(Note: for those of you tuning in because you’re concerned about The Melting that was scheduled for today, I bring good news: yesterday my phone changed its mind and decided that rather than the “SUN MELTING, OMG!” it had predicted , we would just be having “non-stop rain” instead. So THAT’S good. We can stand down the vigil at least.)

Yesterday I broke my favourite coffee mug.

I was reaching into a cupboard in the kitchen to get one of Rubin’s treats, and my elbow knocked against a tub of Marshmallow Fluff, which fell to the counter and landed on my mug.

The Fluff was fine. The mug was not. And, OK, it was just a (FAVOURITE!) mug. But given that this week has seen the lost of my favourite dress AND my favourite mug, I have to wonder: WHAT NEXT?

They say these things come in threes. I’m not going anywhere NEAR my favourite shoes this week, that’s for damn sure.

I lost my favourite dress.

I know: how do you lose a DRESS, I hear you ask? That’s what my parents asked, anyway, and I tell you what I told them: if there is a way for me to do something inexplicably stupid, I will surely find it .

And I obviously did.

The green dress had been resident at my parents’ house for a week. I’d worn it and, because I am me, had spilled food down the front of it, leaving a huge, greasy mark. I tried to remove the mark, but succeeded only in making it even bigger, so I did what any self-respecting adult would do:

I took it to my mum and asked her to wash it instead.

My mum did this, and also ironed the dress, and then she placed it in a carrier bag, along with a little top I’d bought, which she’d altered for me.

And that was the last time anyone ever saw either of those items alive. Or, indeed, dead. They quite simply HAVE NOT BEEN SEEN SINCE. Which begs the question: HOW?!

I don’t remember taking the bag out of the house that night (last Saturday). No one else remembers seeing me take it. The assumption, though, is that I DID take it, because it is no longer in my parents’ house, and trust me, they’ve searched. They’re probably still searching now, actually.

But it didn’t make it to our house, either. Neither Terry or I can remember bringing it out of the car, and we’re both as sure as we can be that this is because we DIDN’T bring it out of the car. We’ve conducted fingertip searches of both the house and the car several times. Over, and over, and over again we have searched. The bag containing the clothes is nowhere to be found. It’s almost as if it DIDN’T ACTUALLY EXIST IN THE FIRST PLACE.

At the moment, the most likely scenario we’re pursuing is that it was lost on the way home that night. You see, we did not come straight home. No, we stopped at a local park to let Rubin have a quick run before bed, and the only thing we can think is that somehow when I opened the car door to get out, the bag must have fallen out of the car. This doesn’t seem all that likely, to be honest: it was a wet night, and I was wearing my new Prada peep toes (the walk wasn’t planned, by the way. I mean, even I normally wear something a little more practical to walk the dog), so  I was having to look quite carefully at the ground, to make sure I didn’t step in a puddle. I can’t help thinking I was looking at the ground so intently – especially around the car, which was parked in a particularly muddy area – that I would’ve noticed something lying on it, but in the absence of any other explanation for the whereabouts of my dress, I guess this is the one we have to go with.

(Also, Terry used my phone to take some photos of Rubin and I walking, and the bag isn’t in them, so we know I wasn’t carrying it.)

This all happened last Saturday. It was a couple of days before I realised I didn’t have the dress, and when I DID realise, I assumed I’d left it at my parents’ house, so it wasn’t until Friday that I realised it was actually MIA. Terry did return to the alleged scene of the crime this weekend, but needless to say, there was nothing there, and the park warden said nothing had been handed in. So it’s a mystery. And it’s a mystery that has REALLY freaking annoyed me. I mean, this dress wasn’t an expensive one – in fact, it was one of the cheapest dresses I own(ed) –  but I LOVED it. It was my favourite. And because I bought it ages ago, the shop has long since sold out of them, and so it’s effectively irreplaceable. Ditto the top. My only hope now is that one comes up on eBay, but the chances of that are slim, and so I think I’ll just have to accept that I’ve lost my favourite dress, and will never see its like again. This makes me sad.

Meanwhile, I am a woman tortured by the effort of trying to remember the events of That Night. Where did the dress go? Where is it now? SOMEONE must know something. Did it run away? Was I not a good enough owner for it? Did it quarrel with the top, and then something unspeakable happened between them? Did the top bury the evidence, and then go on the run, to escape justice? WHAT HAPPENED TO MY GREEN DRESS?! And how will I find out? Should I put up posters around town saying HAVE YOU SEEN THIS DRESS, REWARD OFFERED or should I just find a good hypnotist and see if they can unlock the key to my memory and uncover the grisly truth?

Or should I just buy another dress, instead?*

*Nothing will ever compare to it, though. Alas, poor dress, we hardly knew ye!

So, I just finished writing this massive post about how I totally thought I’d deleted a huge chunk of my novel (No, I haven’t forgotten I’m supposed to be writing a novel. I mean, I’ve TRIED to forget, but it WILL keep popping into my head when I least expect it), and had therefore freaked out ever so slightly before starting again from scratch, and how, really, that was the best thing that could’ve possibly happened, because at least I meant I didn’t have to feel obligated to keep writing that crappy novel any more, and could start a whole new, better one…

… and then I found the missing document containing The Novel.

I had re-named it “Hi”, and saved it in my “Accounts” folder.  You know, as you do.

GOD, I really miss Florida.

And now I have to get back to the, er, two sepparate versions of the exact same story I’m currently working on.  Gah.

You know when you’re out somewhere, and you suddenly decide you need to use the public toilet, so you do, and then on your way out you’re walking past a huge gang of teenagers when you suddenly become aware of a strange, tugging sensation at your foot, so you look down and realise that – yes! – a long piece of toilet tissue has become attached to the heel of your shoe in the bathroom, and you’re now proudly parading it through the local mall, like some weird kind of streamer?

That.

Still, I’ve always known this, or something very similar to it, would happen to me one day, so in some ways I’m actually glad it’s over with. And never to be repeated, I hope.

I think it would be fair to say that I’m not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer a lot of the time. In fact, sometimes I can be downright forgetful.

Take last week, for instance. On Monday, Terry and I went to visit his mum, taking Rubin with us, as usual. When it was time to leave, we both got up, walked to the door and opened it. It was only as Terry, who was in the lead, stepped out of said door, that his mum called out to ask if we were intending to take our dog home with us at all, or were we just planning to leave him there?

(Damn, another plan thwarted.)

We went back for Rubin, of course, but my jacket was not so lucky: Terry’s mum called us on Tuesday to let me know it was still hanging in her kitchen, where I’d left it, so basically I’d just got up and walked out of the house when it was time to go, leaving ALL of my possessions behind me. This is something I haven’t done since I was a kid, when the school bell would ring and I would just get up and leave. Twenty minutes later I’d be back to collect my bag, coat and other sundry items… Actually, no, that’s a lie: I HAVE done it since then. When I was a journalist, I used to occasssionally drive to work, and only when I was getting out the car would I realise I’d left my handbag (complete with EVERYTHING I’d need for the day) and coat at home. I’d also regularly leave my headlights switched on, thus ensuring I’d leave work at night to find my car battery was completely dead. Fun! (The car I have now has an alarm that goes off if I try to get out of it when the headlights are still on. I wouldn’t have bought it without that feature.)

Then, on Thursday? I decided to go to the library, to return the books I’ve now renewed online three times because I didn’t have time to actually GO to the library. (Or, indeed, to read the books, which was annoying, because I don’t feel like myself if I’m not reading a book at all times.*) I was halfway there before I realised that, whoops, I hadn’t actually bothered to bring the books with me. THEY were sitting on the table in the living room. Not that it mattered: I mean, I’d have had to turn back anyway, on account of how my rearview mirror chose that moment to leap dramatically off the windscreen, landing in my lap, and adding a frisson of “Oh my God, I hope the police don’t see this!” excitement to my return journey as I attempted the drive home while holding it up in front of me, like a hand mirror.

I did manage to get to the library eventually, but I’m sure the teenagers at the bus-stop, which I passed six times in the space of 20 minutes, probably thought I was a spy, hired to keep watch on them. A really half-assed spy, obviously, because as I passed them for the final time – yes! – my mirror fell off again.

Gah.

On Friday, the washing machine died. Boom! Goodbye, money! Hello, shiny new washing machine that we didn’t really want, but will have to buy anyway! (This didn’t actually have anything to do with me being forgetful, of course, but even so, people, EVEN SO. Can you imagine a less satisfying major purchase than a freaking WASHING MACHINE?)

I’m not even going to mention the few hours Terry spent searching the house for my car keys (he’d had them last, so he was on “searching” duty), which were eventually tracked down to the interior of HIS car.

Oops, I just did. Sorry, Terry.

* I did eventually read the books, by the way. It just took me much, much longer than usual…

Oh, GOD. Godgodgod.

Remember that time I mis-typed my mum’s email address when I was adding it to my Outlook address book (because, hey, we ALL spell our mother’s name wrong sometimes, don’t we?), and, as a result, spent a few weeks sending emails that were meant for my mum to a bloke named Norman instead?

Or the time – OK, the few times – I sent emails intended for my mother to SKY NEWS by mistake?

Remember how I swore I’d finally – FINALLY – learned my lesson, and would never, ever be that stupid again, because, seriously, who keeps making the same stupid mistake, over and over and over again?

Oh.

Yeah.

That would be me, then.

See, my email does this thing. Every time I reply to a message, it stores that person’s email address in its memory, and it keeps it there FOREVER . And ever. And when I open a NEW email and start typing in the recipient’s name, it tries to guess who I’m going to email, and it pops their address into the “to” box. This is how I have narrowly avoided sending my mum’s messages to a person named “Mumtaz”, who once emailed me in 2007,  several times this year.

But this post is not about me misdirecting emails to my mother. Not this time.

No, this post is about how a gentleman named Terry, who is not my husband – I repeat, who is NOT my husband – received a message from me yesterday. A message that – you guessed it – was not actually meant for him! Because THIS Terry – Terry-who-is-not-my-husband – wrote to me a few months ago with a question about my website. And I replied to him. And yesterday, for reasons best known to itself, my email program decided that every time I started to type the name “Terry” into the “To” box on an email, it would assume I was trying to contact Terry-who-is-not-my-husband. As opposed to, you know, Terry-who-IS-my-husband.

Yes, Terry and I send each other emails. Yes, even although we sit next to each other.  This is not as mad as it sounds, though, as these would be work-related emails, ones that have maybe come to me by mistake, say, and which I have to forward on to him. Or they’re sometimes links to funny stuff we’ve found on the internet and want to share. Or, as in this case, they’re maybe emails I’ve received  that I THINK may be spam, but that also may not be, and that MIGHT just be important, and because Terry happens not to be at his desk at the time, I forward them on to him with a note saying:

“I get this crap a lot now.”

And then three kisses – xxx. Which I’m sure Terry-who-is-not-my-husband appreciated. I mean, I hope he did, because it was HIM I sent that email to. Yes. Oh hell, yes.

It could’ve been worse. I mean, given that I THOUGHT I was emailing my husband, it really could have been worse, couldn’t it? I COULD have sent him the email saying, “What’s that smell, has Rubin farted again?” for instance.  Or I COULD have sent him one saying, “GOD, everyone who emails me is a total asshole, srsly.”

So, you know, silver linings!

Of course, there is a way to stop your email from automatically filling in some poor random person’s name when you start to send an email. It’s a really easy way. You, of course, already know how to do it. And, it’s like, you’d think I would have known too, no? Or would’ve at least tried to find out the first few times I pulled this stunt.

But no. Not I.

Because I do this crap a lot now.  And I don’t seem to be able to stop myself.*

(*I have now managed to delete the email addresses of Terry-who-is-not-my-husband, Mumtaz, Sky News and Norman-from-Canada from my computer’s memory. They won’t be hearing from me again. Someone else might, though because I didn’t get to be this stupid by actually learning from my mistakes.)

I leave the house to go to the supermarket. In one hand: my wallet, into which I have cunningly crammed my phone. In the other: a huge pile o’rubbish, destined for the bin that sits outside the door.

What I threw into the bin: my wallet and phone.

What I tried to carry with me into the car: the huge pile o’rubbbish.

If it was the first time it had happened, it wouldn’t be so bad, but, er no.

In conclusion: crawling headfirst into a rubbish bin = not a great way to start the day. But the way I am apparently destined to start many more of mine…

Remember the time I used nail polish remover as toner, in a random act of stupidity?

Today,  the nail polish remover had its comeuppance, in a particularly neat reversal of fortune which saw me spend 15 frustrating minutes trying to remove my nail polish with…. eye makeup remover.

Clearly the nail polish remover had switched places with the eye makeup remover in the night, in a cunning plan to waste my time (and my eye makeup remover, now I come to think of it) and make me feel foolish.

Either that or I have some weird kind of blindness to things with the words “remover” in their names.

Whichever it is, I somehow don’t think Mensa will be calling anytime soon…

The latest installment of The Cold That Won’t Die has left me feeling run-down and miserable, so instead of getting out and about, and clocking up new Random Acts of Stupidity to amaze you with, here’s one from last Saturday when, as you know, Terry and I had some friends round for a small soiree.

Last time on “Ways to Totally Screw Up Your Party”, the scene had been set: everything was in place, including my massive Second Head, the heating was on the blink, and I was busily trying to use wine to take the edge off my latest cold. (Note: it kinda works!) All but two of our guests had arrived, so when there was a knock on the door, I, of course, assumed that it must be them. After all, who else would be knocking on my door on a Saturday night?

Terry was upstairs trying to fix the heating, so I headed to the door and threw it open, a welcoming smile upon my face.  There, standing looking at me expectantly, and clutching bags full of what looked like food and drink, was a complete stranger.

The stranger looked to be about 18 or 19, and seemed to think I should be expecting him, so I quickly wracked my brains and concluded that SOMEONE must have invited him to the party. It could’ve been the friends we were still waiting on, it could’ve been Terry – hell, it could even have been me, posting a general invitation on Twitter or Facebook and then immediately forgetting all about it.

The young man at the door clearly HADN’T forgotten all about it, though, and so, rather than embarrassing him by admitting I had no clue who on earth he was, I decided to try and fake it. Note to self: never do that.

“Hiiiiiiiiii!” I said brightly, opening the door a little wider, and stepping back, making that universal arm gesture that says, “Hello, and welcome to my humble home! Won’t you come on in and pull up a seat?”

Instead, the young man simply handed me one of his carrier bags which did, indeed, contain some soft drinks and what looked like party food. This merely served to confirm my suspicions: he was here for my “party” and so I glanced into the bag and made some appropriately grateful noises. “Oooh, lovely!” I said. “Thanks very much!” And again I stepped back from the door and made my “come on in!” arm gesture.

Well, my new friend looked at me a little funny at that point, so I guessed I hadn’t been effusive enough in my thanks. When he handed me a SECOND bag of food, then, I made a point of cooing over it and thanking him profusely. And then I stepped back and gestured for him to come in again. 

By this point I was getting cold standing at the door, and my guest’s reluctance to enter the house was starting to feel a little awkward. I don’t know what it was that prevented me from actually saying the words “Come on in!” rather than just making the gesture – perhaps I was just trying to put off the inevitable moment when I’d have to introduce him to the rest of the guests (My hastily concocted plan for this, by the way, was to usher him into the living room, shout, “Hey, everyone, look who’s here!” and then run upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom), but by this point enough was enough. I had just opened my mouth to finally just come right out with it and ask him to COME INTO THE DAMN HOUSE ALREADY, when he reached into the rather large bag I now noticed he was carrying, and produced…

TWO PIZZAS.

Yes, it was the pizza guy. Bringing the pizzas and other items Terry had ordered not thirty minutes earlier. I’d use this as my excuse, but actually, I’d heard him make the call and I’m not going to pretend I didn’t. GOD.

And that’s the sorry tale of how I came to try and entice the pizza guy into my home on a cold, dark night. It’s also the tale of how we had to find a new pizza delivery place, because I somehow don’t think that young man will have gotten over my “Mrs Robinson” act yet. In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if  Terry can never get a pizza in this town again, unless he goes and picks it up himself.

Sorry, Terry. (And sorry, Pizza Guy, whoever you may be…)

This week I’ve been going to the gym on a semi-regular basis. I’ve done Body Combat. I’ve done Body Pump. I’ve done Blast Abs. I would’ve done Body Attack, but …. well, we all know what happened when I tried to go to Body Attack….

Anyway, I’ve been a busy girl, is what I’m saying. And even although I’ve done more exercise this week than I’ve done in the past couple of months, I’m pleased to report that I have managed not to harm myself in any way, which is no small achievement when you’re as clumsy as I am.

Then, last night? Last night I was lying in bed, drifting off to sleep, as you do, when I decided to roll from my back onto my side. You know, the kind of small, insignificant movement we all do hundreds of times in our lives, without even giving it a second though. I had almost completed this delicate manoeuvre when….

PING!

Something “went” in my back.  There was a sensation not unlike someone trying to stab me, and then suddenly my entire torso was flooded with pain, which somehow managed to spread from my back to my chest in mere seconds.  It was really quite alarming, and my piteous moaning was enough to wake Terry, who is luckily quite used to this sort of thing by now.

“Terry!” I said. “Terry, I think I’m having a heart attack! There’s a pain in my chest, and also in my back, and OMG, I am totally having a heart attack!”

Now, you might expect that this news would cause Terry to leap from the bed and call for an ambulance, but instead he simply opened one eye and regarded me in exasperation.

“You’re not having a heart attack,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

Ha, like THAT was going to happen! I regaled him with the full story, about how I’d tried to turn over, and had felt something “go” in my back, and at this point, Terry interrupted me.

“Oh, right,” he said. “A twang. You’ve had a twang. Go back to sleep.”

“A TWANG?” I said, forgetting my ongoing heart attack for a moment. “Is that a medical term?”

Terry opened one eye. “It’s just a twang,” he said. “They’re painful, twangs, but it’s not a heart attack. It’ll be sore for a while. Go back to sleep.”

And with that, he rolled over and went back to sleep himself, leaving me and my TWANG to get on with it.

I was still alive this morning, so I’m assuming it was, indeed, a “twang” and not the heart-attack I’d suspected. The muscle that “twanged” though, is still really freaking sore, meaning that every time I try to do simple things, like reach for a cup of coffee or try to wrestle my tights out of Rubin’s mouth, it will “twang” again, and I will be forced to whine like a small child.

Needless to say, I did not go to the gym this morning. I did learn a new word, though…