dumb head — a list of evidence drafted at the kitchen counter

the kitchen counter is the dumb head workshop, and the evidence drafts itself, daily, in pen, on receipts and napkins and the back of a coupon for a brand i do not buy. stefan upstairs filed a complaint about the noise. dave was over. the third yoga mat watched. ironing remains class warfare.

i’m typing this up properly now, from the desk, on a thursday at 12:08pm, while carla sits through a vendor walkthrough on the third floor. she’ll be back in maybe forty minutes. that’s how long the investigation has.

before we begin, the framing. the larger investigation into being dumb already exists, and you can read the full thesis there. this post is the receipts. eleven of them. the dumb head is the suspect. the kitchen counter is the scene. dave is, as ever, a witness for the prosecution.

there is a sister post on gaslighting that explains why the dumb head sometimes argues with itself for no reason — gaslighting tendencies tend to start with the head turning on its own owner. read that one second. read this one first.

airpods (one of them, the left, the right has been “charging” since easter) are in. the playlist is a single ambient track on loop. dave is texting. let’s begin.

1. dumb head, the term applied affectionately (item one of eleven)

the dumb head is not a diagnosis. it is a category. specifically, it is the category of decisions you make at full earnestness, with both hands on the wheel, and only later, in the kitchen, holding a frying pan you didn’t need, do you go: oh. that was the dumb head.

the term is affectionate. nobody yells “dumb head” at a stranger. you yell it at yourself, in the mirror, after you have already done the thing. the head is, importantly, still on. it still thinks. it has just made a choice you would not, on reflection, have signed off on.

i looked it up. the dictionary said something about the soft part of a nail and i decided that was, in its way, accurate.

2. items one through three — dave’s contributions during the call

dave called sunday. he had been to a hardware store. he had opinions. i wrote them down because i write everything down now, on receipts, in pen, at the kitchen counter, because the kitchen counter is the dumb head workshop and that is where evidence accumulates.

item one. i microwaved a fork. again. this is the seventh microwave. dave laughed for the duration of a parking meter, by which i mean about four minutes, by which i mean longer than HT11’s showers over 4 minutes are theatre would tolerate, by which i mean i started a stopwatch and quit at four minutes because dave was still going.

item two. i bought a frying pan i did not need. there is already a frying pan. there have always been frying pans. and yet, sunday, the dumb head observed a sale and ruled in favor of acquisition. dave said “you have a frying pan.” i said “this one is bigger.” dave said “is it.” it was not.

item three. i tried to iron a shirt. i do not iron. i refuse to iron — refer to the canonical hot take, ironing is a class war i refuse to fight — and yet sunday the dumb head, mid-call, decided we were going to test the iron, the shirt, and the philosophy. the philosophy held. the shirt did not. dave laughed for nine straight minutes. i timed it.

3. items four through six — stefan’s contributions, allegedly

stefan lives upstairs. stefan filed a complaint about the noise on monday. i had not been making noise on monday. i had been making noise on sunday. stefan, you’d think, would be careful with dates. he is not. he is a man with opinions about wine and a memory tuned for grievance.

item four. stefan, my upstairs neighbor and self-appointed expert on residential acoustics, claims i was vacuuming at 10:51am on a sunday. i do not own a vacuum. dave does. the dumb head allowed dave to bring his vacuum over for what dave called a project. i did not ask. i should have asked. that is the dumb head’s contribution. the vacuuming was dave’s. the building memo bears my apartment number.

item five. stefan claims i ran a blender at 9:14am, also sunday. there is no blender. there is, however, a small electric whisk that the dumb head has, on occasion, run dry, for no nutritional purpose, while reading the news. this is admitted.

item six. stefan claims i was singing. this is the only one i deny. i was, at most, humming. the difference is technical and i will not elaborate. (i was singing.)

4. items seven through nine — the third yoga mat’s silent testimony

the third yoga mat is under the couch, where it has lived since 2023, where it has been used twice, both times by a guest, both times for nothing yoga-related. the third yoga mat watches. the third yoga mat takes notes, metaphorically, although metaphors do not require a mat to be physically present, which mine is.

item seven. i tried to use the mat. on sunday. for the first time in four months. i unrolled it. i sat on it. i googled “how to start yoga” on a phone that was at 23%. the mat smelled, faintly, of basement. i rolled it back up. that is the entire entry.

item eight. i then, instead of yoga, decided to stretch by lying flat on the kitchen floor. the kitchen floor is, i can confirm, a floor. i stayed there for nine minutes. i then heard the mailman and stood up too fast. the dumb head later argued this counted as cardio. the body filed a dissent.

item nine. i ordered a yoga app. i did not download the yoga app. the yoga app sent me three reminder emails. i archived them, which is the modern way of saying i agree that this exists, and yet.

this is, by the way, the same yoga mat that appears in the longer report on dum dumb and dumber, where it has a slightly different role. the mat is consistent. the mat is canon.

5. items ten and eleven — the supermarket addenda

monday, lunchtime, supermarket. one item: bread. i wrote bread on the back of an envelope. i underlined it. i drew a small loaf, badly. i was prepared.

item ten. i came home with: olives, three different mustards (for the second time this year), a magazine in a language i do not read, a candle that smells like a forest floor (a callback to stefan’s wine vocabulary that i did not consciously intend), a bag of those tiny pickles i don’t actually like, and a single onion. i left without bread. i had the envelope. the envelope had the word. the dumb head simply, you know, opted out at the bread aisle.

item eleven. on the way home i bought an extra copy of a book i already own. it is called something like the long road of being okay. i now own it twice. dave laughed. mom called shortly after. she asked how i was. i said fine. she said “what did you do.” i said nothing. she said “remember to eat bread.” she knew. mothers know. it is their power. it cannot be defeated.

6. closing pulpit — the head is dumb but loyal

the dumb head produced eleven items in a single weekend. it produced them at full earnestness. it produced them with the third yoga mat watching, with stefan filing a complaint upstairs, with dave laughing for the duration of a parking meter, with mom calling on schedule, with the airpod (one) playing one ambient track on loop.

i am not, after all this, ready to fire the dumb head. you can’t fire the dumb head. it is in the lease. it lives in the kitchen counter, with the receipts, with the coupon for the brand i do not buy, with the small loaf badly drawn on an envelope. the dumb head is loyal. the dumb head calls itself. the dumb head laughs at its own list and then, the next sunday, adds item twelve.

if you want to see the genre at scale, watch Dumb and Dumber. two heads. one road. eleven items, give or take, from memory. that movie is, as far as i can tell, the only honest documentary about how this works.

the dumb head is closing the investigation. eleven entries. one weekend. the kitchen counter holds the originals. the desk holds the typed copy. carla holds, presumably, opinions she will not share.