The Scary Thing Is...

The Scary Thing Is...

… I found my heater.

The big one. On wheels.

After I bought a replacement.

After I spent gobs of time and mental energy trying to locate the old one or determine who I gave it to.

It was in a blind corner in the Hub’s man cave. I went in there several times to stand in the middle of the room and scratch my head. A garage-turned-interior-square-footage, we used to call it the Game Room since it held a pool/ping-pong table. Now it’s mostly empty floor space and a recliner so the Hubs can watch television surrounded by his Cowboys, Reds, and Hoosiers.

Yesterday I went in there to get my external hard drive from the fireproof safe so I could back up my laptop lest I lose all the words I’ve managed to accomplish in the last couple of weeks (Not many words, but hey, they were hard-fought words, and I’d like to keep them for as long as possible).

And there it was, between the safe and the treadmill, which we’ve not given much consideration to since last winter.  

I stood there, hard drive in hand, and stared at the not-so-missing heater. How did I not walk all the way into the room when I looked before? Or maybe I did, and I just didn’t see the thing because it had sat in its spot for sooo long that it became part of the room’s structure as opposed to an individual item.

This blog goes live on Halloween 2022, and there’s nothing scarier than realizing your Hot Mess Realizations are hitting hard. And that they were revealed to you in no uncertain terms by an inanimate object is equally disturbing.

Perhaps the SYFY network could market this concept. Radiator heaters turned invisible therapists. Radiator heaters vs. sharknados. But I digress…

I could blame the missed heater on my bifocals. At the time of the search, my prescription needed to be changed. Get my new glasses with stronger lenses, and BOOM! Heaters pop right back into the visual field from the abyss.

I could blame it on the never-ending outside stressors. Or my internal battle with thyroid-itis.

Or, we could call it what it is. Full disclosure: I’m officially certifiable.

The Hubs knows this. I don’t know if he knew before we got married, but he’s trapped now. He’s signed a paper saying he’ll stick around in health and certifiability.

Little Miss Muse already knew this. I think that’s why she chose me to be her conduit. She needed a kindred spirit to wrangle her ideas.

And the scary thing is… I’m okay with it.

Color me crazy.

Dye me demented.

Magic-Marker me maniacal.

There it is. I’m nuts.

I think one must be slightly off their rocker to be a writer in the first place. Who else could milk three entire blog posts out of a space heater?

Happy Halloween, folks.

Stay safe.

It’s nutty out there.

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