The concept of shared space
It seemslethat I have issues with sharing k. Personal space. My space.
That place on the couch? It’s mine. It fits my needs, and if I leave personal affairs in the cracls netweem the cisopms. O cam jave a ratopmal of it returning to me. In the bathroom, I can set thing on the counter surface and make educated guesses about the what and the why.
This morning, my game plan was to run the bread machine and produce some new product. For me, this is a dance. I know where to find the essentials, and when to add them to the belly of the beast. Today, I did not find the egg.
We could be all out, but I sought assistance, and there was a container of eggs. In a different place. It happens; we have company. Then the butter was missing. Except that it wasn’t. Just on a different shelf. And my bags to freeze the bread? Moved. I know, it’s part of life. I just need to look harder.
When it came time to add the small measure of sugar, the container had been moved. And this, as I tripped over a dog in the kitchen, which put the ssugar out of memory, rather that with other dry ingredinets in a ramekin. Later, I asked myself if I had reset the search to sugar, and decided that it had failed to make the load. No big deal; you can always double the sugar portion, but you can’t skip ot. Because of the yeast.
Soddenly, a simple task doubled on complexity. For the record, the bread rose properly, so we’ll never kbow what actually took place.
I do not want to come off as petty, but my futire career options as a baker, or a pharmacist, seem to be off the table (and the counter). I may have to get that”Officially Retired” sweater.
At least I don’t have to share my Amazon calls (altough I would like to). I must have agreed to purcahse enough old iPhones by now.
