Monday, January 30, 2012

Mama is going mad, looney tunes, crazy...d'oh!

I'm tired of being confused.  I'm tired of losing things.  I'm suffering from what my mother lovingly refers to as, early onset "Oldsheimers".  Now for those of you ready to start yammering away with nasty comments about the plight of Alzheimer's Disease and that it's no laughing matter - Whoa, Nellie!  I get it.  My paternal step-grandmother died of it.  Grandma Bryant suffered the ugly battle and lost forgetting how to see, knocking on door frames, and ultimately succumbing to pneumonia.  No shaking fingers of verbal protest my way, I beg you.

It's an awful feeling when something as simple as a set of lost house keys can screw up my evening.  I'm certain there are many of you out there in the Internet world who can commiserate with me.  What makes my memory battle so much more annoying is that the bi-polar medication I take is actually known to do more harm than good.  One prescription is called Topamax.  My psychiatrist lovingly refers to it as, "Dope"a-max (oh that doc o' mine, he sure knows how to make a lady feel special).  Sometimes my meds are kicked up to such a gear that I forget how to sign my name or what my address is.  Once I had to sing it (this is how we taught the boys to remember it).  Talk about embarrassing, I was totally off key.

So, last night it was my house keys; not the keys to the outside dead bolts, but the keys to the pantry, refrigerator, master bedroom, and closet.  Honestly, I would have felt safer had they been the dead bolt keys.  Why?  Oh, I don't know...could it possibly be because I listened to my angry sixteen year old tell me he would be happier in prison then at home?  Perhaps he wanted an excuse to be there.  When we asked him why he felt this way he thought it would be easier.  This comment was growled to us while he was shoveling down a lovely restaurant dinner.  Oh, did I forget to mention, we had just come from home where he'd spent an hour or so playing Wii?  Wait a minute, who bought the gaming system for him?  Oh yes, his prison wardens.  They're such bastards.

In all of this lost key mayhem, what did I immediately assume happened to them?  Yes, my dear friends and blog readers, you've probably guessed.  This was not one of my prouder maternal moments.  I quickly pointed my mental accusatorial finger at my surly, prison-intent child, William.  I didn't come right out and say, "where are they, demon spawn?" but I was certainly thinking it.

Thank goodness for a two-parent relationship.  I don't know how single parents of behaviorally challenged kids - or even normal teenagers, for that matter - do it.  Who do single parents hand the ball to when their kiddo spits nastiness in their face?  I have several friends and family members who have to raise these adolescents on their own and I'm in awe that they're still coherent and not locked away in a miscellaneous cell wearing a bib.  Eric came to my rescue again last night.  He saw what I was thinking.  He kept me calm and had me retrace my steps.  Damn, I hate the retracing part.  I mean, seriously, I already feel like a stupid moron. Retracing my steps when I can't remember who I just spoke to on the telephone is a wee bit ridiculous.

Here's the line of questioning as it replayed in my mind:

Where was I in the morning?  In bed.  I'm always in bed.  Where was I in the afternoon?  You mean, after I ate two pieces of toast, wrote my morning blog, and pee'd?  Back in bed.  I'm always in bed.  Afterwards?  I think I pee'd again.  Geez, it seems like I'm always pee'in'.  Sleepin' and pee'in'.  Pee'in' and sleepin'.  Maybe there's something wrong with me?  I should make a doctor's appointment.  Eric, please remind me or I'll forget.  Did I have the keys with me?  You mean, when I was pee'in'?  Of course not!  In bed..?  No!  That's just weird.  Well, know me.  Then we ate.  That was a good Linner.  Is that what it's called... a meal between lunch and dinner, Linner?  Geez, we're getting old!  Why don't we just eat breakfast before we go to bed and save the hassle the next morning? 

An so on and so forth...

Now along with all of this questioning, I started to get bitchy.  Why not?  My sanity was at stake here.  I knew who did it.  My ornery, eldest child, Damien himself.  He wanted to push his mama off the cliff and laugh demonically as I fell.  Of course, both my boys now knew something was up.  They saw Eric and I whispering and searching strange corners of the house. 

"What d'ya lose?"

"Nothing, mind your own business!"

"Mom can't find her keys, have you seen them?"  I gave Eric the "stank eye" for giving away my dilemma before we had the chance to catch William red-handed.

"No, did you check her coat pockets?"  they both called out in unison.  Of course I did.  I'm not that stupid!  I personally checked my coat three times after Eric and I walked the dogs.  Ha, so there!!! 

At that point, I was sick to my stomach.  I knew there would be room searches and the boys would know we were assuming the worst.  Fights would break out and the relative peace and harmony of the Potts' household would come crashing to an end.  This was all my fault of course, the house looney tune - Bri - the "Dope"a-max maniac. 

"Bri..."  Eric came quietly into the study where I was pondering some writing.

"Yes?"  He gently placed my house keys down on the desk next to my lap top.

"They were in your coat, in one of the inside pockets."  He gave me a sweet kiss on the side of my face. 

D'oh!  I still think one of the boys planted them in there after the fact.  I'm sure of it.  I'm not that crazy I?  Deep sigh. 

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