Things that make my mother’s skin crawl

From the same folks who brought you talking ants and a big, honking lot of pasta salad comes this post:

Often while at my parent’s, I joke– as I often do– with my mother about letting the cats into the house, especially in the winter, even though I know she’s allergic. The same way that I joke with The Sister about putting ketchup on her fries even though I know she hates ketchup or catsup (which is it anyway? I’ve always gone with ketchup myself, because catsup sounds like something that a fur ball that a cat coughed up). It’s a brother thing. What can I say?

“You know they make me itch,” she’ll say.

Last night, though, I learned that not only cats make her itch, but also other things that one might not connect with itching.

When I offered her some popcorn I just popped in the microwave, she tells me:

“I can’t eat popcorn any more.”

“Why?”

“It makes me itch.”

“It makes you itch?” I ask incredulously.

“Yes, it makes me itch. I don’t know why, but it does.”

Later, a horse flies finds its way into the house by her recliner, which sits by a screen door.

“Don’t let it bite me! It makes me itch!”

She hastily adds: “Don’t laugh…and do not put this on a blog!”

Which, of course, immediately makes me laugh and go for my notebook.

Then as often happens in my parent’s house, she uses Scripture (it is sharper than any two-edged sword you know) on me: “Judge not, lest ye be judged.”

“Yea, it will return unto you hundredfold,” my dad says (okay, he didn’t actually say that, but it was something to that effect and said in a very Charlton Hestonesque voice).

Both of them tell me that as susceptible as I am to allergies that this is something about which I should not joke and my dad concludes the discussion:

“You’ve had nothing until you start to itch.”

Which, I guess, is true, when you think about it.

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Just call me the King of the Self-Imposed Panic Attacks

Because that’s what I am.

The attacks or fits, as that’s what they quickly become, usually are caused by “losing” my wallet or my cell phone.

This past weekend alone I had two such attacks, both false alarms thankfully. The first occurred Saturday night when I “lost” my wallet. I only realized it when I needed to return a couple of DVDs to the library, because, of course, I needed my driver’s license to drive them to the library.

And I was under deadline. It was 4 p.m. and the library closed at 5 p.m. Luckily The Wife was out of town so was not witness to the attack that followed.

Couch cushions were moved. The sections of the couch were moved. The bedroom was turned upside down. The search was conducted under the bed, above the bed, with the sheet being tossed aside.

Finally, it was 4:45. I could wait no more…I had to go to the library without my driver’s license. I only hoped I wouldn’t be pulled over. I wasn’t.

I returned home to continue my search. At one point, I called my mother.

She asked the inevitable question: “Do you remember where you had it last?”

“ARGGGGH!” I feel like Charlie Brown sometimes, you know when Lucy takes the football away from him just before he goes to kick it? Yeah, like that.

“If I remember where I had it last, I wouldn’t be talking to you on the phone,” I said to her as calmly as I could through clenched teeth.

I think I even asked her to pray that I would find it. She said she’d pray with me. Of course, I told her I didn’t have time, because I was searching for my wallet.

An hour later, after hyperventilating, thinking my world is coming to an end, where do I find it? In the back pocket of the shorts I was wearing the previous day, buried under some other clothes — that were on the floor of course, not put in the hamper as they were supposed to have been (The Wife is always telling me that).

The second attack happened Sunday night when I couldn’t find my cell phone.

In comparison to Saturday night, this was a mini-attack. I think I said the f-word only one time, whereas Saturday night, I probably used it, uh, like twice. Yeah, that’s right. Only twice. Oh, and Mom, when I say the f-word, of course, I mean fahrvenugen, of course.

Unfortunately, The Wife was home for this one.

Fortunately, I used her phone to call my phone and where was it this this time? On the couch, hidden under a blanket.

These attacks, of course, weren’t the first — as my wife can tell you and has in a post from a few weeks ago called Motorola Meltdown, where she recounts a time I actually did lose my cell phone.

Now tonight my wife said she’s going to get me a blaze orange wallet from the sporting goods store. So I won’t lose it.

I bet even then I won’t see it.

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