Scattered

My mind is all over the place these days.

My house is a mess - a total disaster. But there is light at the end of the tunnel, so we're just breathing deeply and getting through it. I dusted yesterday - seems pointless, as there is more drywall to be sanded. But at some point, I had to rid the furniture of at least one layer of filth.

We are leaving on spring break Friday. And I have a laundry list of things to do - a long list. Meetings, errands, stuff around the house.

Which explains why I forgot Sylvia's dentist appointment today. But not how I had 30 minutes to shop sale racks.

I know. I don't understand either. Nor do I understand some of these "designers," a term I use loosely here. Why I would I want to wear a sweater with little pockets on the sleeve? Or a pullover with a fake T-shirt sewn into the V neck? Or anything with pleats on the empire waist?

Yuck.

So, lacking a transition here, I'll segue into Sylvia's fourth-grade class play on Indiana history. I am fully up to date on the state of Indiana through 1865. On the relative importance of canals, of flat boats, and of abolitionists vs. secessionists. I am a bit annoyed that the note sent home had the start time as 1.15 p.m., yet when I walked in - at 1.10 - the play had clearly been underway for at least a few minutes.

I sat by one of the other mothers I know. Who is fine, most of the time. But feels a constant need to drop into every conversation that her husband is an aeronautical engineer.

Um, OK. So is mine. (My husband's bachelor's degree is in mechanical & aerospace engineering. His master's degree, too. In case you're interested.) But I don't necessarily need to remind everyone every time we talk. I have another acquaintance who likes to make sure all the kids call her husband Dr. X.

I wonder if it has to do with insecurity (which is what I suspected of the neighbor who always wanted us to know just how successful he was, how he had just joined the country club, how his wife could afford to quit work now). Or with an over-inflated sense of importance.

Either way, people notice. And aren't impressed.

OK. That 400-page book is not going to read itself ...