Vitamins, coffee, baby powder, biscotti and reading glasses
I’m going out of town today, to Blowing Rock for the month of July. This is thrilling for me, since the heat and humidity here have reached approximately the same temperature at which I bake lasagna. I have not left the house in almost a week, and have turned the air-conditioner so low that all the windows have fogged up and I can no longer even see outside. I don’t care. Life should almost never mimic the sizzling center of hell, and if heaven is perfection, then it will be constantly chilly, and everyone will need a sweater! I’m just saying.
So, this is me getting ready to leave town: Yesterday morning, I’m packing my medicine, vitamins, etc., in the little pill-keeper my daughter bought me, sitting on the bed divvying stuff up. I’m out of three supplements, so I stand those bottles on the dresser to remind me to buy them, and I suddenly realize I am SO FRICKIN’ OLD that I now take a zillion vitamins and supplements just to stay ALIVE, and I’m putting them in the same pill-keeper my GRANDMOTHER used ... O.M.G..
I hurry to the living room and paw through old magazines to find my Prevention, where there’s an article about how few of these vitamins we really need without, like, dying. As I settle on the couch to read, I need my reading glasses, which are in the kitchen. I find them on the counter, next to the coffee-maker, and decide to make coffee first. When it’s perking, I pick up my glasses and see my list of things to do before I leave. The first one is “pack medicines,” so I return to the bedroom to finish that. I put my reading glasses on the bedside table and see the lined-up vitamin bottles -- I’ve got to add them to my list.
When I take them to the kitchen, the coffee is ready, so I set them on the counter and pour a cup, remembering there’s one chocolate biscotti left, but when I open the pantry door I remember that I have to pack food, but I don’t have a bag yet. So, I find the biscotti, leave the pantry doors open to remind myself what I’m doing, and go upstairs to get a big canvas bag.
Upstairs, there are no towels in my son’s bathroom, because they’re in a heap on his bedroom floor (my son has been visiting from Wilmington the past few days ... on a completely unrelated note, I’ve now developed severe ulcer symptoms, and the dentist says I’ve ground my teeth into tiny nubs ... huh ...).
So, I put out fresh towels, gather his up, and go downstairs, where I see the open pantry doors on my way to the laundry room, and now I forgot the canvas bag for food, and I see my cup of cold coffee, so I put it in the microwave for 3 minutes. I start the washer, and remember that I have several other things to wash, so I stop the machine and run to get the other things in my bedroom. But, I’m wearing some of them, which reminds me that I need to shower, so I leave everything in a heap on the bedroom floor and go shower before starting the washer (otherwise, the shower will have about the same force as baby drool).
After showering, I use baby cornstarch powder, but I’m almost out of that, too, so I take it to the kitchen to add to my list, and hear the microwave repeatedly beeping, where I discover my once-again-cold coffee. I set it to 3 minutes, take a bite of biscotti, and go to write powder on my list, but my glasses are gone again. I swore I’d left them in the kitchen, but I check the laundry room and see the partially filled washer and remember that I’d forgotten to bring the other things to wash. So, I go back to the bedroom, and see my glasses on the bedside table. Grabbing clothes and glasses, I return to the laundry room, throw everything in and start the machine.
Back in the kitchen, I see three supplement bottles and a Johnson’s Baby Cornstarch lined up on the counter, to be added to the list, but where are my glasses? I just had them! I race to the laundry room and raise the washing machine lid, where I instantly spot them just below the water line. I’m so relieved. I dry them off and return to the kitchen, where I see that Prevention article on the counter. I put on my glasses, sit at the table and begin to read. Slowly, I’m aware of the microwave beeping ... and beeping ... and beeping.
I may not be leaving for a few more days ... wait a minute ... did I take a shower?
Vicki Wentz is a local writer, teacher and speaker. Readers may contact her at email@example.com, or by visiting her website at www.vickiwentz.com.