it is quite the character. Her moods are unpredictable and entirely unrelated to the weather as far as I can tell, so that some days all she does is scowl and other days she is very polite, though I've never seen her smile.

After I walk/jog these four deliveries, I meet up with Mom to run the last few papers in one of the coolest buildings downtown. The outside is mundane, but inside is skylights and bright colors and patterns. It's a collection of organization offices, like the Red Cross and Cancer Association or whatever it's called. The people are always nice (and usually the same people every time I see them). It also has a cool staircase. (Cool enough that I still enjoy it though there are 30 steps.)

Wow. Sorry. I totally didn't intend to write that very long preface to this very short story.

Typically, Mom and I stop for a pitstop here before continuing to her driving routes. Yesterday, I decided to grab a drink at the water fountain outside the restrooms.

I don't really like water fountains. I don't like having to bend over them and contor my face into strange shapes and slurp just to get a decent drink. Also, the only drinks I like ice cold are milk and iced tea, and the water in water fountains tends to be very cold. I did have a waterbottle in the car, but, for whatever reason, I chose the water fountain.

It was absurdly low, and I pitied anyone taller than myself who happened to pass it in desperate need of a drink. Then I bent over it and casually touched the button.

I'm used to having to apply just a little pressure to get the water going. Not with this fountain. The next thing I know, there's a stream of cold water shooting up my nose. I recoiled, snorting and spluttering and trying not to inhale any more water because my nasal passages were already burning. As I was wiping at my face with my paper route hands, a woman came out of the ladies' room.

I kept my head bent over the water fountain as she inched past me. "The water fountain attacked me," I muttered, attempting a chuckle. She just kind of smiled uncertainly and gave a little laugh before hurrying away.

Not wanting to bother with the fountain again, I went into the restroom to clean my face. By the time I'd scrubbed off the ink from my hands, my nose was all red.

But I decided it was better to spend a few minutes laughing at myself (and then plan a blog post and give you the chance to do the same) instead of moping over an attack from a water fountain. If only I'd apply that principle to the bigger things in life.

The Curse of an Overactive Imagination

I had started to write this at 10:30 this morning but got distracted and only just came back to write it, at 11:30 at night, when I can barely think. Ah, well. To start, Mom and Dad had returned around 9 last night from their Mexico trip. None of us had gone to be until 11 or so, and I didn't really fall asleep until midnight.

Around 3:30 AM, Mom and I were up for paper routes. As my siblings were joining the youth group at an amusement park for the day, I took the duty of routes.

Wes had taken the car to pick up papers, planning to then drop off Mom's at the house so we could both do it at the same time. But the battery in the car had died, and the jump cables were sitting in our dead van, parked at Muffler Man and waiting to be repaired.. To top it all off, no one knew where any of the van keys had gone.

Why do adventures have to happen so early in the morning?

We headed to Muffler Man, praying all the way.

Thankfully, the van was unlocked and we got the cables and headed to the paper. By the time we arrived, some kind bystander had assisted Wes in restarting the car. We got our papers and headed out on routes.

By 6:15, we were home again, and both went back to bed. I woke around 9:30 after some very weird dream where a guy with a gun was robbing a bunch of people in the store and I saved the day. Or was in the process of it when I woke up. My last dreams every night tend to go something like that.

I woke to the dog barking downstairs. He never barks unless he's upset, and usually when he barks inside it's because someone is teasing him. I knew Mom and Dad weren't up, so I went to investigate (and as I'm leaving my room I hear the text message alert from my phone: Mom asking me to make the dog stop).

Hershey was standing by the front door, half-barking, half-growling. Peeking outside, I saw a brown truck parked outside our neighbor's house. I tell the dog to hush and continue to peer through the translucent glass in the door. Nothing happening. Still, my ridiculous imagination was already going to work running through a hundred different solutions.

Then a bright blue truck streaks by and parks in front of the neighbors on our other side. Hershey promptly moves to the window to whine. A lady gets out and unloads some stuff from her truck. Then minivan pulls up behind her.

In many ways this overactive imagination of mine is a good thing, considering I'm a writer. But it never stops working, and usually in relation to real life it tends toward pessimism. Rather irritating. I'd already witnessed cars driving slowly up and down the street over the last few days and become sufficiently unnerved, and then this.

I'm too embarassed to tell you what was going through my head at this moment.

I plead insanity. My mind was clearly not coherent.

And then the carriage appeared.

Yep.

A literal horse-drawn carriage loaded with ordinary people just rolled right on by.

What would you think after witnessing this display? Probably something sane, like my mother suggested as soon as she appeared to ask why the dog was still being noisy. Me, I want to know where the carriage came from, because it was coming from the dead-end side of the road where guardrails would have prevented it from coming through the park. Mom's totally unfazed.

Turns out the church at the end of the road was having some giant rummage sale and the carriage was part of the event. When I had stepped out of the room to grab something in the kitchen, the carriage had come down the street unnoticed by me and so seemed to magically appear when I returned.

I love my imagination. I love being able to create without any effort. But I am often ashamed of the sort of ideas that pop into my head. It's not wonder I have psychotic dreams. For the sake of my sanity and that of those around me, I pray God shows me how to put this creativity to really good use, or I'm in trouble.

Well, it's late and my mind is again becoming a drowsy mushball, so I'll stop here.

That is not the recommended way to prepare rice...

Anyone who knows me fairly well knows I have a poor memory. Perhaps it's more than that, but to make things simple I say it's memory problems. (Also, one of life's ironies: needing to remember to take memory enhancing vitamins. Just saying.)

It might be forgetting to turn of the sprinkler for the garden or misplacing my phone (the most popular). It's not uncommon to see me suddenly jump up, muttering to myself, and dart away, or to hear me pound down the stairs shouting my dismay. (Of course, the latter could be because I just dropped my phone off the roof...)

Today it was rice. I have a bad enough habit with food as it is. I'm almost deaf to timers, and if I get distracted with some interesting book or movie or the like, I zone out everything, even the horrid smell of something burning, which is why it's best I don't leave the kitchen while food is on.

Rice should be easy. Put it in water, boil it, then cover and simmer for a good half hour or more. What's so difficult about that?

Right.

Mom called and asked me to make up a bunch for her, so I pulled out our largest pot and put in 5 or 6 cups of rice and set it on high to boil. Then I wandered away to finish a movie. I got distracted browsing barnesandnoble.com and accessories for books. I didn't take much notice for the burning smell arising from the kitchen. It wasn't until Allenna made a comment that it all came rushing back to me, and the jump-up-and-dart-away-mumbling routine began.

I know what terrible things can happen if rice is left on the heat too long, and I had given the whole huge batch up for lost before I reached the stove. But no! Maybe it wasn't as long as I'd thought. Sure, it was smoking and stinking up the whole kitchen, but the rice wasn't dry yet.

I grabbed the pot and pulled it off the burner, then flicked the switch to turn off the burner itself. Upon further examination I discovered that the only burnt rice was at the bottom. Pretty much all of it was almost perfectly cooked. Yeah! Not too dry, not mushy. Talk about miracles.

Is it weird that I then became weak with relief? I'll be honest, actually forgetting things is only half of what bothers me. What really gets to me are those horrid disapproving looks from the people who witness my memory blunders: shaking heads and severely angled brows and mouths that convey hopelessness better than a single word could. You'd think that alone would perk up my memory.

Now I'm coughing back the stench of burnt rice and laughing at myself. I'm also wondering if enough of this blunders will ever teach me. Or maybe it's time to buck up and down a couple Omega-3 tablets a day. I would prefer fish, but I'd probably burn it half the time....