v. The concurrent operation by one central processing unit of two or more processes.
From what I understand, we could remove "one central processing unit" and replace it with "a woman."
Don't get me wrong, men care, they just don't own that mental ticker tape that scrolls across our feminine heads 24/7.
You know the ticker tape. It goes like this: Remember to get cottage cheese, Did I call for sitter for Friday, Is this a freckle or age spot, Is my ass bigger than her ass, Why did I snap at my daughter for singing too loud, Need toilet paper, Is calling someone emotional roadkill too harsh, What does RSVP stand for again, I can't believe people don't hold open doors for the person behind them...
Men don't do this and I don't know why. If I had the answer, I'd bottle it up and sell it for a million dollars.
My husband told me about our daughter's softball tournament this weekend. Date, time, and place. Done.
Here's what I need to do:
Wash her uniform.
Find the other orange-striped sock that goes with the uniform.
Pack a snack, book, and jump rope for Paige to relieve boredom.
Did I remember to turn off the iron this morning? Check ASAP.
Pack sweatshirts in case it gets cold.
I wonder if flowers are 30% off this week?
Cash for hot dog stand.
Shit! I forgot to get onion for the meatloaf tonight.
Print out Mapquest directions.
How long has it been since hubbs and I had sex? A week? Two?
Call Johnson's, Parker will not be at Ashley's party Friday night.
Fucking dry cleaning, I forgot to pick it up. Again.
I have to lose 10 pounds by summer.
Email Happy Hour friends and ask to reschedule.
So there's not just a tournament. There's life around the tournament that needs attention. We can't just show up for an 8 hour day of softball in our fucking jammies. It takes planning and care.
And after all of the choreography, I somehow always manage to forget my own needs. Like a tampon.