Irritability

I woke up in Albuquerque and drove home in the dawn.  The sunrise was lovely further south:  feathery golden clouds outlining a sharp ridged blue-black mountain range.  Then the clouds got thicker, with wispy coverage down the slopes, and the mountain's outline went dim, merging into the clouds, which extended into the sky.  The rising sun kept climbing, trying to get above cloud cover, continuously edging it with gold, but finally the clouds won. By the time I reached home, we were socked in, the temp was 33 degrees, and the wind was whistling through the top story, where the windows are shut but not bolted.  (They will remain so until someone with a tall ladder comes by.)

This is fine with me:  I'm trying to take care of business in the house, and that bloody sunshine keeps dragging me outside.  Unfortunately, stormy weather brings out the worst in E.  "Don't you think we should bring in those chairs?"  "No, they've lived outside for 3 years, they are fine."  "But they'll get wet."  "And then they'll dry:  it just takes a short time."  "I think they should come inside."  "They are fine outside, there's no room inside."  "Just put them in front of the door."  "That's in your path to the bathroom."  "I'm going to bring in the chairs."

I put aside the crossword puzzle and bring in the chairs.  One is against a wall in the living area, the other in the shower part of the bathroom.  It actually looks okay, but I'll have to move it every time I take a shower.  And of course, there will be a chair shlep every time we want to sit outside.

Back to the crossword puzzle.  "We're running out of toilet paper."  "No, we have 8 rolls, I checked yesterday."  "We should get more toilet paper."  "We're fine for now."  "I guess E can buy some when she gets here."  "That's 8 days from now, there's no way we'll be using a roll a day."  "I think we need to buy more toilet paper."

To distract her from this topic, I set her up to read and reply to email.  That keeps her fairly occupied, with only occasional interruptions.  "I've lost everything I typed!"  "No, it's right there, see?"  "Oh, yes....but what's that?"  "It's the letter you're answering."  "Where's my letter?"  "Right there."

In between, I try to fix the cord to the Mac.  It is almost completely severed, and tape doesn't fix it.  So, I bring the laptop next door to recharge, and then start up the Dell.  And every time I try to open a site, I get the wheeling symbol that says nothing is loading.  I click on the reload button and go to the next site.  And click on that reload button.  And then back.  And then click.  And then close the window and try again.  And then click on the reload.  And....

I can feel my jaw clenching.  E gasps and calls my name, with a rising note of panic:  "I've lost the letter!"

At this juncture, a person with access to her wise mind would put on jeans and go for a walk in the now cloudless day.  But instead, I go into my room and start going through mail and papers and desk drawers.  I find a stack of things that need to be taken care of:  bills to pay or dispute, Cobra to be answered, the Sprint iPhone to be returned, receipts to be recorded and filed, tax info to process.

What have I been doing for the past month?  Clearly, not taking care of business.

It's all sorted and put away, still undealt-with.  E has successfully emailed her letter, and I'm trying to get motivated to do something productive or creative.  Or at least, non-irritating.