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is a medal. It doesn’t have to be fancy or engraved or even made out of metal. No strings attached necessary. No ribbons. No ceremony. No podium. Just a medal.

The definition of good-for-nothing.


For doing the dishes. And folding the laundry. And putting most of the laundry away in drawers. That’s about all I seem to get done these days around this joint I call home though many other tasks beckon–or at least I think they are beckoning but it’s hard to see for sure under the piles of paper and books and such. People get medals for running races–I have acquired several of them over the years–but I think it’s much easier to run a race than to to keep doing the unglamorous day-in-day-out crapola of life where there’s no date to focus on, no cheering crowds, no bands playing, no finish line (in sight, anyway), and no post-doing the dishes snack under a tent. Want to know my folding the clothes time p.r.? That’s what I thought.

I made a list the other day of the things I lose the most: keys, wallet, my sportswatch, and a small blue notebook with a bungee cord closure that I love. I always find the key in question, often in a car or a door, so that’s handy, for me and potential thieves.  My wallet always turns up, everything in tact, interestingly enough, exactly where I didn’t hide it so well in my car. The sportswatch is either where I left it last or on my daughter’s wrist. Easy.

But that damned blue notebook is not playing by the rules. 1) I notice I can’t find something. 2) I don’t worry an iota because I have faith in my powers of recall. 3) It will turn up; everything always does. 4) A cursory look shows it isn’t where I want it to be. 5) I get a little queasy. 6) I look some more. 7) I think I’ve lost my mind. What have I done with it? Who is using it to no good purpose? 8)I am forced to clean my house to unearth lost thing. 9) I find it.

But this time, I have a sneaking suspicion I left it in a doctor’s office, or in someone else’s car, or perhaps in one of three other states or two other houses. It still could turn up.  And I really haven’t done the definitive clean up of my house (ain’t that the truth) mostly because I’m lazy and secondarily because when I don’t find it then, I will be very sad.  Honestly, given that I can’t remember what’s in the notebook anymore, it’s unlikely that its contents are more valuable than my wallet’s, but they could be more embarrassing. Good thing my handwriting is illegible.

I’m back!