I was stitching binding on the quilt I've almost finished (always a victory for me, sometimes taking years, even decades.) I was trying to be disciplined - 30 minutes each morning, another 30 in the evening. But just because it's on the agenda, doesn't make it happen. This day though, I was determined. My deadline was approaching, I'd been loafing, and loafing doesn't cut it. My 30 minutes turned into 60.
How many stitches go into binding a queen size quilt anyway? I started watching the clock. Nine stitches per minute (are you yawning yet?) Yes, I timed it - nine, give or take a stitch due to knots and snarls in the thread. Experience has shown that these are not more quickly unknotted or unsnarled by muttering obscenities under my breath, or, in a house with nobody else in it, shouting them. Patience is key. Nine stitches per minute would be five hundred and forty per hour and, with the hours I've already done and those still to go, the final tally would be in the thousands. At this point my head started to throb, Enough math. Two sides done which, as it's square, meant I was halfway there.
My next plan was to make bread. I am not good at multi-tasking. I know this but, as mentioned elsewhere, the knowing does not stop me from occasionally trying. This was one of those occasions.
And somewhere in the mix I needed to get a package to the post office.
But I digress. A habit that drives the OC crazy. I tell him I'm too old to learn new tricks, leaving out any reference to dogs of course. Don't need to give him more ammunition. There I go again. You're probably starting to feel his pain.
Where was I?
The bread. I mixed up the dough, yeast bread this time, a long-time favorite recipe.
Ten minutes to knead, an hour and a half to rise. Time enough to clean up the kitchen, get to the P.O. come back, punch the dough down, shape it for the final rise, run to the grocery store for milk, back in time to turn on the oven, pop in the bread, set the timer.
Run rabbit, run.
Supper for one? Onions, mushrooms, oil, butter. Chop chop chop. Stir stir stir. Boil water, pop in ravioli. Set timer: four minutes.
In my speed and efficiency, I completely obliterated the time remaining for the bread. No worries. It should be done, I guessed, about the same time as the ravioli. Except - when the timer went off for the ravioli my attention was all on draining them, stirring them into the onion mixture and drooling in anticipation.
Bread? What bread?
And then a whiff, mid bite, of something baking. Hmm, what could it be?
#%@$*! I explode from my chair, wrench open the oven door, extract the bread.
Muttered obscenities don't work in the kitchen either, as it turns out.
That was last week. The OC is home; the stitching is done - yay; the bread was eaten, in spite of needing a axe to
slice hack it, though I won't be sharing that info with my dentist.
I'm thinking of using some old, seldom-used lipstick to scrawl a message on my bathroom mirror where I'll be reminded every morning.....
"One task at a time!"
It's worth a try, but - wouldn't life be awfully dull?