Got an alarming call from the doctor’s office the other day…I’m officially diagnosed with M.A.D.D. (menopausal attention deficit disorder). While not fatal, it IS incurable, unless I live another 10 years or so. It all came to a head in my beloved kitchen just a few short months ago. The initial symptoms were smoke, fire, and wandering, all of which have led to some really incendiary culinary dramas.
Due to the newly diagnosed illness, The Spousal Unit is enforcing a new house rule, utilizing one of Booger’s dog leads. ANYTIME and EVERYTIME I am in the kitchen cooking, I have to attach this dog chain to a belt loop on my jeans to prevent my wandering away from the scene of my impending crime. As much as I adore my lovely kitchen and all the wonderful concoctions that issue forth, I tend to lose focus, apparently quite often, if the amount of times the fire department has been called is any indication. I have had to throw out so many pots, pans, and baking dishes over the years, it breaks my penny pinching little heart. I’ll start to heat some EVOO in a sauté pan and hear the dryer beep in the laundry room. Off I go to fold the clothes before they wrinkle. On the way back to the kitchen, I decide to head upstairs to peek into the Teenage Morose One’s room, just to be sure nothing living is imprisoned up there against its will. Ten minutes later, back on my way into the kitchen, I glance out the door to the garage and see a box of photos without the lid on tight, so out I go to secure it. 45 minutes later, caught up in misty reminiscences triggered by the photos,
I begin to smell smoke….then hear the very familiar screech of the smoke alarms, followed by the lullaby of the fire engines screaming into the driveway. Oh Crap!
Then, Friday night, I was once again doing phone combat with The Teenage Morose One, and got so smoking mad that on Saturday morning I couldn’t remember where I’d put the handset; it certainly wasn’t on its cradle where it belonged. No matter, it would turn up in due course of time. Did a load of laundry, then later The Unit was on a crusade to find that handset, STAT! I was in the middle of a three hour Millionaire Matchmaker marathon and refused to participate in his search; it would have been rude to Patti.
In frustration he used the handset finder feature on the phone’s main base and while he could hear it beeping, he just couldn’t quite narrow it down. Sure seemed to be coming from the laundry room. I guessed Booger dropped it in the litter box; he is an incorrigible thief. No, not there… oddly the beeping seemed to be coming from inside the dryer. Well, looky there! Apparently while in the throes of foaming-at-the-mouth, psychotic teenage- induced rage, I slipped it in the pocket of my robe Friday night, which I then promptly washed and dried. Oh Crap!
At least now these symptoms manifest in private. When my illness first started, my mental slip and slides had more public airings. I was working as a residential mortgage coordinator for a bank with 13 branches. I received a promotion that had many people royally pissed off, as I hadn’t been working there very long, and they felt they would have been more deserving of the career boost. Part of my prep for the new position was to train upstate with our underwriting department, comprised of 12 employees. Now, these nice folks were doubly peeved because they thought I was a spy sent by the corporate office to rock their comfortable little satellite universe they had so carefully constructed, far away from the meddling eyes of the bank officers.
So, that first Monday morning, I took great care with my appearance; they might hate me, but at least I’d look good. Perfect makeup, hair in a bank-appropriate French twist, black Chanel coatdress with demure white collar and cuffs, a strand of pearls, check. Good to go. As I stood outside the door of the underwriting department, I felt slightly nauseous and anxious, like I was about to enter the lion’s den. As I reached my hand out to turn the door knob, I caught a glimpse of something pink. Glancing down with slow dread and a sinking heart, I saw that on my feet, instead of my black velvet pumps, were two giant size 9 fuzzy pink bunny slippers.
Yep, complete with black noses, whiskers, and ears that flopped. Oh Crap!
Several months later, I was rushing to catch my Metro North commuter train from the suburbs into midtown Manhattan. As I ‘m hurrying from my car up to the train platform, I noticed a few odd glances in my direction. What the hell was wrong with these people? I looked great, nice leather boots, fitted beige tweed suit jacket, briefcase, but oh oh, where was my skirt? That’s right, ladies, smack in the middle of about 200 fellow commuters, who I saw every single bloody morning five days a week, I realized that the matching tweed skirt was still laying across my bed, faithfully awaiting me to take it to work, and all I had on was a half slip.
Since I was five years old I have adored Lucille Ball. I probably saw some of the “I Love Lucy” reruns dozens of times and was mesmerized by her red hair, silliness, and the scrapes and hijinks she got into. And that gorgeous Cuban husband, Ricky. Maybe he’s the reason I’m a sucker for dark, swarthy men with a foreign accent. Maybe the famous grape smashing episode is why I love vino oh so very much!
All I do know for sure is that whenever I hear The Unit call out “Oh Lucy……” I know without a doubt that another domestic slip and fall has occurred and I’m in deep doo doo yet again. Oh Crap!