I... uuuuhhhh... Forgot

I get ideas for this blog every morning while I'm in the bathroom smearing unguents, spraying potions, swallowing fists full of enteric-coated nutritional supplements plus the odd prescription drug because ideas, ipso facto, are most prolific when one is least able to act upon them. For instance, I have advocated many times for better pay, better working conditions, more respect and less workplace responsibility. In the shower. Nowhere near anyone who might be able to do a blessed thing to satisfy my demands. Why is it the brain drops little reminder bombs to buy Grandma a Christmas present this year while you are attempting to keep a Pontiac StateShip on all four wheels steering around renegade trash cans the Waste Management people fling into the middle of the road after emptying them?

So, I meant to write an expository essay this morning about which, for the love of Pete, I cannot even restore the hint of a gist of a feeling, let alone the subject matter itself. Sometimes, it's possible to recreate one's thoughts by placing oneself mentally back into the location and mood in which they originally occurred. The closest I can get to that today is remembering that I was actually staring at an open medicine cabinet. I must have been completely put off by the embedded chin whisker that stubbornly would... not... budge... from its little hidey-hole, no matter how doggedly I dug at it with my tweezers. Or perhaps it was the frustration that is mounting to the level of rage about my inability to put anything away on the shelves of the medicine cabinet and have it stay there. The second I set it down it leaps right back off the shelf and knocks over whatever toothpaste tube or paper cup it can detect with its Knock Crap On The Floor radar. Seriously, I take down the bottle of ZitZapXtraStrength, smear some on my face, recap the bottle, put it back on the shelf. Whammo! ZitZapKamikaze bounces off the vanity and flies into the sink. Next, the bottles of peppermint oil capsules, fish oil capsules, and Vitamin C tablets each take their turns in my hand then push off from the glass shelf and execute swan dive-bombs for 2 Year Old's Orajel toothpaste tube, with Vitamin C Bottle finally succeeding in knocking it on the floor where it spins like a bad memory from some long ago party game. Dove anti-perspirant rattles the cup full of toothbrushes. Disposable Contacts -- oh, let me just sing the praises of the box of disposable contacts! They don't even wait for their placement back on the shelf. They fling themselves from my hand into a bag of trash bags stacked perilously atop another bag of bags, littering wadded-up Market Basket-emblazoned #2 plastic sheeting over half the room. Now, that's just mean. Could they have landed in a clear spot on the floor? No. Huh-uh. They must choose the six inch space between vanity and wall, mounded with Costco-sized packages of bog roll and paper cups and the aforementioned trash-née-grocery bags.

Therefore, I come to you today with no news of which to write. Nothing new on the knitting front, except to say that I am on cap 8 which correlates to the Sand Stitch in Blue Barbara Walker. I have baked no Christmas cookies yet. The decorations are still in the attic. The cow manure is still in its plastic bag instead of cozily blanketing the heirloom rhubarb in my garden. The caramels made last weekend for Dad's Christmas present are still sitting in their pan, waiting to be cut and stowed neatly into a wrap-able and ship-worthy tin or box.

Did anyone see "The Office" last night? Bloody brilliant. Written by Gervais and Merchant themselves, their style shone through in the utter cringe-inducing quality of the episode. You can tell they've had a hand in it when you have to ask yourself, "Was that funny or so true I need to weep?" I love that show.