It’s Not My Fault

I didn’t get enough sleep. I mean I did, for most people or a small moose, I did.

But it doesn’t feel like I did.

I woke up with that rubbery feeling in my brain.  The one you get from the night before when, your body is sleeping, but your brain is still stuck in overdrive.  I guess from all the airport uncertainty and manic midnight drives to Passenger Pickup and back. And I was just the picker upper person and not the pickee.

And when my rubbery brain is in overdrive… that is not a good thing. 

When my rubbery brain is in overdrive… I start thinking of things like, wouldn’t canned soup be better in a bottle?  Unscrew the lid…take out soup…close the lid, and refrigerate.  Finish the soup…recycle the bottle. 

Neat, clean and efficient...

And should the bottle be plastic or glass? Glass could break…plastic could leak. So maybe something metal, like a can is the way to go.

And isn’t it good news for all those plastic containers designated 3 thru 7, which are now eligible for recycling pick-up, previously allowed only for plastics designated 1 & 2; those, up ti'l now, insufferable snooty pieces of elitist plastic. 

Move over boys, you’ve got company, in the red container!

(I didn’t say my brain was funny, today; I just said it was in overdrive)

Sometimes—and I can’t be certain—on those nights, that precede days like this, I think my brain, while my body is sleeping, will go out and mingle with other brains; less desirable brains from questionable neighborhoods, with suspect upbringings.   

I think these bad brains will often try and fill my innocent brain with bad ideas and try to get my brain to engage in questionable activities such as joining up with a "brain gang" in order to wreak havoc on the more acceptable, yet unsuspecting, general brain population.

And when you wake up with this tired, rubbery brain feeling, which to me is like having this big hole in the middle of my gut and a scratchy wash cloth stretched over my eyes, with a swath of thick cotton wrapped tightly around the inside of my skull, you can’t shake it; it’s with you, everywhere you go… all day. You even have to buy it lunch, and sometimes dinner, because it’s notoriously cheap and will never kick in, not even for the tip.

And now my slop sink in the basement is leaking.  And I haven’t slopped in it for years. But isn’t that a great name?  Slop sink…I shudder to think where the term came from or just what was being slopped. 

The basement is filled with cool names.  The Sump pump, which is used I suppose to pump sump, which is not as widely appreciated in North America as it is in some smaller European countries.

There’s the boiler, which is pretty self-explanatory, and the furnace, which is the closely connected cousin of the boiler.  And let’s not forget the silcock, which is a very, misunderstood yet indispensible piece of plumbing, that for the most part, is largely kept concealed behind stone walls, and is largely shunned for its unsavory name.

Sorry…I told you.  It’s not my fault.