Puzzled

I’m puzzled by the studies that show that the way to hang on to the last frayed threads of my mind when they threaten to weave themselves into something resembling the dream sequence on Dallas is to diligently solve the daily crossword. I’ve heard so many stories about synapses saved by a steady diet of crossword puzzles that I’m convinced that the only way to hold on to what’s left of my sanity is to discover the answer to 22 across.

The trouble is that I never finish crossword puzzles. I’m the sort of gal that remembers the name of the person I was supposed to introduce approximately 15 minutes (or six weeks depending on the degree of difficulty) after everyone has left the party anonymously. My guests are known to one another as “that girl in the tacky red dress” or “you know, the man who didn’t shave below his chin,” or “that woman who called me Hortense.” It’s easier for me to fit into last year’s swimsuit than to come up with a word at the right time.

So as I stumble over clue after clue on my daily crossword, I’m troubled by the fact that I’m unable to stave off the inevitable destruction of my little gray cells. Every minute my brow is furrowed, I’m certain that I’m heading downhill faster than a mutt after a meatball, only to find that one night after I’ve peeled open the fast food bags for dinner I remember the four letter word for bacteria. At this rate, I should become senile in another six months. I’d better type faster.

Luckily, there is a new school of thought to bring serenity to the chaos between my ears. Studies show that a simple change in my routine, such as taking a different route home from work, will save more of my mind than puzzles ever did. This is especially good for me because while I’m prone to living in a deeper rut than Hummer tires leave in red mud, it is not at all unusual for me to get lost. On especially good days, it might take three tries to make it to the mailbox. Without too much trouble, I can arrange to find a new way to get to the kitchen every week.

So now I can throw away my GPS, stride confidently from the house, and happily continue to take my wrong turns. And I won’t have to worry about any more cross words.

Just a Jolly Holiday with Medication

True to tradition, my family celebrated the holiday weekend with liberal doses of picnics and prescription medication. Nothing says family fun like an undisclosed rash and a husband on muscle relaxers. I tried to schedule a major household appliance malfunction with expensive repairs as well, but it seems like no matter how hard you try, you just can’t fit everything into one weekend.

Let’s start at the beginning.

I love the outdoors. No matter how hectic my schedule may be, I try to peer outside through the dust on the living room blinds at least once a day. The stunning view of the sunshine on the amber waves of weeds helps me not to take my air conditioner with allergy filter for granted.

Given that I’ve even tailored my workout schedule (fork lifts and refrigerator bends—who put the mustard behind last month’s pot roast, anyway) to staying inside, it’s hard to fathom how I managed to cover myself in poison ivy. But cover I did, wall to wall, ankle to elbow. It's still showing up, so I can't name all the body parts affected specifically yet, but it's already passed PG-13 and is steaming upstream toward an R rating.

A friend told me to rub banana peels on the rash to stop the itching. I tried that but I still itch, and now I’m craving cornflakes. And I’ve got a Chiquita sticker on my fanny pack. I've also got a husband who is out for the count when it comes to spreading on calamine lotion.

Which brings us to our feature presentation.

Experts polled at my kitchen table this morning agreed that after the age of 50 it is best not to attempt dangerous feats best left to a professional, such as rerouting the plumbing or bending over to tie your own shoelaces. Bill Dear, a daredevil of the highest order, having not long ago fixed the dryer all by himself with only one extracurricular part procured from ebay, chose to pick a holiday weekend when all doctors are off practicing surgery on home-grilled two-inch thick fillet mignons smothered in steak sauce and sautéed onions, to test his limits by bending over on purpose.

The resulting muscle spasm extravaganza threw him to the floor like Luke Skywalker on the receiving end of the Emperor’s wrath and required the requisite holiday visit to Urgent Care where he twice found himself on the business end of a pointy needle full of “happy place” medication in the form of muscle relaxers and pain killers.

Once back at the house, the patient began to exhibit mannerisms that lead us to believe the medication was taking affect and so, as they often will, the resident young people, with the spirit of their youth and the logistical problem solving ability they’ve learned in classes of higher mathematics and unsupervised homeroom, set up the video camera to photograph our hero in the throes of muscle relaxer mellowness. I didn’t even realize he knew the Lumberjack Song in German.

Of course, in keeping with the festivities, the toilet overflowed, the dog chose that moment to indulge in a particularly ambitious case of diarrhea, and the cat threw up on the living room carpet.

Given the nature of our traditional holiday celebrations, I’m considering signing up to work overtime on the Fourth of July.

But for now, I’m faced with a more urgent problem.

Should I go straight to You Tube with the Bill Dear footage or save it for a special Xtreme Edition of Funniest Home Videos?