Are you familiar with the sitcom, Modern Family? Do you watch it? Is Al Bundy still good ol' Al? Never mind. I caught part of last evening's episode, a rerun, in which Gloria is pregnant, and her neighbor/friend, I'm not sure which, tells her she has that brain fog pregnant and premenopausal women are afflicted with. You forget a lot. Well, I came down with the affliction. I won't say which one, in case you wonder, and when it happens I am shattered. Well, maybe not shattered. I shudder.
ten five minutes ago I whimpered. Shucks! Just lost my train of thought. Was trying to recall where I found this dusty thing . . . Oh, heck! I found it, was happy to have found it, dusted it off after I picked it up and felt something wedged betwixt the pages. I really did whimper.
Whimpering did nothing to change the fact that I'd put two pieces of mail in a little book, and forgot about them. No wonder some people stop writing! No wonder some people get peed off. There's no telling how long they've been hiding out between pages xviii and xix. It could be the same reason I cannot recall where I found the book just minutes ago. I blame the brain fog. It affects pregnant and premenopausal women, and if we're honest . . . It affects everyone, and not just Gloria. I am neither. I mean, I am not pregnant, premenopausal, or named Gloria. I have an Aunt Gloria though. Should I steam one of the envelopes open? Does it matter? Should it matter? Won't the recipients be happy to hear from me?
I know this much though, and I give myself credit for recalling it: Stressing out over a "Modern Family Moment Mail" episode in true life is not worth making my brain feel shame. This whole thing is funny as hell. Okay, hell isn't funny--I've been there. It is fodder for this little post, and a squidge of laughter. After all, I could be making dinner instead.
Date of discovery stamped for authenticity. Is also the day I begin to fill up my scavenger book. And who in the world has a pocket big enough to hold it? Oh, well.