"Trouble ahead, Trouble behind, and you know that notion JUST crossed my mind."

The first sign that you should just go back to bed and call it a day is when you find yourself waking up singing "Casey Jones," especially if you don't even KNOW what it is like to take cocaine.  Or how to drive a train, for that matter.

We are a lazy people.  I would just like to blame the entire American people for that, but I'm really just referring to everyone I know. 

My friend B was notorious in the old days for being able to find ANYPLACE, and as quickly as possible.  If she were on Survivor Exile Island, she would be able find the Panamanian equivalent to Neiman Marcus in under 30 minutes.  But now she has Alice, the navigator, who does all her work. 
 
When B was leaving our house the last time, I watched her hit the Home button on the navigation system in her car. 

K:  What are you doing?
B:  It's in the car.  I use it.
K:  While you are going 200 miles, it only requires taking SIX turns to pull into your driveway.
B:  Yeah.
K:  You are going HOME.  The place where your parents brought you home from the hospital.  The place were you have spent the better part, and I mean BETTER PART of your 30 + years on this earth.
B:  I know.  Isn't it terrible?

I can only imagine how many right turns the thing would make her do before she realized she was going in the wrong direction. 

For me, I used to be able to park my Grandma/PoPo Grand Marquis in a compact spot in a parking garage.  Now I couldn't park a Cooper Mini in an RV spot.  I don't know what happened.

And for my husband, it is his ability to find things.  Or as I like to refer to it, his TOTAL, and MINDBLOWING INABILITY to find anything.  This morning I was lying in bed, singing "Casey Jones," and pretending that if I kept my eyes closed, maybe the day wouldn't happen.  I've been staying up to late working on Baby Brewing, trying to come up with clever new maternity t-shirts.  Derek yelled up the stairs.

D:  Where's the bread?
K:  What bread?  (knowing exactly what bread he was looking for but hoping that asking him would assist him in his ability to identify the object of his desire)
D:  The Martin's potato bread.
K:  It's on the butcher block table.
D:  No, it's not.
K:  Oh, yes it is.  Right on top.
D:  I can't find it.

Are you eyes shut?  Are you even in the kitchen?  The man could not find shoes if they were on his feet.  This is a new thing for him.  He used to be really good at, say, taking care of himself.  I began to think motherly thoughts.  "If I have to come down there, you are going to get it.  And I mean that, mister."

I stomped out of the bedroom with thoughts of murder.  Actually life-taking. Stomp, stomp, stomp down the stairs and around the corner.

I could have found the bread with my eyes closed.  Right on TOP of the mess on the butcher block table, where I told him it was.  I slammed it down on the counter, effectively making panini bread.

HELP!