That isn’t a euphemism, though it might be fun if it was. In case you’re wondering, I can also type with a banana in my mouth, and you can just get your mind out of the gutter right now.
I know I shouldn’t type with a banana in my hand. I’m well aware of the effects of mashed banana on the usefulness and mean-time-to-failure of keyboards.
And I learned years ago about the deleterious effects of multi-tasking when someone (no, neither Hubby nor I) cremated a chicken while watching television in the basement. Until then, I didn’t know it was possible to start with a dead chicken immersed in boiling water and end up with a half-melted pot containing a crispy black cinder.
We first detected the stench from more than a quarter-mile away. When we arrived, a thick pall of reeking smoke obscured the main floor of the house. It took days to air the place out. Nobody was happy by the end of that episode, though I’m pretty sure the chicken was past caring.
I blame the internet for my current multi-tasking disorder. Before we had internet (yes, I am that old), I had to make a concerted effort to be distracted. I had to get out of my chair, look out the window, drift down to the kitchen to graze on whatever snacks might be handy, whatever.
Now my ass takes root in my desk chair while I write, email, text, tweet, phone, check RSS feeds and surf the web. I’ve gotten so used to doing umpteen things at once, I caught myself bouncing up from the table several times during lunch to rush off and do something else. I actually had to force myself to sit in the chair and eat an uninterrupted meal. That may be a way of life for people with families, but I don’t even have kids (unless you count my puerile brain).
Some people are good at multi-tasking. I’m not. I can’t even listen to music while I’m writing.
That doesn’t stop me from trying.
The other day, I found myself in the kitchen slicing zucchini and loading it into the dehydrator. Jars were sterilizing in my canner, a big pot of jam boiled on the stove, and my laptop was open on the couch so I could work in between kitchen tasks. When the phone rang, I fired up the hands-free and carried on canning jam while occasionally zipping over to reference my laptop.
Disaster didn’t strike that time, but I could easily have poured the jam into the dehydrator, stuck zucchini slices in the laptop, and dumped the phone into boiling water. Try explaining that to the caller at the other end of the line.
I’d like to say I plan to turn over a new leaf, but it’d be a lie.
‘Scuse me, gotta go – my chicken’s overheating.
Get your mind out of the gutter.
P.S. Hell, who am I kidding? One of the great joys of life is creating filthy innuendos whenever possible. Go for it. You know you want to. And you know I’ll laugh.