Well, I'm currently organizing Donna's trip pictures, burning disks, listening to Pandora, http://www.pandora.com/) listening to Ben try and guilt me into playing web-games with him and blogging, so as I see it you have at least 20% of my attention tonight. This whole multi-tasking thing is a bit exhausting. Kind of like the spinning plates, without the cleanup. Why do we do this to ourselves? It used to be that if I went to work for 8 hours and stopped to pick up dry cleaning, I needed a nap. Now, we're expected(?) to do 3 or 4 things at a time and not leave the baby on the roof.
All of this reminds me of the story of Toby a few weeks back. I was taking dirt to the dump in my van. (Yes, that is a lunatic story unto itself. Suffice it to say that a Plymouth Voyager is not a dump truck, yea, nary a pickup truck. It's really a van and nothing more. Even with the seats taken out...Yep, still a van.) So, I'm taking the dirt to the dump and am very focused on finishing the job on that day. Very focused. Donna asks me if I can put the dog out before I go. "Sure", I say as I grab the dog, my hat, sunglasses, and my water bottle. Very focusedly, I put the dog down, because I have many things in my hand at the moment. I proceed to go to the dump and shovel the dirt out of my not-a-truck van.
As I get back on the road to return, Donna calls me and says "Do you have the dog?" "Uh no" I reply not so focusedly. "Where did you put him?" she asks. OK so now the defensiveness sets in. "Why, on the chain of course", knowing full well I had no recollection of ever hooking him up on the chain. Wait, maybe I chained up my hat instead. Or maybe I shovelled the dog into the dirt pile. OH I DON'T KNOW! I admit it I have no idea what I did with the dog. I do know the dirt is done. That much I took care of. The non-living, non breathing no-furry faced dirt is well accounted for. Oh I'm a horrible pet owner. The dog probably followed the van for a couple of miles till he tired out or got "tired out" by a car, if you know what I'm saying.
To say the other end of the phone got a wee bit frantic at this point might be an understatement. "I've got to go and try and find Toby" (the dog I didn't value more than dirt, evidently) she said.
To make a tragic tale turn to good, she called me after several anxious moments in my dirt-smelling van-not-a-truck-thing and told me that the dog was in the corner of the yard. She said he had a look on his face of disbelief and wonder at his new found freedom. Luckily he has a smallish brain at this point and hadn't quite pieced together that freedom with the fact that it extended beyond his back yard. Either that or he actually likes us.
The scary part of this story is that I have no recollection of what I did with the dog. I'm guessing I set him down and forgot about him. Either that or he figured out the opposible paw thing and managed to free himself from the chain. Yeah, I'll run with that story...
So I am capable of great momentary lapses of reason at 45. What the heck is 90 going to bring? Lord help me.
Well, my CD organizing beckons and I need to tend to it before I forget why I logged on. By the way can anyone tell me what my password is?