There’s a Lot of Empty Space Between My Ears

Just the other day, after reading a thoughtful and challenging blog post, written by someone with mondo skills and a way with words that I’ll never have, I began to feel like even more of a space cadet than normal.

Vapid. Flat. One dimensional.

Deep down, I know I’m a reasonably intelligent person; I get LOTS of questions on Jeopardy right, and not just the categories about entertainment and food. I watch the news, I’m well informed on political issues and am a decent conversationalist. I think a lot, but I fear that I haven’t quite mastered the art of convincingly articulating my thoughts.

Maybe I need a speech writer and a Teleprompter.

I know that as I’ve matured, I’ve learned much. Particularly life lessons, which are far more valuable than knowing what a dangling participle is or how to splice an atom.

It just seems that when I read other blogs and am enamored, challenged and inspired by what the author has written, especially those authors that are up to 10 years younger than me, I start feeling vapid. I shouldn’t compare, I know.
Perhaps I should swap out my culinary mystery books and hours spent reading snarky reality tv commentary in favor of learnin‘ books.

I know our self worth shouldn’t be wrapped up in our jobs, degrees or money, or the lack thereof, but it’s hard not to feel like a lump when, well…you sort of are a lump.

Eh, maybe I’m just hitting a dry spell; sometime soon I hope to have something profound to say. Although, I highly doubt that any one expects the “Neurotic Housewife” to be all that profound. Which, is a huge relief because I’m doubtful that I’ll ever be anything more than a neurotic, gym loving, compulsive handwashing, baking, control freak.

So, now that I’ve reiterated my tendencies toward spaciness and other various neurosis, let me tell you what an air head I’ve been lately.

Because I’m sure you’re all waiting with baited breath.

Yesterday I confessed to my kitchen mishaps, often due to the fact that I’m sort of, um, spacey. It’s safe to say that my spaciness is not limited to the kitchen.

Most unfortunately.

A few weeks ago, Craig and I had a conversation about his TSP account, which is like the governments version of a 401k. He lost his password and has been waiting for a letter in the mail so that he could reset the password. Evidently he had ordered this piece of paper many times, but I mistook it for junk mail and threw it away. After this conversation, he said he was going to order the paper one more time and I firmly committed myself to retrieving that envelope from the mailbox once it arrived.
Last Wednesday, the envelope arrived. I said to myself, “hold on to this and give it to Craig this evening.”
I held on to it while I walked in the house and then set the envelope and the pile of accompanying junk mail on the floor and tended to what ever Caroline was squawking about at the time. Later, I returned to the junk mail pile (the one with the TSP envelope hidden in the mix) and THREW IT ALL AWAY! AGAIN!
Clearly, I disdain clutter and excess paper in the form of junk mail. It took me two days to figure my error out. On Friday I gasped in horror, realizing the error of my ways. I’ll dig it out of the garbage, I thought to myself. Only, Friday is trash day and by then, the envelope was long gone.
I called Craig, told him the said tale of my air headedness. He laughed. And agreed to order another envelope.
This time I promise not to throw it away.

No. Really. I won’t.

And then there is my gas bill snafu and the first late fee I’ve ever accrued.

A word to the wise: when the numbers in your checkbook register check out, especially after triple checking with a calculator, but the bank says you have more money than your records say you do, check to see if your gas bill payment went through.

Trust me.

I know of what I speak.

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2 responses

  1. I know of this smartness. I can testify to it. And I love you anyway.But, luckily for me, Charlie gets the mail and pays the bills, so anything like that would be solely his fault.

  2. Dear Neurotic Housewife, or NH:Although I am 55 years old, a Paid Professional Award-Winning Writer, I still often feel like a stupid, dim-witted imposter with nothing of substance to say.Hmmm….maybe you're more like me than either of us thought. (You're welcome, Craig!)

Yo.

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