I recently served on an interview panel at school. My boss was across the table from me, peers surrounded me on either side, and at the front of the room a potential employee taught a short lesson. There was a break in the conversation, but not for long. My Brain isn’t a fan of silence, and it often whispers seductively to my Mouth, “Say something, honey. It’ll calm your nerves and relax your guests.” (It says this because Brain believes everyone in my presence is a guest. The sad part of this admission is that it clearly reveals my unwarranted egotism. On the plus side, though, I tend to be pleasant.)
Mouth listened. It said aloud, “What was that film Dan Quayle made about global warming?”
No one said, “Do you mean Al Gore?” No one said, “I don’t remember him making a movie, but Gore made An Inconvenient Truth.” No one said, “Bless your little heart,” or even, “You’ve lost your ever-loving mind.” They did tilt their heads and make sad eyes at me, though. I felt like a dog who kept rolling over whenever her owner said, “Sit.” I knew my people weren’t pleased, but I couldn’t figure out why.
Then fifteen minutes later, Brain remembered that Dan Quayle was the veep who thought potato was spelled with an “e.”
It was this incident that I contemplated on ten-minute drive home from work. “Potatoe,” Brain thought. “Like vegetables with appendages. Or, rather, one appendage — just the ‘toe.’ If it was really spelled this way, I’d probably avoid it like I steer clear of carrot cake. Vegetables don’t belong in baked goods. Is zucchini cake a real thing, too? Seems like it is — or maybe it’s zucchini bread.” About five minutes out of town, I began to wonder if dates are a nut or a fruit; I can’t ever remember the answer to this. I decided to turn on the radio to calm my Brain and because it was really quiet in the car. Unusually quiet, really. And then Brain whispered, “Turn around, sweetie. You forgot to pick up the kids.”
But, hey, on the bright side, I was only halfway home when I remembered. The day before I’d driven up to the mailbox, gathered the mail, and turned to hand the bundle to my son before I realized the kids were missing. My misfiring Brain has cost me a bit of gas, and a lot of embarrassment, lately.
In bed that night, I came clean to my husband about forgetting the kids twice in as many days. “I’m only thirty-seven, I said. This shouldn’t be happening.”
He patted my hand and said, “Honey, you’re thirty-six.”
PHOMSITHI'S PLAYGROUND 