A Non-Crafty Post: Where Has My Mind Gone?

Nothing card related here yet. Sorry about that. I just posted this on my other blog, but thought I'd share it here, too.

In Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Harry discovers Dumbledore's pensieve, a device that allows the headmaster to siphon off thoughts and look at them outside his brain. He tells Harry that it's useful when he has too many thoughts.

I want a pensieve.

My head is so crammed with thoughts that my memory circuits and gross motor coordination are suffering burnout. I remember, years ago, a virtual stranger telling me to be extra careful as I prepared our second house for sale. She said that stressed and busy people are so preoccupied with their thoughts they forget important things and get careless with their bodies. She recommended lists and staying centered in my body as I worked.

Before I started my Crazy Cleaning Witch frenzy on Monday, I reminded myself of this woman's sage advice and then promptly did the following:

1. I found the kids' Halloween cards in a box in the craft room. Forgot to give them on Halloween as planned.

2. I forgot an entire conversation about financials George claims we had. Suspect he had the conversation with his imaginary wife Bambi, who runs marathons, and has red hair without a lick of gray and large ta-tas. I hate her.

3. I forgot Jack had fed Daisy and thus committed the grievous mommy crime of entering a child's bedroom after he's supposed to be asleep. Remembered just as his eager and very awake face lit up that yes, he did indeed feed Daisy that afternoon.

4. I dropped a small bookshelf on my toe. No damage done, but as I had told myself "Don't drop this bookshelf on your toe" before I picked it up in the first place, I felt pretty stupid.

5. I have a bruise on my thigh. No idea where it came from.

6. I scraped a knuckle and cut a finger and didn't notice either until sticky blood caught my attention.

7. I decided to wait until Friday to move heavy stuff to the basement so George, who has Friday off, could help. Wait. That's actually sane and sensible.

This morning, George came downstairs and asked, "Do you remember telling me you sewed the button back on my brown pants?"

"Sure," I said.

He laughed. "Well, you didn't."

I clearly remember sewing that darn button on months ago. My brain is now telling me I've accomplished things I haven't in an effort to whittle the to do list down to something manageable, which is a clear indication that I need professional help. Pretty soon, when my house is ready to go on the market and I win my gold medal for "Best Staged House of 2011" Award, I'm going to find a psychiatrist and demand valium with a whiskey chaser and sleep for a week.

Maybe my mind will come back to me.

I think I'm going to need it.