The Didn'ts

This weekend, at least for me, was all about the stuff that didn't get done.  Sir was incredibly productive - he taught a men's study Saturday morning and gave the sermon on Sunday at our local chapel.  He went for a 4-mile run on the mountain trail just outside our home.  He watched all manner of snowy German channels on the TV and could accurately describe to you the circumstances behind at least six commercial airline crashes from the German National Geographic channel.  He watched half of Iron Man 2.  He napped.  He ate yellow cake with chocolate icing.

I, on the other hand, didn't get the bank account reconciled, didn't get the package mailed off to my brother, didn't win one of the coveted shiny candy apple red mixers in The Pioneer Woman's weekend giveaway, didn't sort out all the piles on my desk, didn't make bulgogi for dinner because I didn't remember to buy carrots, and didn't manage to find us a house or apartment in which to live in Virginia, although I spent so many hours looking at rental sites that I could probably pass the realtor's exam.

Also, I didn't get the promised book review/giveaway post written, and it ain't happenin' today either, because I'm about to run out the door on extremely important errands which happen to be eating lunch with Monette.  I cannot confirm or deny that I will also be buying carrots and the 84 other things I forgot at the commissary on Friday even though I had a list with me and we will not even comment on the pitiful thing that used to be my memory.

Although I can perfectly, perfectly remember the most random and odd things, like how I love typing the word carrots, because it reminds me of my Grandma Dodds, whose handwritten recipe for potato soup is one of my treasures.  She spelled carrots with two "t"s, and for some reason, that's precious to me. I can't see the word without thinking of her. 

 And I can perfectly remember the look on The Girl's face the first time I tried to feed her baby food carrots out of a jar.  I have never seen a young child look so insulted.  I am vindicated, because at age 22, The Girl is a carrot-eating machine. Who knew?

What was I talking about?

 Oh, yes, things I didn't get done.  Um...I can't remember.  Must not be important, then.