Why I Will Never Be In Charge of Launch Codes

I think I have finally recovered from the lack of sleep last week.  Hopefully.  With some extra assistance from the giant Tim Horton’s French Vanilla I treated myself to.  When we spoke last week I was mentioning that Molly and Grace were both ill with the monkey pandemic, and Maggie had just had dental surgery.  I got all 3 on their feet and shipped back to school on Wednesday, sure that we had narrowly dodged starring in our own Outbreak sequel.  It seems I was counting my chickens before they were hatched.  I think my major mistake was disinfecting and putting away the barf buckets.  It’s just like taking snow tires off too soon in the Spring.  Classic rookie mistake.

Molly was off the rest of the week.  I slept for about 12 minutes total.  And as much as I can feel my mental sharpness turning duller than the fiftieth consecutive game of Candyland, I had no idea that my everyday state of confusion was the “I’m on top of it” version of me.  The tired version of me is so much worse.
Last week I forgot the pin number of the credit card that I use every day, multiple times a day (honey if you’re reading this, just disregard that last statement…it was an exaggeration, and I really keep it in the freezer for emergencies only).  I was at the foot doctor of all places.  Not even buying something to be excited about.  I went to enter my pin, and I felt that wash of panic when I realized that I had no idea what the number was.  In the desperate hope that my fingers would at least remember what the numbers were I stabbed away at the terminal.
Denied.

One more try.  But now my fingers were just sweating everywhere instead of doing their job of remembering the code.  Eventually the secretary just politely removed the machine from my defeated limp grasp.  I think she was worried that I would short out the terminal with the sweat.
Now here is a handy tip.  If you are going to forget your pin number, don’t make jokes right beforehand by saying “I don’t know…let’s give the Mastercard a whirl and see how that goes” in answer to their question of how you would like to pay.  Because then it just looks like a weakly constructed cover-story that you don’t know your own pin.
I tried one last try last night because I was sure that the number in my head was right.  It was denied again, and apparently that was my third strike.  I paid cash and tried not to look too shifty-eyed so as to not end up in the Shopper’s Drug Mart jail cell.
Later that week I decided to return all of our overdue library books, since I now have no idea how I would pay the fines.  I dropped my daughter off at her activity, congratulated myself for excellent multi-tasking, since the activity was in a building with a library branch.  Running a scene through my head in which I receive a “Most organized mother” oscar (yes, we will forget the fact that the books were late in the first place, so how organized can I really be?), I held my head high and strode toward the library.
And walked smack into the sliding glass doors.
The library was closed.  The automatic doors did not open.  My picture is now hanging up in the library office beside those of nose-pickers and the people who spend just a little too much time in the “About your body” section of the library.
I guess we can add my library card to the growing stack of now-useless cards in my wallet.
Hopefully my driver’s licence isn’t next.
Because I am clearly not responsible enough for a bus pass.

Comments

  1. says

    This is hilarious. I recently forgot both our pins and went through the rigamarole of changing them twice before the bank figured out that I had just typed it in too many times. Sheesh.

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