A Burning Disaster
My birthday was 2 weeks ago. I’m 30. THIRTY! Jesus. It’s not like I’m exactly married with two point five kids, a house, a Range Rover and a zippy Mercedes convertible in the garage. I’m not a powerful businesswoman in a penthouse with even a Beemer and fabulous business trips. I’m not living in some fantastically quaint little hundreds of years old apartment in a fabulous European city leading the life of a chain-smoking artiste. I’m in L.A. in a chaotic apartment baking at midnight for Andrea’s housewarming slash potluck party tomorrow. I have suitcases all over the place half unpacked. I have shitloads of filing to do not to mention laundry and I’m not even sure I finished putting the groceries away. I haven’t opened the mail in a week and 50% of my shoes which belong in my closet are strewn about my apartment. At least I have lots of closets and rent-control.
Somehow in the last few years, the planets have refused to align. Lately, I’m no longer the obsessive-compulsive neat-freak with a great job and a knack for organization that you’ve all come to know and love. I think that my newly acquired hormone flux has not only changed me from a typical girl who’s cold, to a sweaty freak who needs the windows open at all times, it has also reprogrammed my brain somehow. The day before Brad and I were leaving for Europe, I drove back and forth from one side of town to the other multiple times because I forgot things, lost things… I don’t know. I almost left the house for the airport with no bras - my boobs without bras for 3 weeks in Europe?! I left Copenhagen for Prague with no underwear! I don’t forget things. It’s part of who I am. What is happening?!
I had to go to the grocery store 3 times tonight because I forgot milk, then realized I forgot the bag with the sugar at the store and then noticed I was out of flour and had to go back to the store again. After my bake time was half over, I realized I’d forgotten to add the sugar. I had to start over. When I took the pan out of the oven for the second time, I used my new rubber potholder. (It’s really cool. Check out one of my favorite stores www.surlatable.com) But instead of setting the pan down with my right hand, I grabbed it with both hands - the left one sans potholder. Yes, you read that correctly - I grabbed the freaking piping hot pan without a potholder. It’s a nasty burn. Not only that, but as I’ve been sitting here writing this, I forgot about the very item I’ve been baking and left it in the oven too long and burned it. (To my defense, my timer never went off. At least I don’t think it did. Maybe I didn’t hear it. It’s sitting right next to me, though. You would have thought I’d have heard it.) WHO THE FUCK AM I??!! Better yet, HOW DO I FIX IT?!
I am no longer a talent agent or a development executive. I could paint a pretty picture and say I’m a very in-demand high-paid freelance consultant for various companies but let’s get real. I work odd jobs. (And that’s not Ixel’s version of odd jobs which includes sweeping parking lots and such - but it’s close!) I have no clue what I want to do with my life and can hardly commit to a job that I’ll be bored with by next week. Yet somehow, I’m working about 10 jobs for no money that I don’t like all at the same time, and have been doing so for years. Ironic, don’t you think?
Is this the early on-set of senility?!
