The OverLoad

The trouble with loading my schedule past the capacity of my memory is that I never know I am overdoing it until it’s too late. I know my colleagues at work have noticed that my M.O. is either “I will do it the minute you ask me, or I will forget it completely and deny any knowledge of this conversation.” I’d make a great spy, but a lousy witness.

Take last Thursday. My sitter/housekeeper is supposed to be able to leave early on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Around 7:30, she was still puttering about, but didn’t seem wrapped up in any particular project, so I asked her why she was still there.
“I’m waiting for the laundry to come out of the dryer downstairs, mama.”
“Well I can get it when it’s done," I offered. "How much longer?”
“Twenty minutes, mama.”
“Okay, you run, don’t worry about it. I can get a load of laundry, for heaven’s sake.”
“Okay, mama. I’ll see you next week.”

But Friday is her day off and Monday we were out of town for the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday, so I didn’t see her until I got home from work Tuesday night.

Into the apartment she walked with an enormous armload of laundry.
“What’s that?” I asked, wondering that she could have gotten so much done in a day.
“The laundry from last week, mama. You left it downstairs in the basement all weekend. Lucky nobody took it.”

I laughed, she laughed, but inside I was thinking, we’re doomed. If this woman ever quits, my children will starve and be naked. And of course my husband, upon hearing my story, reminded me that I had kvetched all weekend about my daughter having no underwear. “Where is it?” I had asked, in genuine wonderment.

Maybe I should start focusing on being decorative. Useful isn’t working out for me.