Why Seniors Shouldn’t Multi Task


I’ve been multi-tasking my whole life. Until today. No more. This is why.

I spent the last two days working with my handy woman/gardener/housecleaner at my beach house. We cleaned and organized the garage, donated furniture and stuff with her truck and moved rocks around in the front yard.  She left this morning, and I still had one day of stellar weather to enjoy.

I looked at the sweet potatoes we hadn’t eaten (no time to cook) and decided to put them in the oven.  Then I thought I’d boil a dozen eggs to supplement my dogs’ dinners.  I put the eggs in a pot of water, turned on the burner, found the lid and found the timer.

Then I finished up a couple of other things, went to the bathroom and headed out to the thrift stores to donate a hat rack that didn’t get on the truckload of stuff we donated yesterday.

I locked the door and left the dogs to their leisure time. I stopped at two thrift stores, perused a new antique store and a foody gift shop, and then headed home.  The Goodwill was on the way, so I told myself I’d stop if there was parking and wouldn’t if there wasn’t.

There was parking. I spent $50.00 on Christmas gift stuff and then headed home. I decided David Ave would be a bit faster than weaving back though town. Lots of tourists today with the sunshine.

As I was almost to the intersection of Highway 68 and David, I thought about the sweet potatoes and how good they would taste. Then I rememberd the eggs.

“Fudge!” I screamed.

Only I didn’t say fudge. The adrenaline kicked in as I blew through the green light, turned left at another green light, repeating, “Oh My God, Oh My God.”

I came to a 5-way stop sign and drove around the four cars in front of me and blew through the intersection.

I’d been gone an hour. How much water was in that pan? It was big, and I’d added a little more water than usual, but . . .

I blew through two more stop signs, passed a looky-loo guy in a Jeep on my street, pulled up to the garage and didn’t see any flames.

Then I heard them –smoke alarms. A lot of them.

I put the key in the door, and my two dogs burst out of the doggy door. Smoke came pouring onto the patio. I ran to the kitchen and turned off the burner. It was so smoky it took a minute for me to find the right one. I ran back outside and ran to the neighbors’ house, pounding on their door as smelly smoke escaped my back door.

“Call 9-1-1!” I yelled.

The husband looked at me with a question.

“Trust me!” I said.

When I opened the gate to the driveway, both dogs took off running. I opened my car door and they both came back and jumped inside.

The wife waited with me at the end of the long driveway.  A police car arrived first, the fire truck right behind. Then another fire truck.

The good news is that I got home in time to save my house. It stinks like burned eggs, and I had to scrape black egg shells and yellow yolk off every part of my kitchen – stove top, counter, microwave, walls, ceiling, floor. Only four eggs were still in the burned-up pan. Eight had become missiles.

The universe was telling me to stop multi-tasking. I got lucky – no fire, no speeding tickets, no running a stop-sign ticket, no dead dogs.

But the expired cans of food on the counter next to the stove were very hot (still warm several hours later). I was planning on throwing them out.

The fire captain pointed out that the rubbing alcohol sitting on the other side of the microwave would’ve been an accelerant and then whoosh, no more house.

I am one lucky old broad.

Thank you, Jesus, God, the universe, Karma, and my stunned neighbors.

I may never cook hard-boiled eggs again.

Couldda Wouldda Didda

My brain tried to tell me yesterday that something was amiss. As I headed downtown I wondered if it was safe to leave the oven on. Of course it was, I told myself. I’d done it dozens of times. But I forgot to ask about the stove.

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