So I missed an appointment with my Witch Doctor. I had written it into my paper calendar correctly—24 June—but somehow in transferring it (using my brain only, I admit, and not my eyes), I put it in my online calendar on 30 June. He emailed tonight to make sure I was okay, and of course I was, only embarrassed a little. In fact, I think this is the first appointment I've ever outright missed in my life. I suppose I have the best excuse possible right now.
While I was composing my email reply to the Witch Doctor, Ian called from the kitchen to ask me if I had already put soap in the dishwasher. It was almost full earlier, but we had decided to put in a last couple glasses right before bed and run it then. "No," I called back, "I didn't put soap in."
"Are you sure?" he asked. "Because there's soap."
"I'm sure," I replied.
"Oh . . . right," I heard him respond a moment or two later. "I put it in myself about 5 minutes ago."
Ian said he was pleased that my confidence didn't seem to be shaken by my hiccup. I hope his isn't, as well.