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I despise cumulative statistics.
"Americans eat a zillion pounds of sugar/wheat/dust mites/lint every year."
"In a single year average suburban mother is recorded approximately 16 hours by shopping mall surveillance cameras-- more minutes than the complete running time of Berlin Alexanderplatz!"
"In the average decade, commuters lose out on 5,000 precious hours better spent with pets, books and family."
The numbers are all vague and saddening, designed to make you feel unhappy about things you can't change much and thought were just part of life (the commute), paranoid (those surveillance cameras), or guilty (the foods you love are horrifying).
So I ignore those sorts of assessments for the most part but, lately I've been wondering about the enormous amount of time I spend looking for things, weeding under couches, peering into shelves. In the old days, the pre-toddler times, if one were to leave a non-food item someplace, it would pretty much stay there (note the hungry terrier exception). Now, anything could be anywhere at any time because of the wandering randomizer that is my older child.
It doesn't matter if I try to get organized or set policies about things such as: where Black and White Doggie will stay when we go out or why the buttons I have to sew back on a sweater can't go in his pockets, because I have to turn my back at some point and then the center stops holding.
The only way to keep track of things is to become like an FBI serial killer profiler, putting oneself into the mind of the mysterious creature that relocated everything.
Once upon a time, I was the most eccentric person living under this roof. Now I'm apparently investing many minutes every day becoming the straight man.
posted by Elise at 6:40 AM
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