Sometimes, you have to kill off the weak to make the robust ones work to their fullest potential. No, I’m not talking about offspring. I’m talking about brain cells.
Brain cells are funny. Not funny ha-ha, (nothing funny about sitting in the driveway with the car running and wondering where the hell you were going), but funny weird. Sometimes they fire on all cylinders and other times, not so much. Like the other day when I found a package of shredded cheese in the cupboard – next to the dog biscuits. Hmmm, I said, pulling the package out with two fingers as it dangled like a dead bug – one that took a left instead of a right and ended up in a pantry instead of a shrub. Of course, my husband had to be standing right there at that exact moment so I couldn’t bury the package at the bottom of the garbage can and pretend it never happened.
“Oh” I said casually, “I must have tossed this up there on accident when I was putting away groceries yesterday.” The look on his face said it all: a kind of “yeah, right” smirk. But, because he’s so good at being a husband, he kept his mouth shut and did his very best at disguising what he was thinking.
“Hee hee…silly me,” I quipped.
My theory is this: aging, half-dead brain cells are what make me get into the shower with my underwear still on and they need to be regularly and mercifully sacrificed for the greater good. If not, they draw down on the fresh, powerful brain cells that help me remember to turn off the sprinklers or locate my reading glasses. It’s all about thinning the herd. Remember, a chain is only as strong as its weakest link.
Clearly, the simplest and most enjoyable way to eliminate the almost-dead weight is through the use of a cocktail or two. Just a little nip does wonders for a brain and the results are immediate. Case in point: last night my son showed me this week’s logic problem that his math torturer, I mean, instructor gave him for homework. I read it. I read it again. I gave up and said, “Wait ‘til your father gets home,” but not like June Cleaver says it. When it comes to homework, my husband and I know our place: I get language arts and he gets math, or anything connected to math, like science, history, social studies and Spanish.
About thirty minutes after reading, and then abandoning the logic problem, I made myself a cocktail. Just a little fruity concoction I threw together with canned pineapple and mandarin orange juice leftover from the nearly fresh fruit salad I made to go with the crock pot meal that was simmering. The logic problem was a distant memory…or was it?
As I sat on the couch, sipping and staring at the kids staring at the TV, the following sentence popped into my head: “If Colonel Mustard gets six shots, and the first two add up to an even number on the bullseye chart, that leaves four shots and three of them have to be odd points or he’ll never arrive at 71 points!” I reached over and poked my son on the shoulder, rapid fire, and told him to “go get the logic problem, Q-LAB!” (Quick Like a Bunny” which is responsible parenting code for “Hurry the f*&! up!) I didn’t want my sudden burst of vodka-induced cognition to evaporate without getting it down on paper – which of course would have been the fault of those feeble brain cells slowing everything down.)
My son returned and we quickly plugged in the numbers. I was correct! My son was not convinced. He listened, nodded and then said politely, “I still want to show it to dad.”
Fine, I thought to myself, knowing I had the problem solved. Thanks to proper brain cell management, that is. If I had not kicked up my feet with a cocktail, nudging those addled cells over the cliff into grey matter oblivion…
I pondered the idea of writing a book. I’d need a doctor to collaborate, to give my theory legitimacy.
Now where did I put that phone book…