Lesson to me...always write posts offline. Typepad's online compose editor is a big bag of dicks (I said I was trying to clean up my vocabulary. That phrase is a vast improvement over my normal vernacular.)
The post I had written expressed concern about the state of my brain, and repeated a story about a conversation with GG and TDML about said concern last week...I told them about driving in to work on Friday (via DMV to drop off Floyd's plates so that my license wouldn't be suspended when his insurance ended, the bank to augment the six cents that were in my wallet, the mechanic so he could meet and inspect the Blue Streak, and Dunkin' Donuts to redeem the coupon for the free pound of coffee that the Red Cross gave blood donors in January before it expired that day) and listening to the Streak's lovely CD player (there was then a digression about having graduated to an actual CD player in the car, instead of a Discman-to-cassette adapter, and a further digression about being too cheap to buy the integrated SiriusXM receiver and choosing to live with a tangle of wires that fortunately is hidden in the armrest) when "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" came on, a song to which I have known every. word. since I was nine years old.
Then I dropped down a paragraph, just like I did here, and said:
I forgot half the lines and ended up murbling every verse at least once.
Then I defined "murble" as the sound you make when you're singing at the top of your lungs and realize that you've screwed up the lyrics, and try to correct mid-word--it's neither a vowel nor a consonant, but a murble. Murbles are sung.
So then I went back to the story, because that was, after all, most of the point of the post that I am now recreating even though I should be going to bed. I said to GG and TDML that I was thinking that I was going to schedule an Alzheimer's screening and start shopping for an assisted-living facility while I still cared whether or not it smelled like urine and sour milk. As the conversation went on, it came up that I'm studying for my accounting midterm, was planning my part of our group paper in Strategic Management, am behind on getting two estimates and a detailed project schedule done at work, and am in the throes of memorizing four songs to which I'm singing backup for our company band at a Red Cross fundraiser in March (and then I think I went off on a tangent about not being able to read music or hear any one particular element of a song, such as, oh, the HARMONY, which means that I have to memorize what I need to sing, though the words, "What is Hip?" are not difficult--it's more the when to chime in that's an issue).
The punch line, when I finally arrived there, was that both GG and TDML pointed out that perhaps my brain is just full, or tired, rather than rotting from the inside out. (It shouldn't actually be rotting, now that I think about it, because I do my best to preserve it with alcohol on the weekends.)
Then I put in a picture of the Streak that's actually out of date, because she now has license plates and has been driven 660 miles in one week.
Right about then, Typepad shit the bed went toes-up on me.
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