A Big Dose of Stupid

I should start at the beginning, because I'm only going to tell this story on myself one time. Today the kidlets and I left the house in a flurry of activity, because we were hot-footin' it to get to town on time to meet my new 'book keeper', a woman who gave up her Sunday with her family to come show me the ropes of not only Quickbooks, but also Quickbooks point-of-sale, which, if you've been paying attention to the shrillness of my typing, you know how cooperative "Vista" has been. Yes it's so easy a child can do it, if said child were spawned by superior, Mensa-minds. I have watched friends new and old, near and dear be brought to the brink of madness trying to corral this evil operating, er, interruption system... so I brought in some professional help.

Anyway, it seemed I hadn't done the 'grunt work' of inputting all the inventory, and that is where we had to start. For nine hours and 48 minutes, we counted, labeled, and input countless items. My brain shorted out, then Patsy's went out, too. We packed up and left together, into the dark Indiana night. I knew I wanted to at least get the Louet input on my own, more as a test of mettle than anything else, so I packed up the laptop, BOTH halves of the power cord, and the two handbags, the cooler, and, I thought the file box... you know, the plastic brain where I keep all the invoices, account information, my business checks... just, as I mentioned, *everything*.

It was a long day, and a longer night, and suddenly I found myself in the throes of a panic attack. Bill had wanted to see what I'd 'learned' from my afternoon/evening with a professional Quickbooks Advisor. So, I thought I'd show off a little and put my inventory of lovely Canadian yarn into place... but where had I set the file box? Funny... I didn't even remember taking it out of the car. Hmmm... I also didn't remember putting it into the car. Oh, this was just craptastic. I tried to tell myself there was no way I'd forget a file box sitting next to the jeep. But it was dark. I was tired. It had to still be inside the building, right? I took a whole mg. of xanax and tried to go to bed.

Crushing chest pain. Heart racing till I feel faint, dizzy, and very nauseous. What to do? Then it dawned on me... call the Franklin police. Yep. Nothing like having to broadcast loud and clear what kind of an idiot is coming to town to hang out her knittin' an' quiltin' shingle. I called. When the dispatcher asked me for my name, I told her, then I spelled it out for her... S-t-u-p-i-d Becher. Seriously. She laughed. And less than ten minutes later, at 12:38 a.m., a nice sounding policeman called me back to say they found nary a trace of the file box. Not that it helps. I just can narrow it down tomorrow (sock camp at two p.m.... come if you're interested, to the shop, not clear out here) when I'm in town. Either I did in fact leave the box inside, or it was an easy mark for someone, out prowling around town ten-ish at night, in the burg.

Two things I know for an absolute certainty. Vista is possibly the damnedest o.s. ever, and I have waaaaay too much fiber goodness in my shop. And there is a whole lot more on order... and I'm running outta storage options. Time to call in more reinforcements... but first sleep. Then sock camp. (Four whole students. They's better just show up I tell ya.) Night all you knittas. Cami