Friday, January 4, 2013

Ideas—Lost in Transit

Here it is the first Friday of 2013, and me all out of ideas.

Sorry about that.

My new year’s idea shipment was apparently lost in transit.

At least that’s what the Idea Warehouse told me.

An idea warehouse screwup…already.


So I’ve got nothing…nada…zilch.

I knew I was getting low, sometime around late October, so I cut back a little in November.

But then I took another inventory in late November, thought I was okay, and just gobbled them all up through the end of the year, expecting a fresh shipment to arrive long before the holidays were over.

And now they’re lost…probably floating around, somewhere in Jersey, like the time they ended up with that woman named Myrtle who wrote a “New Mom” Blog.

You can imagine how that turned out.

But I hear she’s been released, with supervision, and is back to writing about the day to day witticisms and life lessons provided in the dirty diapers of toddlers…with or without the Zombies.

The shipping company tells me they’ve been investigating this latest screw up and say they should have some answers soon.

I told them I don’t care about the reasons, I just need my ideas.

And they said, “That goes without saying…” whatever that means.

I should have known something like this was looming.

The New Year wasn’t even 9 hours old before I had already broken a glass.

And you know what that signifies…?

Well, yeah….me neither.

But it must signify something.

Some people say it’s a bad sign of things to come….

While others say it’s a good sign, of evil being thwarted.

Cuz apparently evil is afraid of broken glass.

Which I guess makes sense.

Who isn’t?

But maybe it’s true, because I didn’t get in any trouble or anything, even though it was Z’s favorite holiday glass.

As is the norm on most weekends and holidays, I was sitting in the sunroom doing something pointless on the computer, while Z was in the kitchen being her usual pointed self, fixing us a celebratory breakfast to welcome in the clean slate of days that lay ahead.

I finished with the computer and set about pushing it away from the edge of the table where I sat, to make room, so I could grab the newspaper and do something pointless with that.

Crash went the glass, which Z had only placed on the table minutes before—a fancy holiday goblet, purchased lo these many years ago—and out splashed the orange juice that had, until that moment, resided within.

Immediately, I did what you would expect me to do—I started concocting ways of blaming this on Z, mostly for surreptitiously hiding the glass from my vision, without announcing it as any self-sufficient normal person should do with a  moron.

Across the table and onto the adjacent chair and carpet below ran the sticky, orange slop.

“Damn it!” I cried, as I was now required to toss the newspaper to the side and begin to panic in a proper display of concern.

This was not the way I had expected to start out my new year.

But to my credit, I played it perfectly…even if I do say so myself.

I cursed myself, pulled the nearest extension cord from the wall and began to thrash myself about the head and shoulders, before wrapping the wire around my neck and tying it to the ceiling fan.

I knew this outlandish self-flagellatory behavior would immediately draw Z out of the kitchen, which it would have had she not gone into the basement to change the laundry.

So I had to wait…and wait…and wait….

Eventually, Z returned from the basement, saw I had scoffed up all the paper towels and Oxiclean, and eventually came into the sunroom, where she cut me down from the rotating ceiling fan…after a while.

Once I was able to speak again, I began to call myself every explicative in the book, to which Z was nice enough to add a few herself.

But I sensed my ploy was working since Z took pity and said she wasn’t upset since she expected nothing less from me…New Year or not….which I thought was kind.

Once the sticky mess was sopped up and the broken glass tossed in the trash, we happily went on to enjoy our first breakfast of the New Year without further incident, except for the thing with the maple syrup, but that could happen to anybody.

So who’s the moron now?

Well, yeah…I know…but, you have to admit, moron or not, I played it out perfectly.


I guess I better go call the idea warehouse again.


  1. My ideas get imported all right, but they have a habit of vanishing. I find myself standing in a closet, wondering why am I here? Oh yes - that age-old question that has baffled savants throughout history. When the idea first occurs, it is best to grab it before it disappears. So I am apt to repeat the idea several times while I am on the way to accomplish the work that accompanies the idea. It is not advised to postpone the idea, for it might be lost until next year when it will be too late. Like the lost chord.

    1. If you’re like me you’re probably in the closet looking for the ice cream. Which reminds me of—- wait…now,I forgot what I was going to say.

  2. And the world might suffer because what you were going to say was IMPORTANT. What if Mozart thought about an amazing little ditty he wanted to perform on the clavicord. Then while on the way, he stopped to pick his teeth, and forgot his great idea. Gone forever. Like Jimmy Hoffa.


Retort to the Retort -

“Is there anybody alive out there…”