Note: Today’s entry is another guest blog by my friend Tippi. She told me this story over the phone, while she was busily coloring her husband’s clothing with a Magic Marker. Odd, you think? Here’s how she came to be in that particular predicament…
Recommended wine for today’s entry: Basa Rueda Blanco, $7.99-$9.99. Everyone has a go-to wine. Basa has been mine for years ever since I found it at a local wine store. At first taste it is a Summer wine, clean, fresh, hint of grass, light citrus, mildly acidic, but crisp. I shared it with friends and everyone always loves this wine and it has become our staple go-to wine. Served at Thanksgiving, on good days, on bad days, at parties, this wine is a Spanish blend of Sauvignon Blanc, Verdejo and Viura. It is the mention of its crisp, clean finish that set me to drinking it today (see below).
Whenever a crying, pleading woman appears on television begging for news of her missing child, I often hear the response, “She is lying, her panic is not genuine.” Which got me to thinking about what a genuine response to panic should look like, because I seem to have this very strange reaction to the unbelievable where my normally logical brain makes a gargantuan leap into the illogical zone.
I blame it on that formidable year when the creators of Dallas taunted viewers all summer waiting to find out who shot J.R. A dream sequence? Get real.
I first noticed this odd transference thing the year I lost my toddler at the Parental Torture Water Park. Parents are not allowed in the toddler zone, but some crazed park developer thought it would be fun to create a zone where toddlers knee-deep in water would periodically have jets of chlorinated water from underground spouts shot into their face. Blinded like Oedipus, toddlers toppling over everywhere, coming and going into the irresistible attraction of airplanes and submarines with slides on all sides. Try to explain to a toddler that mommy will be waiting on the opposite side because this particular torture device is designed to totally disorient small children and the waterslide shoots them out on the opposite side of which they entered. Anyone who can make that concept understood to a toddler warrants my praise and a good bottle of wine.
Of course, my son failed to comprehend I was on the other side waiting for him, and he panicked and we became irretrievably lost from one another in the mass of other toddlers all looking very much alike, same height, and wearing similar swimwear. But did I scream and cry, wring my hands and plead for assistance as soon as I noticed he was lost? No, I sat down and somehow convinced myself momentarily that maybe I never had a son, did not know why I was at the waterpark and sat on bench in a frozen state, way, too long, trying to still the panic that was erupting inside. To this day the psychological ramifications of my reaction haunts me.
But that same sensation recently reared its ugly head when I opened the washing machine door and noticed that my entire load of clothes had somehow been ruined by giant swaths of an absence of color, in other words, white streaks going through everything. Bleach of course, but no bleach to be found in the laundry room.
So my logical mind immediately tells me that we have an Amityville Horror Washing Machine and somehow bleach that was in the washing machine in previous loads has found its way back in through the drain tube, back into our washing machine. I call the company to see if this is possible. Having friends who worked at the GE Answer Center, I know that the long silence on the other end is me being noted as a deranged caller. The woman tells me no, it is not possible for the bleach-infused water that drained out last week to mysteriously reappear back in my washing machine at random. But there can be no other explanation.
And yet, I come up with one. It has to be that my son home from college is running a cottage industry meth lab that involves bleach. Of course I know nothing about meth labs except that I curse them every time I try to buy sinus medicine and have to go to the pharmacy window. Like all college age kids, my son is nocturnal. When I roughly shake him awake midday and accuse him of running a meth lab out of our laundry room involving large amounts of bleach, he shoots me an expression that I must say was an Academy Award winner. Never have I seen confusion, hostility, pity, anger, fight or flight, all so transparent. I cannot repeat the next phrase out of his mouth, but the shaking of his head and his denial about the meth lab factory seemed genuine.
Now at a total loss for explanation, I decide to retrace all steps, including examining the product contents. Was it the large purple bouquet which promised a clean lavender scent that clued me in? Nope. Was it the bottle’s eco-friendly promise? Nope. Was it the easy to handle shape and pour-spout?
Nope. It was said meth lab hostile son walking by and saying, “Hey moron, do you think the hand holding a piece of stemware on the bottle might be a clue that you ruined all our clothes by washing them in dishwasher detergent?”
All I want to know is who in the hell wants their dishes to smell like lavender?