Futzing around the internets this weekend, as I am wont to do, I discovered that Time and Date has a custom countdown page. Awesome, thought I, not pausing to consider that naturally high-strung people like me should not be given access to countdowns because it exacerbates our tendency to fret. I wonder how many days we have until we leave Hawaii?
FORTY SIX DAYS
I’m not sure which part of my body hit the ground first, my jaw or the back of my head in a dead faint, but it made a very loud *thud* when I hit and when I came to, it was to a vision of this:
This is a UK electrical plug. You’ll note it is rather different from our own US plugs, and not just on the surface: the UK runs their electricity at a significantly higher voltage than the US. Anything larger than my hair dryer requires conversions, transformers, or adaptors so you don’t get hit with any of the disasters ranging from total destruction of the appliance to a raging house fire. Because my mind is operated by a crack addict gerbil in a greased wheel, I started taking immediate mental stock of all the things that we own with plugs and categorized them into two groups: Over $30 and Under $30.
Under $30 includes the cheap IKEA lamps, the alarm clocks, the toaster (which has no settings except light, a Pop-Tart logo, and dark), and my various hair styling tools. In a sort of reverse-Logan’s Run ruling, I decided that everything Under $30 was replaceable in the UK and must go.
That left a number of very expensive electronics to which I am rather attached that I had to deal with, and because I am ADHD and tightly wound, I had to HYPER FOCUS ON THEM RIGHT NOW NO NOT LATER…hey, shiny! So I started furiously Googling and determined we’d need a ridiculously expensive transformer in order to power our rather new 40″ television and a slight less ridiculously expensive set to power our
laptops (further research tells me I have made more out of the laptop issue than I need to, which, NO KIDDING), crock pot, and my blessed Kitchen Aid mixer (which is pink and awesome). This sparked the following outburst, blindsiding Tom after a rather nice lunch:
“You…you’re just looking up pubs! And planning a trip to Portugal! You’re just running around figuring out what to drink first and I AM TRYING TO FIGURE OUT HOW TO PLUG THINGS INTO THE WALL.”
No no, lads, he was here first. Don’t crowd me all at once.
This continued on until this evening, when I finally chose a few converters, transformers, and adaptors and laid out my exceptional plan for UK electrical domination. My brilliant understanding of the types of equipment needed and what it would all do shone like a beacon of light and reason and understanding.
Tom: “I told you a few weeks ago–we get two transformers free from the base.”
That’s a few hours I’ll never get back, because he MOST CERTAINLY DID NOT TELL ME THAT. Thus I poured a glass of wine and began plotting revenge scenarios: I wouldn’t share my continental European transformer (left over from my study abroad days) when we went to the continent. He could power his laptop with farts, for all I cared. I would ban him from the Family iPad we plan to purchase and make it the Ovaries-Only iPad (which is, if you think about nomenclature, grotesquely apt). I would make him watch Eat, Pray, Love.
After a few moments I got over it and did so with a laugh, but while this was all going on today I got into a rather heated debate with several of my friends about bedding. I wish I were kidding. However, our sheets are old. They were not especially high-quality to begin with and from repeated washings and sun exposure through our bedroom window, almost worn through in places. I suggested buying some now and Tom said no, best to wait and see what kind of decor we have in our UK rental. I agreed; we’ve seen some horrific wallpaper and mauve wall-to-wall carpeting, but if an ugly master suite is the only drawback to an otherwise nice rental, we’ll deal by getting coordinating sheets so I won’t spend the next three years saying “Damn, this room is ugly AND the sheets clash!” It’ll just be “Damn, this room is ugly!”
Unfortunately I made mention of this in a social media setting and didn’t elaborate any of those points and I spent much of the day trying to convince people that I AM NOT THE CRAZY ONE HERE. Why WOULDN’T you match your sheets to your wall/floor decor?! I failed to state that we were getting a new duvet and when I elaborated THAT point I had to convince Megan that I was not, in fact, a 60-year old grandmother and that young people do have duvet covers. Ultimately, I feel like I convinced everyone that I wasn’t crazy (at least, not for this specific reason) and that there was value to matching your sheets (to which I include the duvet) to the rest of your bedroom interior, but not until I was called crazy and also possibly a future Von Trapp-curtain-clothes-matching-child dresser. I felt like I was taking crazy pills, but not actually crazy; it is inconceivable to me that people of means willingly live in ugly rooms. I can’t control a rental with mauve carpeting, but I can damn sure see that I don’t buy red sheets to exacerbate the issue. Your home is your sanctuary, your hidey-hole from all the other freaks who aren’t freaky like you’re a freak, so why wouldn’t you see that it met your exact tastes?
It’s possible I’m under-medicated, but I maintain that God doesn’t like ugly, and never mind that we’re humanists/agnostics.
So…it was a long day, perpetuated by two tempests in VERY small teapots. Mostly all in good fun, but it did bring to light my tendency to seize on the most ridiculous, minute details and blow them up in my mind until they achieve Illiad-level epic status. It’s no good for anyone except the people who haven’t un-followed me in any of my social media accounts, who I suspect are just waiting to see what is going to trigger my final breakdown.
I’m pretty sure it’s going to be something that has electrical prongs or a thread count.