Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Inner Voice

I've been really dragging lately, so I tend to get things done in spurts of energy. This weekend was no exception. I charged through the house putting things to right, getting laundry done, folded and even put away. I even rearranged the bedroom.

During the dust-up, my debit card AND my library card came up gone. The first day, I wasn't too excited, because I remembed distinctly having them in my back pocket. I'd gone downtown twice, pulling William in his little wagon, so instead of taking my purse, I put my library card and my debit card in the back pocket of my jeans. I had bent my last debit card by sitting on it, so later, when I got home, I remembered distinctly putzing in the kitchen, realizing that the cards were in my back pocket. I had no recollection of what I had done with the cards, but I do remember thinking, "Cripes. You stick those there, you'll NEVER find them." And that's the last that I thought of those cards until I needed gas in my car.

I have been looking for those cards for two days now, and frankly, I was getting a little frantic about the debit card. I can misplace stuff, but seldom is anything well and truly lost. Until that debit card...

Last night, getting ready for bed, on a whim, I ducked down and looked under the bed. I found my library card right away. I looked further, and there was my debit card. I was so stinking happy that I almost cried. Not because it was a relief to find them, (which it was) My relief was mostly this: When I thought, "Cripes. You stick those there, you'll NEVER find them," I had actually heeded that little voice, walked out of the kitchen headed down the hall, went into my bedroom and put them on the bedside table, where I apparently knocked them off with my pillow in the night, or reaching for the alarm, or some such thing. This validation of my mind was reassuring.

Other breaking news: an old velvet sofa left at the curb had a brass tag that identified it as being handmade from a high end furniture store in Jamestown that burnt to the ground in 1965. The sofa itself had to be from the 1910-1920s. The suspension in this was lovely. Still a firm sofa after 100 years. Reupholstered, it would have been simply gorgeous. I wanted it something awful, although my inner voice was pointing out that realistically, I wouldn't have the money to get this done right for some time, what with the purchase of the most recent house. I am proud to say that I heeded that inner voice as well and left it there.

My inner voice is now telling me that if I don't get going, I'm going to be late for work. I think that I will listen once again.

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