What it's like to be me

I should be working, and it should be easy given that the standing mixer is kneading my bread for me. And especially since the halogen lights under our cabinets will warm the resting dough for me after the kneading is complete. (Especially after JBL and I pay someone to mow the lawn for us [which they just did today in this the FOURTH WEEK IN NOVEMBER - why is my grass still growing?!], and after I just offered to pay someone to clean my windows for me, which I have never done and am feeling guilty about. Next thing you know I'll be paying someone to clean my house. NEVER.) But I can't concentrate.

The mixer is kneading so violently that it is slowly moving across the counter towards the edge - slightly forward, with a slightly counter-clockwise spin. I don't think it will actually fall off the edge because it is turning more than moving forward. It's got about 2 inches and 15 degrees before I turn it off for the dough's first rise anyway, and at that point it will still be a few centimeters shy of the precipice. Even with this knowledge, the grinding sound of the motor, combined with the slap of the dough as it hits the side of the bowl, combined with the thump-shuffle sound of the mixer moving incrementally under its own volition is drawing my eye. The mixer, my mother's, is easily 25 years old. Like all appliances of its vintage, it weighs about a thousand pounds and is 80's off-white, but it gets the job done.

I glance at my documents on my laptop then quickly gauge the mixer's progress. Like staring straight at the rode while JBL is behind the wheel, my attention seems to ensure progress continues (safely). Meanwhile I am actually accomplishing nothing. So what do I do?

I decide to write about it.