About Half a Bubble Out of Plumb

Mr. K is, as I've mentioned, "pre-employed" since the sale of his company by a CEO who shall remain nameless but who has the morals of a sewer rat trying to get to an appointment with its drug dealer (not that I'm bitter...but said CEO walked off with over 60 million dollars for the amazing feat of running a company into the ground and adding 700 unemployed people to the local economy...he's not my favorite person in the whole world). He (Mr. K) is, however, attracting some interest from local companies seeking brilliant scientists and is off today having a full day interview and giving a 40 - 50 minute presentation to the entire company. No pressure. He's been sleeping only short periods for the last two weeks as he's perfected this presentation and spending the rest of his time locked in our home office. He emerged yesterday to give the presentation to me a few times for practice....I was pleased to note that he looked much as I remembered him, although significantly more tired and more than a little wild-eyed. I think that nervous tic is new, as well.

All of which goes to formulate an excuse of sorts for the fact that I am, indeed, about half a bubble out of plumb and have been so for the past few days. See, I'm nothing if not a giving wife, so why wouldn't I shoulder some of the panic and stress and anxiety for my dear husband? (Also, he's not here to defend himself so, for now, it can be his fault that I'm a nutjob.) Check this out:

I was trying to work on chemistry and realized 10 minutes after the fact that instead of writing "100 mol" I had inexplicably written "1 moo" in about five places. I have no possible explanation for this, since we were not doing any sort of cow experiment of which I'm aware. Then again, I think we can safely say that my awareness may be a tad bit impaired.

I shaved my legs and armpits with $7-a-bottle shampoo, designed to increase body and shine. Applied lavishly, naturally. I have no desire to find out what I washed my hair with, but it did lather quite nicely, and my legs are quite shiny.

I have forgotten repeatedly to purchase fabric softener but have not forgotten to wash all of the fleece garments in the house. As a result, I could power all of Seattle and half of Tacoma purely on static electricity (if you see me somewhere and I have a sock stuck to my ass, there's a reason. Not a good one, but a reason.)

On the way out the door yesterday morning (at 7 am) I somehow decided that spoonful of leftover trifle was just the thing. Yes, I am appropriately ashamed, and yes, I know that it is hardly breakfast food. But I thought chocolate might help and I was running late and probably had a sock stuck to my ass and...well...I just did it, okay? It wasn't until I was halfway down the hill that I realized I now had alcohol breath and further realized that, if stopped, I would probably claim 7 am tippling before admitting to eating a spoonful of chocolate trifle for breakfast....because poor chocolate control somehow seemed more shameful.

I am knitting with such grace and skill that I might just as well be wearing oven mitts when I pick up the needles. The mosaic socks are finished, but only because I have a high tolerance for repetition (ie, repeatedly frogging back to the pre-stupid part and gamely pretending that my head is somewhere other than the immediate vicinity of the abovementioned sock so I can knit it again with some new and more fascinating screw-up).

I have somehow begun to fantasize about a short jacket knit in a mosaic pattern, possibly in black and white because I am obviously quite mad. I'm not even sure it wouldn't make me look like a cleverly patterned barge or a tapestry-covered barn with long hair...and yet, I have ordered a book of mosaic patterns. This cannot be a good sign.

I hunted a good 20 minutes for the blue size 1 dpn that was nestled securely in my pocket the whole time (I had put it there, of course, so I wouldn't lose it); I ironed my husband's interview shirt for at least 15 minutes before it occured to me that something involved in this procedure should be getting warm....like the iron, maybe (ohhh, you have to turn it ON first); I pinched my finger in the folding doors on the mudroom closet because after three years living here I apparently don't know better than to lean on them; and I dumped half a can of diet pepsi down the side of the washing machine onto the hardwood floor because I somehow thought that after approximately 3745 times of leaving the cans partially full, Mr. K had this time miraculously emptied one before setting it in the recycle pile.

See what I mean? Half a bubble out of plumb. I have the house to myself today, but I think the best plan is to sit quietly and not touch anything. I may start knitting a new pair of socks...with the understanding that it's an exercise only and unlikely to produce anything other than a very small, colorful, and well-ventilated onion bag. The computer hasn't blown up, though. That seems like a good sign.