For quite a while now the keypad on the code entry part of our office copy machine has refused to acknowledge digits in the right-hand column. Ever resourceful, I punched some digits and found a scarcely-used code that the machine would accept. I have been using this new code for weeks. Yesterday, the keypad limited its acceptance still further. Now the only codes it will take are comprised of the digits 1, 4, and 7. No energy to mess with smuggling such a restricted code. So I took my stuff to copy and went to another building where the keypad is more open-minded. As I reached for the keypad, I realized that I could not remember my code--not my original code, not the usurped code, nada. Well, this is probably one of those things that your fingers remember, I thought. So I put my fingers on the keypad and let them try their best --several times. I gave up when the loud rejection beeps started to draw attention from other offices. Later I went back ot our office and stood in front of our copy machine. I immediately knew my code (well, the usurped one. The original is probably lost for good.). Of course, the machine still wouldn't accept it, but I knew it. I walked away from the machine and did not know it anymore. Sigh. My friend Cathy says that my brain has classified this code as available only on a need-to-know basis. Apparently my brain believes that I should only need to know this when standing in front of this particular copy machine with my hand over the keypad. It's not easy being a zorp.

I have been so sick. Brianna has been coming and very sweetly saying, "Oh, Mommy, I'm so sorry you don't feel good. I hope you feel all well really really quick." Awww. Then the punchline, " . . . so you can tell me the Pinky story and play school with me and help me paint and . . ." All of the named benefits of my recovery were things to make her own life a little more fun or convenient. there's something there about my prayers, but I am too much of a zorp to get it. Zorp is our new word for someone whose head is so filled with disgusting infected mucus that there is no room for meaningful thought processes--or even functional thought processes--to occur. A zorp goes into the kitchen to get somethng and then wanders off empty-handed, leaving the refrigerator door wide open. A zorp comes up with "foofa" when the computer says to select a new password. A zorp is a pitiful thng to be. And I am currently the posterchild for zorpitude.

Yes, I know--long time, no blog. If you want to see with my thoughts for the next little bit, you'd better just send an email to this address: LentenMeditation-subscribe@yahoogroups.com because I don't see both things happening on any regular basis!