Put a lid on it!

In the scheme of menopause moments, this was just a little menopause oversight, annoying but no serious consequences.

I spotted the stupid laundry, let it sit awhile, added the detergent and set the cycle. Then I headed out for the day, expecting to initiate dry and fold upon my return. Well, the soak's on me! Stupid laundry sat all day in soapy water because I forgot to close the washer lid before I left.

How's that for airing my dirty laundry?

The irony of the egg

In an ironic but menopausal moment, I no sooner finished my last post but I headed downstairs. Cooking smells filled the air, and my first conclusion was that my husband, uncharacteristically, had decided to start in making brunch.

Imagine my surprise and dismay to discover the eggs I'd put on to hard boil prior to heading up to write bumping wildly about in what little water remained in the pot. The chronicling of one menopause moment leads to another.

Is this a new app for IPhones?

I grabbed my blue fleece jacket after exercise class, thrusting my hand in the pocket to make sure my IPhone was still there. Reassured by its familiar shape, I pulled it out to check for messages. My first shock--it no longer had a cover. The second? My photograph of autumn leaves was gone, replaced by the original "earth from space" wallpaper.

My brain whirled, trying to figure out how a phone could transform completely in an hour. Only then did I come up with the alternative--and correct--conclusion that this was not my blue fleece jacket; mine, in fact, still hung from its hook.

The times when my first explanatory pass at a menopause moment is completely absurd are those when I feel most in danger of impending dementia!

Aging attorney flops at the courthouse

This is a good moment from Miss Trial here in town:

I think I’ve seen the wearing of slippers to the office covered in your blog, but today I wore my flip flops to court! Didn’t notice until I was putting quarters in the meter, dropped a quarter near my feet and saw them. There was no time for turning back.

So, I flip flopped my way along the sidewalk to the courthouse, went through security and as the flip-flop sound echoed through the hallways I truly did notice people looking at my feet. I shrugged my shoulders and smiled weakly (very). In the courtroom I was able to position my briefcase so my feet didn’t show, and when I walked up to the podium I waddled in a way that the flip-flopping was minimized.

I think it’s time to carry a spare pair of dress shoes in my trunk!

Did Freud see this coming?

Being very hip and New Age, I was having a texted conversation with a friend who is going through treatment for a serious illness. We were extolling the virtues of daughters at the bedside, and her daughter, appropriately named Georgia, has been a perfect peach. Here was my final word on the subject:

Who will take care of the aging parents who only have sins?

No offense to my own Freudian slip of a son, but I can kinda' see where that came from!

I must've been loaded...

I've always pretended, as I performed that loathsome chore of unloading the dishwasher, that the exercise of sorting silverware would enhance my IQ. Apparently not.

I unloaded the plates and silverware, then put the dirty dishes from the countertop in the rack before tackling the cups above. I needed a break, so I closed up the dishwasher (I tend to walk into it, leaving my shins all abruised) and wandered around the kitchen sipping coffee and musing.

Back to the task at hand. Opened the dishwasher and thought, with satisfaction, ah hardly any plates left to unload. It was only after I placed the last slightly greasy dish in the cupboard that I realized that I had just put away the dirty plates I'd loaded up not 10 minutes before.

No increased IQ points for me!

Chewing out hubby

My 50-something year old patient complained of irritability and impatience.

"I'm not myself," she said.

"That easy irritation, easy frustration, is common at this time of life," I assured her. "Snapping at your husband for the way he chews and stuff like that."

Her eyes widened with surprise and recognition. "Did I tell you tell you that?"

"No," I laughed, "I know about that because I hear about it from a lot of women our age."

"I feel so bad," she said, laughing harder than I was, "asking him how does he make an olive sound like a piece of celery."

Twofer honorary menopause moment

These from Dada:

I'm typing this while the charcoal is heating on the patio. (I'm having my Memorial Day cookout. It's two days late. Reason? When I went to the store on the holiday for my bratwurst cookout items -- buns, brats, potato salad, mustard, etc. -- I returned with everything. Everything except the bratwurst! (And I had a grocery list.) I joined my wife for a veggie meal instead.)

But that's not my point. After reading your very funny MM glasses moment, I just had to share mine from this morning. (BTW, men can have menopause moments too, right? Maybe if not from that, maybe from all the cooked egg whites?)

Today was a landmark day. I would head out early to the Central Appraisal District's office to finally apply for my "over 65" property tax exemption. Mrs. Dada volunteered to go along.

"No, you sleep in, this shouldn't take me long," was my response. To make sure everything went smoothly, I even thought to take a copy of my birth certificate. I drove the 12 miles to their office very early as Mrs. Dada slept. Everything went exactly as I'd planned.

There were no crowds, I immediately signed in and moments later, before a clerk, was all set to go. That is, until she asked, "May I see a photo ID, like your a driver's license, please?"

Hopelessly groping for my wallet was futile. "Oh, I think I left it at home," I said sheepishly, sliding my birth certificate toward her. We both laughed as she slid my rejected birth certificate back to me as I related how the last things my wife always asks me as I depart the house to go shopping are, "Got the cell phone?" and "Do you have your wallet?" (It's almost embarrassing.)

This morning I wish she hadn't slept in, that she'd been around to ask me that last question; to save me 24 miles, a lot of time, and maybe an embarrassing menopause moment.

More adventures through the reading glasses

If it weren't for misadventures with readers, most days I'd have no menopause moments at all.

My patient and I wound up the annual visit with a little chitchat on aging and the challenges thereof. I gathered up my pen, my stethoscope, her chart, and prepared for a graceful exit from the exam room. Oh yeah, and my reading glasses, there they were on the desk by her chart.

"Whoa," says my patient, gently prying them from my grasp. "Those are mine...you're wearing yours!"

Fat city!

A perfect Saturday morning for pancakes, cool and breezy, and I'm blowing off exercise class for a leisurely brunch.

Is it the coolness? The ambient humidity? Why is this batter so thick? Like bread dough thick. I add more buttermilk which briefly thins it out, then it gels back into a pasty goo. I add still a bit more liquid--cautiously, one teaspoon at a time as I'd once thinned a previous batch unto ruin--then I scrape three cakes-worth into the pan scarcely able to get the stuff off of the spoon.

My kids are way past pancake smiley faces, in fact neither one was even home for pancake anything. But listen, this plaster-of-pancake could've been sculpted into 3-D clowns at this point. Midway through cake one, I realize no one could eat two of these things and rise off the kitchen chair to tell about it. My husband graciously allows that "the consistency is atrocious."

Then he leaves his panbrick half-eaten and starts to put the ingredients away.

"Did you use heavy cream to make these pancakes?" he asks, holding up a half-empty quart of heavy whipping cream that looks suspiciously like the buttermilk container.

And I realize, with a literal lump in my stomach, that I've just put away nearly a half cup of real deal cream. Back to bed for a nap, too full for anything else.