LITTLE MISS FIDGET

The story of little Miss Fidget begins as a young girl with unflattering hair is forced into the educational system. This known fidgeter is moi. I tried to convince my mother that after having tried kindergarten for half a day that I had decided it wasn’t a good fit for me so I wouldn’t be going back. Imagine the shock and awe of this revelation when she told me I had no choice. It was prison or kindergarten. (Just kidding.) The fidgeter was born.

I did my best to keep my fidgeting discreet after I got called out and told to “Sit still or I will dip your toes into a pool of alligators.” (My kindergarten teacher believed in tough love.) By the second grade and all through college I figured out a way to fidget without detection.

The method to this is to sit in the third row from the front next to an innocuous student. They’re not difficult to find  You’ll be virtually invisible because the good students are in front, bad in back. In between—not memorable. Thus, I would fidget—barely perceptive toe tapping, leg crossing, and other yoga like positions, running my hands up and down on the desk tabletop, the smoothness soothing. Over the years I must have come up with 1,001 different ways to fidget unnoticed.

I have recently created another fidget. I rub the fabric of my pants between my thumb and index finger. This repetitive motion is referred to as “self-comforting.” I do it when I’m in the car because of the high rate of automobile accidents. If I’m not driving, I self-comfort.

I was caught in the act by the All Seeing Eye—Layce. “What are you doing? Did you know you do it all the time—like whenever we’re in the car,” Layce said, looking over at me while waiting at the stop light.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said, looking down at my right hand, which was frantically stroking my pant leg.

She gave me the “hairy eyeball,” but said nothing, waiting for my confession. I knew she knew. She knew I knew she knew about my fidgeting issue.

“Okay, I admit to being a fidgeter. I can’t believe you haven’t noticed before.”

“I have noticed before and this latest fidget is creepy. You have to stop, now, before it requires therapy.”

She was making me nervous so I rubbed harder. “I need help.”

“Stop, you’ll wear your pants out.”

When we got home, I researched fidgeting. There’s a whole lot of info out there and a whole lot of “people who fidget.” Fortunately, I found the solution on Amazon. It’s a small cube, each side with a different activity for you fingers. Six sides with seven different stress relieving features: click, flick, roll, and spin.

I ordered it and paid extra for two day shipping.

The Fidget Toy

This thing is awesome for fidgeters. Word of advice: Don’t use it when it’s in your pocket because it will look like you’re playing pocket pool.

So you fidgeters out there take heart. There is hope. Fidget away!

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WHAT EMMA TAUGHT ME

When I met Emma, she couldn’t pour her own cereal because she destroyed the kitchen. The whole place would have scattered cereal and spilled milk everywhere. It was like the Tasmanian Devil got hold of the Cheerios.

We’ve come a long way since then. She makes her own breakfast now. Having mastered that she’s moved onto bigger things–teaching me stuff, which is not as easy as it sounds. Here’s what I’ve learned:

Sandwiches do not need condiments. You taste the meat and cheese so much better. You get the essence of the unadulterated flavor.

The Review tab takes you to Spelling and Thesaurus in MS Word.

Coconut oil is great for your hair. It makes it shiny and soft. Note: A little goes a long way.

How to change the interior car lights to different groovy colors—a car feature I had no idea existed.

Ice cream in a cup is better than in a cone if you’d like it to stay solid when it’s a hundred degrees outside.

It’s fun to surf the floor in your socks. You need to watch your speed. Wood floors are hard. In the event of an emergency landing do the butt.

Chicken wire and manure have many uses. We won’t go there. Layce is still mad about it.

Recorder players are cool. Now, I am a record sniffer-outer in flea markets, antique shops, and thrift stores. Buying records facilitates a dialogue with others.

You can’t be lost if you’re still in Oklahoma. (Also, all cows look alike. You can’t use them as landmarks.)

She taught me that it is possible to crack the screen of your laptop by tripping and falling. I have experienced this myself. It’s alarming.

She taught me that you really can lose your glasses in a hay maze. I keep mine in sight at all times, most times, okay, there have been slip-ups.

It’s okay to wear a wig.

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The Cold, Hard Truth

I had been led to believe I was the perfect child for most of my adult life. Then one day my mother dragged out a box of letters that she’d written to my departed grandmother. They told a completely different story—a story of a tyrant, an errant flower girl, an anarchist Brownie (not the kind you eat) and a Halloween Scrooge.

It goes like this. Every day after grade school, the neighborhood children gathered at our house. One late afternoon as my mother took out another pitcher of lemonade, my father asked why everyone always gathered in our backyard.  My mother looked at him coolly. She pointed at me. “Because she can’t be the boss at someone else’s house.”  This was true. I prefer to control my own environment even now.

This need for control got me ousted from Brownies. My mother decided that socialization with other little girls would be a good idea. She dressed me in brown and sent me off. The first couple of times were okay. A bird pooped on our leader’s head during a bird watching session. I enjoyed that but insisted from then on I would always wear hats when in the woods. Which I still do.

It was the crafts part of Brownies that was my undoing. I thought it was inane to roll up pages of magazines and glue them to the outside of an empty gallon ice cream container in order to make waste baskets. As I pointed out, I already had a waste basket and I didn’t think taking away much needed manufacturing jobs was the sort of thing the Brownies should do—especially during dire economic times.

The next letter’s interlude had to do with my aunt’s wedding. For some reason unbeknownst to anyone other than my four-year-old self, I had gotten peeved about my flower girl dress and had what we refer to in my family as a “hissy fit.”  So, as was described in the letter, I held up a wedding, further stressed out the bride and refused to ever return to the wedding’s country of origin—Bicktoria (Victoria), B.C.  I have since returned.

As a child I adored Halloween. It was less about the dressing up and more about the acquisition of free goods. There would be few times in life that people actually opened their doors, smiled and cooed, and handed you candy. Halloween seemed the only time that adults did not fear hoards of children coming at them. At the end of the evening, I would dump out my pillow case full of candy and begin the inventory. I sorted the candy bars and treats into their respective categories and tallied up the totals. I went to bed and the next morning got up and recounted my inventory. Some were always missing. My parents denied any knowledge of the missing treats.

My mother put the letters aside. We studied each other. “You always told me I was the perfect child,” I said.

“I lied.”

And that’s how I found out the cold, hard truth about my younger self.

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What Do Zombies Eat?

Written by Saxon Bennett and Layce Gardner

People always ask us where our ideas come from. I usually answer that our books are born in our kitchen. I don’t know why the kitchen. Perhaps it’s the nurturing idea of food, perhaps it’s the smells, the tastes… Honestly, I really have no idea. All I know is that the kitchen is where most of our books are born.

Just like our newest book. We gave birth one day while Layce was cooking.

I was setting the table when I suddenly announced, “I have an idea.”

“Do I want to know?” Layce poured more batter in the pan. We were having one of my favorite dinners—pancakes. Layce makes great pancakes.

“We need to take a break from romantic comedy—try something new for a bit. Stretch our legs,” I said.

“What do you want to write about—zombies?” she said jokingly.

“That’s a great idea!”

“But I thought you said you already had an idea?” Layce said.

“My idea was about writing something new and different—I just didn’t know what. But now I know. We’ll write a story about zombies.  Only we’ll make them lesbians.”

“And we can have these bad ass women fighting them,” Layce said.

“There’ll be lots of danger, and remember all the contingency plans I have for an apocalypse? We can use those ideas. These women will be really smart and resourceful.”

“Why are we making the zombies lesbian?” Layce asked.

“I thought you’d never ask. The zombies attack the vajayjay, not the brains…”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“No, that’ll be the funny part,” I said.

“I like it,” Layce said sounding less uncertain..

“You do?”

Layce handed me a short stack of pancakes on a plate. “We’ll call it ‘Attack of the Lesbian Zombies.’ Like it’s a B-movie. It’s a satire on all things zombie. And it’ll be a trilogy.”

“Now you’re talking,” I said, smearing butter over my pancakes.

“I’d read it.”

“I would, too.”

And that’s how our latest book “Attack of the Lesbian Zombies” was born. Right in our kitchen, over pancakes. If you rush out and purchase the book right now, you will also receive a short stack of Layce’s famous pancakes.*

Attack of the Lesbian Zombies is a five-part episodic saga. You can read it in parts—for only 99 cents each— or you can download the entire book (parts 1-5).

And if you subscribe to Kindle Unlimited, you can read the entire book for FREE!

* This is not true. We ate all the pancakes.

 

 

The Towel, The Pillow and The PBJ

Layce and I were at the department store looking for new bath towels. We started first with picking out colors that would go with the bathroom.

“How about these?” I asked, holding up a bath sheet. A bath sheet appeared to be a bath towel built like a Hummer.

“I don’t want a bath towel…” Layce said.

“It’s a bath sheet not a bath towel,” I interjected, unraveling one to take a look at what made a bath sheet so much different from a bath towel.

“With a flag on it,” Layce finished. “Or an alligator or a horse.”

“So no bath sheets with logos. Got it.” I continued my search moving over to the Martha Stewart Home Collection. Martha evidently didn’t believe in logos. I checked out the price—18.99. A bit high but not completely unreasonable, until Layce told me we needed six.

“Why do we need six? One set on the rack, one set to replace, wash, trade out. The other two are just sitting there taking up room.” I noticed that it was a bath towel that was 18.99 not a bath sheet. Now, I had to figure out if I was holding up a bath sheet or a bath towel. I measured it against myself.  Yes, I was definitely holding a bath sheet—a 29.99 bath sheet.

Layce stared, with evident hostility, at a hand towel. “This hand towel is 16.99. That’s highway robbery for a hand towel.”

“I think it’s an oversized hand towel.”

Layce stood glaring at the shelves of towels as if they were foes to be vanquished. It was time to leave.

“Maybe we better leave off the towels for now and go look at pillows, maybe we’ll have better luck with pillows,” I suggested.

I tried to refold the towels as best I could, which wasn’t good, and went to find Layce.

I found her jabbing a finger at a pillow. “This is a 200.00 dollar pillow!”

I gave it a poke. It didn’t seem to be that special. “Well, we definitely won’t be buying three of those. Or do we need six?”

Layce narrowed her eyes at me.

“They have other pillows. Here look at this one,” I said trying to divert her attention.

“I’m mad at this store. We’re not buying anything and just for having overpriced bath sheets, oversized hand towels and two hundred dollar pillows, we’re keeping our pillows and towels. That’ll teach them.”

I refrained from saying ‘but they won’t know.’ I know, well, most times, okay just sometimes, I know, when to keep my mouth shut.

We walked by the food court. “Let’s have lunch,” Layce said.

“But what about the PBJ sandwiches I packed?” I said. I hadn’t known if we’d have time for lunch before heading home. I was prepared for this scenario as I am prepared for most scenarios, having a minimum of six contingency plans. Subsequently, I packed sandwiches.

“Okay, I mean, if sitting in a cold car eating a PBJ sandwich is better for you, then by all means.”

I looked around. I wasn’t mad at the food court. I had the world of food at my disposal. Had I lost my senses? This was so much better. “We can always have them for dinner.”

“Sure. Let’s go get some bourbon chicken.”

By the way we had the PBJ sandwiches for dinner in the warm house and without the delicious smells of the food court. We showered using our old towels and fell asleep on the same pillows. Ah, for victory.

THE IMPORTANCE OF TEETH

“I know how important they are,” I told Layce. I slurped coffee through a straw. I couldn’t feel my lips and my tongue felt like it was two sizes larger than normal. I had just spent two hours at the dentist. Being the multi-tasker that I am, I got a crown followed by a teeth cleaning.

I wouldn’t recommend doing this to anyone including people I find annoying.  I realize going to the dentist is a first world problem but it is still torture.  I do want nice teeth but the mental, physical and fiscal toll is a bit much.  Dentists must rank up there with IRS officials. We don’t like them but they are necessary evils. If we didn’t pay taxes we couldn’t flush our toilets or drive to the store on roads.

“How much was it?” Layce asked as she pulled a can of soup out of the cupboard.  Whatever we were going to have for dinner it wasn’t happening now.

“Eight hundred and sixty five dollars,” I replied. “Which included the cleaning.”

“A veritable steal,” she replied. I was pretty sure that was a facetious comment.

“Except I’d rather buy a new winter wardrobe, a flat screen TV for Emma, take a weekend vacation or just about any other fun thing I can think of,” I said. “Why is that? I mean I chew a lot so you’d think that I’d be ecstatic about crowns, fillings, cleanings and a complimentary toothbrush, floss and toothpaste but I’m not. I feel abused.” I slurped more coffee. My lips still had difficulty wrapping around a straw.

I thought back to the fun and games I had at the dentist’s office. Like being asked questions that I can’t answer with my mouth pried open without sounding like a gorilla communicating with the rest of her tribe. Why do they do that? Is it amusing to ask someone what they’re having for Thanksgiving dinner?  The answer sounds like “uh, goo ha herky aaa ah potaaathohs.” Do the techs and the dentist take a linguistic class in patient-with-mouth-full-of-equipment speak?

Next was the “Tell me if this hurts,” or the “How are you doing?” questions. Well, first off how am I going to do that when you’re drilling which sounds like the noise torture in the Clockwork Orange movie? Next question—how am I doing? I am having so much fun I can hardly stand it. Can’t you see my clenched fists and white knuckles?

Then there’s the quandary of whether I should close my eyes or keep them open? Am I being rude for closing them? Does that indicate I don’t want to see the dentist’s pores, moles or nose hairs up close and personal?

And finally the what-do-you-do-with-your tongue conundrum. I evidently have a very curious tongue. It wants to be wherever the action is. I try to tell her this is dangerous but she won’t listen. It’s amazing to me that after a dentist appointment I still have a tongue. Evidently dentists also take a class in how to deal with tongues.

The best part of a dentist appointment is leaving—except that I have to have another dentist appointment. I sigh and resolve myself to future torture. When I get home I know I’ll admire my new crown—not.  The silver lining is that I don’t have to have a root canal because I’m being proactive. Somehow that doesn’t sound like a consolation.

Okay, when I think of it at least I’m not teething, having regular visits from the tooth fairy and looking like a vampire because I’m missing my front teeth.

 

AN APPLE A DAY

Does not keep the doctor away. I eat apples every day. I make Layce eat apples every day and she’s not fond of them. We have one of those special kitchen devices that cut apples into six perfectly formed pieces sans the core. We are apple people. Here’s the story of how apples did not save me.

I went for a blood test. I did this despite the fact I am needle phobic. In the past I have vomited. I have nearly fainted. I have veins that collapse. The upside is I always pass the blood test with flying colors—good white cells, good cholesterol, good liver stats.

The nurse called to tell me I have elevated liver enzymes, high cholesterol and my hypothyroid meds needs to be increased. I wanted to study the lab work—that’s what the internet is for. I went in and got my lab work. I highlighted the areas of concern and then spent two hours on the internet methodically researching possible causes.

Then the nurse called an hour later. “Oh, I forgot to tell you the doctor scheduled you for an ultrasound of your liver.”

Did I mention I ‘d been to the hospital three times in the same week? The check-in woman said to me “Wow, you’ve been here a lot this week. Are you feeling poorly?”

“Not untiI I had a blood test.” My nerves were shot at this point. My liver? I haven’t had a drink in 6 years. That is what you get for cleaning up your life. My liver decided it’s not feeling well.

The liver ultrasound started with the tech asking me if I have a gall bladder. “Last time I checked.” I did get to look at my insides, including my heart. One’s insides are interesting. “Can I get a copy of that?” I figure people get pictures of their baby ultrasounds—I want one of my liver. No go. The doctor gets it.

The nurse called later that afternoon. “You have a tumor on your liver.” Pause. “It’s not cancer. It’s benign. You’ll have to have a CT scan of your liver,” she added.

I got the bag of apples out of the fridge and went out to the back yard. I am no softball player but I pitched them over the fence.  Then I tromped back in the house and began to put my affairs in order.

I can’t eat or drink for twelve hours—this means no coffee. I sniffed Layce’s coffee before I left for the hospital. The x-ray tech was wearing those toe shoes that made him look like a playtupus—his toes were all prominently displayed. He got out the needle to put the dye in so my liver tumor will show up in Technicolor—that’s when the blood bath begins. He felt around for veins. He crinkled his brow and made his decision. The super-sized needle went in for the kill. There was a big poke and a heavy sigh. I made the mistake of looking over. There was this tube thing in my arm and it was leaking blood fast—as in all over the table, his fingers and my arm.

Another tech came in. “You need to cap that,” she said. I thought, uh, yeah before a vampire comes along for a snack. She gave the needle a try. More poking, more sighing. “The vein keeps collapsing.” She tried again. Another big poke another failure. “Let’s go get Sonya.” They both leave and so do I.

I got as far as the waiting room before they caught me. I had bloody fingerprints all over my arm and the vein still had the cap thing in it and I was still leaking. After the people in the waiting room have seen me, I’m thinking there might be a mass exodus. Yeah, Charles Manson is back there my wounds seemed to say.

“We’ll give it another try. It’ll work this time,” they told me. They weren’t exactly preventing me from leaving but Playtupus Man was guarding the door. “We’ve brought in the expert,” he said.

I agreed to go back in. My $120.00 co-pay was part of the incentive. I got back on the table. The expert came in. “Which arm do you want to use?” she asked.

I looked over at the bleeding one that Playtupus Man was wrapping up and Tech 2 was trying to wipe the bloody fingerprints off of. “Okay, let’s try the other one,” Tech 3 said. Another big poke, another sigh. “She needs a blanket. She’s cold and it’s affecting her veins. They keep collapsing,” Tech 3 said to Tech 2. “Go get her a blanket. And I think we need Betty. She’ll be able to do it.”

Tech 4 came in. She studied my whole arm, my hand and finally settled on a vein just above my wrist. “Make a fist.” I did. The vein got bigger. I’m pretty sure it was an over achiever like all the blood in my body was going to this one vein so we can get this whole thing over with. It worked. The dye went in. The CT scan took less time than the blood bath. I left the x-ray department with a few residual bloody fingerprints and three blue gauze Ace bandages on my arms.

When I got home, I walked into the office where Layce was writing about zombies. “How’d it go?” She took one look at my arms and the bloody fingerprints and pulled her T-shirt over her head. I heard her gagging. “Wash your arms and put on a long sleeve shirt. I can’t look at it.”

So much for spousal support. All I could say was, “It’s a good thing you weren’t there.”

“Here, have an apple,” she said, tossing me one.

TO STRAIGHTEN OR NOT TO STRAIGHTEN

I glanced at the pile of books on the end table. They weren’t doing anything other than being books but they were askew. I contemplated my next move. I wanted to straighten them so bad. My hand inched in their direction.

The books taunted me saying, “I bet you want to line us up, corners to corners, all tidy like. Do it, you know you want to.”

Then the coasters started in. They weren’t sitting right next to each other. One was on one side of the end table and the other was diagonal to it. The coasters should either be stacked or lined up even with each other.

“Come on, just straighten the books and the coasters, it’ll make you feel better. You’ll sleep better. You’ll be in a good mood in the morning when you come downstairs and all is as it should be,” my brain said.

“This is your fault,” I told my brain. “You are turning me into an OCD person. Is that what you want?” I said, straightening the books and the coasters.

“There is nothing wrong with being neat,” my brain said.

“This isn’t about being neat—this is an ever increasing obsessive behavior hence the Obsessive in the acronym OCD. I was putting the throw pillows on the couch in order of height and slanted at a 45 degree angle. I stepped back to check my work. Perfect.

“Are you coming to bed?” Layce called out from the bedroom.

“Yes, I’ll be right there,” I told her.

I’d moved onto the kitchen. I couldn’t possibly leave those dishes in the drying rack.

“See, now I can’t go to bed without tidying up the already clean kitchen.” I put the dishes away and got the dish cloth out and wiped the counters down again. “We’re moving into the Compulsive part of OCD. I can’t go to bed without doing this or I’ll lay awake berating myself for not doing it,” I told my brain.

“Who are you talking to?” Layce called down.

“My brain. It’s acting up again,” I said.

“Well, tell it that the Disorder part is now affecting my sleep patterns.”

“Oh, my God, she knows,” I told my brain. “See, it’s become more than apparent. People are noticing it.”

“Just come to bed,” Layce said. “Even OCD deserves some rest.”

“I do not have OCD,” I lied. Then to prove my brain wrong I walked over to the books and messed them up. I flicked one of the coasters so it was uneven. “Hah, take that,” I told my brain.

I climbed into bed and kissed Layce good night. I laid there. For exactly three minutes. I sat up. “I’ll be right back,” I told her.

To straighten or not to straighten, that is the question, and I know the answer.

OPPOSABLE THUMBS

What if dogs and cats had opposable thumbs? I spent one whole day researching opposable thumbs. No one in my family found this odd. God bless them.

I will begin with the cynical side of having of dogs and cats having opposable thumbs. Would we turn them into serfs and house slaves? With thumbs dogs could vacuum, dust, and mop. Would this be their permanent lot in life? Would their only allowable career be as a Merry Maid?

And what about cats? Would they permanently be cleaning bathrooms now that with thumbs they could hold a sponge? Getting down and scrubbing the tub because their height would be perfect for removing the ring of god-knows-what that every bath tub has. Bathroom mirrors and vanities would prove no problem. Pulling the Windex trigger would pose no trouble with a thumb.

How about laundry? Nobody likes doing the laundry. Just because cats have thumbs and they can fold underpants and t-shirts doesn’t mean they should have to. Or how about the cruelest thing of all— cleaning out the microwave? Would we give them protective eyewear? Would OSHA care? I can see an industrial accident in the making. Would they be protected by a union?

Now in a Panglossian world, the lives of dogs and cats with opposable thumbs would be radically improved—beginning with civil rights. This might take a while, as history has shown, but it is possible. What if the human race recognized the beautiful souls of dogs and cats? What if they had souls capable of writing great literature now that they could hold a pen or use the space bar on a computer?

Or creating lithographs of cans of cat food or paintings of gardens filled with squirrels waiting to be chased. Perhaps Martha Stewart line of 1000 thread count dog beds or a Patagonian line of outerwear.

Dogs would come up with time saving inventions now that they could use power tools that would free humans from banal chores and provide more time for long walks on the beach. Would the Patent Office recognize their applications for these inventions?

What if they could hold political office now that they could shake hands? I’m certain they would eradicate homelessness—human and animals. No dog, cat or human would live a lonely life. They would be social workers and care givers and even therapists as they have long been good listeners with a built in sense of empathy.

They could be financial wizards who believed in profit sharing and fiscal ethics now that they could use an Excel program. Or how about Nascar drivers now that their thumbs allowed them to grip a steering wheel? Have we ever considered why dogs sit in the driver’s seats when forced to sit in the car, except on hot days, because the world does not allow cats or dogs in businesses and restaurants. How would we feel?

They would change discriminatory semantics like “It’s just a dog or cat.” Really, would they ever say “It’s just a human?” Would they ever be that inhumane? Or how about being called a “beast?” clumped in with “beastly” behavior? I know they would put a stop to beast-aphobia. What about the sexism of females dogs being called “bitches?” What about that injustice? Have humans ever thought about how powerful derogatory language can be?

And lastly, bad behavior? Really a dog can’t jump or lick your face? It’s called dog love. After all, don’t we show them that we do that? Do as I say not as I do? I mean those slobbery kisses from relatives and teenagers just learning to kiss, isn’t that the same thing? How messed up is that? Separation anxiety? Peeing inside, don’t we do that?

So here’s to the dogs and cats in our lives. Maybe someday they will have thumbs and shouldn’t we embrace that? Let’s find our better nature.

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MOTHER’S LITTLE HELPER

I never really understood the lyrics to that Rolling Stone song. I knew it wasn’t about a newfangled mop head or a Eureka pull-behind vacuum or the invention of Pledge. It’s about Valium.

This is my experience with Mother’s Little Helper:

I had been scheduled for an epidural. Now for those of you who have healthy backs and not in the know, an epidural is a big, long needle that is stuck through your back and into the nerves of your spine. The inflamed nerves that are causing leg pain and numbness are pumped with steroids to help with the symptoms that pinched nerves create.

Being needle phobic, even though I’m not exactly going to see the very long needle, I was understandably nervous. The doctor gave me a Valium prescription for two 10 mg tablets. He said take one when you leave the house and another when you’re half an hour outside of Tulsa.

By the time I got to the office I was three sheets to the wind. First off, we had a little trouble getting me on the table. I tried to put my feet on the stool so I could get up on the table. The stool seemed to have little stool legs that kept moving around. I had some trouble getting my feet on this moving stool.

The doctor’s assistant was a large guy and he picked me up and plopped me on the table. Then both of them, the doctor and his assistant, pushed me to the neck rest.

The doctor showed me the x-rays as he inserted the needle. It all looked like tinker toys with a pick-up stick going through them. He kept saying “Saxon, are you all right? Saxon, earth calling Saxon, this is Captain Kirk, can you hear me?” I was muttering and drooling by this time. I’d never been this high before.

Then it was over. The doctor and his big buddy managed to get me off the table and hand me over to Layce. They seemed to be smiling a lot—like they had some inside joke. I was released to Layce’s custody.

Layce stopped at Quick Trip to get us coffee and a snack for the ride home. All I remember was standing by the donut case…for a very long time. The sign on the case said they had kiwi-filled donuts. I kept looking, but they were hiding. Then a chocolate creamed-filled donut called my name. Then the kiwi one said, “Psst, I’m over here.” I decided to get them both. They seemed to need a good home.

In the meantime, Layce had gone to the restroom, got coffees and found me where she had left me—standing in front of the donut case. I was trying to get the little plastic bag open for a very, very long time. Layce took charge, opened the bag, deposited both donuts.

Next thing I knew I was in the car, my face covered in donut cream, and listening to songs that began with the letter “H” on my MP-3 player. Layce said I really got head-banging over Pat Benatar’s “Hell is for Children.”

“Did we pay for these donuts?” It suddenly occurred to me that I didn’t remember the cashier or any money passing hands.

“I got it covered.”

“Oh, good.”

I don’t remember much about getting home. I don’t remember reading half a book. I did take a nap in my recliner and about dinner time I was reasonably cognizant.

“Did I do anything stupid while I was a drugged up?”

“I’m not telling.”

I’ve been trying to reconstruct the scenario but it seems just out of reach. Call it a Mother’s Little Helper fog. Oh, I’d advise taking only one Valium at a time.

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