Saturday, 10 March 2007

My head is stuffed with cotton, hay and rags!

I'm not sure who said that, but I'm guessing it was the Scarecrow in 'The Wizard of Oz'. Like him, I could sure use a brain transfer. Thank you for your informative emails -- I am now ready to try to add links here. Soon. Not to-day because I am still smarting from having the Blogger editor eat yesterday's attempt to post. I got it up and even previewed it but the preview was not exactly like the actual post and when I saw it there I didn't like the length or punctuation, once I saw it on the screen. I then tried to edit it. The punctuation would not change and the changes would not repost. I tried yelling at it, reasoning with it and ended up sobbing and pleading that I was an old lady and it wasn't FAIR! In the end I deleted the dern thing. Wasn't a great piece of writing anyway.

To-day I was going to try getting a picture onto my profile, but I just checked my email and got hit on to do a couple of things this afternoon, so maybe later. When I feel stronger. And smarter.

I never have been particularly organized; my drawers, filing cabinet and thought processes are all a mess. I keep string, elastic bands, clothes I can't wear, useless bits of information, poetry and esoteric vocabulary in these locations. Under them may or may not be found the scissors, clean underwear and information about our health insurance that I'm asked for. I am also not a good time manager. After 44 years you would think he would know better, but my poor husband keeps making suggestions about how to make things better. For instance: "I would think you would trip on all those papers on the floor." "Do I have any socks?" "You don't usually iron in the evening, do you?"

He needs to do the same things at the same time in the same way every day. He needs me to do that too. And I'm hopeless. Am I out the door running the errands I was asked to do? No, I am sitting here typing. Our elder daughter struggled as a toddler and small girl with separation issues, phobias, unidentifiable fears. As late as her last year of high school she needed to know where I was if she had something stressful going on. I didn't have to be with her, but she needed to know she could reach me if she had to. Her daughter is a lot the same and when she stays here she keeps close beside me all the time. Both my husband and my daughter are highly successful people. You would think I could learn. Only I don't.

Oh, yeah, and the spell checker is a bit anal retentive on this thing. (Sorry, Google programmers. You sound so proud of your 'Out of Beta' editor.)

1 comment:

  1. Ugh. I hate those days. And Blogger can really be a pain sometimes. I hope today was a better one.

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