I must be consuming a high-fibre intellectual diet, because I’ve been having an awful lot of brain farts lately.
A few weeks ago I was out walking in the park near our place. We’re a friendly bunch here in Calgary, and when we meet fellow walkers we usually offer a ‘hi’ or a ‘good morning’ even if we’re total strangers.
I was striding along, my brain totally wrapped up in a plot point for Book 9, when I noticed this smiling lady approaching me. To normal people, this would be a visual cue that some response would soon be required.
But I think we’ve already established that I’m not normal. She said ‘hi’, and my brain short-circuited.
I knew some response was required but I couldn’t formulate any appropriate words. Fortunately my mouth kicked into gear a moment later and I managed a ‘hi’ in return. Not exactly complex linguistics, but the amount of effort it took was downright scary.
Then a couple of days later I was deep in writing when I remembered it was bread-baking day. I went down to the kitchen and got out my mixing bowl and spoon, pulled my hair into a ponytail… and started looking for my safety glasses.
That’s not quite as random as it sounds. We’d been trap-shooting a few days previously and it’s reflex to put on my safety glasses when I shoot. But I don’t know why my brain suddenly decided to substitute ‘shooting glasses’ for ‘apron’. I’ve never heard of anybody requiring eye protection for flying flour dust.
And I guess I was thoroughly involved in my plotting, because a few days later I flopped onto the couch and moved the TV remote from the seat cushion to the coffee table. Just as I let go of the remote, a sudden urgent thought popped into my mind: “Oh, shit, I just left fingerprints on the remote!”
That was immediately followed by a facepalm. I’ve lived in this house for sixteen years. My fingerprints are everywhere. Since I don’t watch TV they’re not terribly likely to be on the remote, but I’m sure in the course of the last decade or so I’ve handled it a few times.
And anyway, why would it matter? I can’t think of any crimes one could commit effectively with a TV remote. Bludgeoning someone to death would be unnecessarily laborious, and the batteries’ tiny bit of electricity wouldn’t make them do much more than twitch and squeak…
No, I haven’t spent a lot of time considering this; why do you ask?
I guess there’s always the possibility that Hubby secretly owns a fingerprinting kit and has been trying to catch the malignant ghost that causes his PVR to periodically ditch its programming. But even if I had been the guilty party, I hope the consequences wouldn’t have been too severe.
Then again, messing with a guy’s PVR programming is probably grounds for divorce. (Hubby, if you’re reading this, I didn’t push any buttons. Honest. You can dust them for fingerprints if you like.)
Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out what I can feed my brain that might reduce my cognitive flatulence. Any suggestions?