It Runs in the Family

Wow, Hot Pants, now I don’t feel so alone in my idiocy.

Friday I hustled the Lord & Master to his field vision test at Kaiser, only to discover we were one week early. He even vamoosed off a conference call to get there on time. This kind of goof is becoming so common that I’m afraid I should be called Magpie, Jr.

The L&M took it in stride, bravely claiming I’m not inept. Oh, but I am. Unlike Hot Pants, I cannot claim that my time is swallowed up by a full time job. And yet I barely crawl through the day. I’ve yet to file our 2009 taxes, mainly because I hate to break it to my overworked hubby that we need to withdraw over $30,000. buckaroos from his diminished inheritance funds. Not to mention I’m supposed to be unearthing the data our patient accountant Steve wants for the 2008 audit. Nor have I figured out how much is due and when repayment begins on Sassafrass’s college loans.

Instead, I keep my head down and catch up on Regis & Kelly, The View, and now, god help me, The Talk. Really, how can I get anything else done with so many chatfests to follow? And that’s without confessing to my loaded prime time slate. Though I’ll shout it from the rooftops that Fashion Police, headlined by my personal goddess, Joan Rivers, is my Must See TV. Come on, with a segment like Guess Me From Behind, what’s not to love?

The thing is, I always thought I was a replica of Our Father. For years he was secretly unemployed, yet got up, dressed in his suit, and left the house until dinnertime. He’d return complete with fabricated tales of his business woes for our unsuspecting mother. We’ll never solve the mystery of where he spent those days. I know I haven’t perpetrated any outright frauds on my spouse, but I don’t tell him I send the pooch off with the dog walker, sleep ’til noon, then watch the telly all day, either. I am suffused in that same dreamy fantasy life I know Daddy existed in for years.

And, now, on top of that lovely trait, I’m turning into a forgetful nincompoop like Mah, who once sat silently in the back seat as I drove her and Daddy-O to a joint doctor’s appointment. Little problem – she neglected to pipe up that the offices had moved. But who am I to judge? I forgot the smog check on the car for the DMV renewal. I lost the Costco rebate check. Gone. Poof. It slipped my mind that we were supposed to be at a wedding (we showed up breathless at the reception). What’s next, driving away with the front door wide open? Leaving Theo Fannybrice at Fort Funston? Aren’t I a bit young for Alzheimer’s?


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