The Hormone Zone!
by Stephanie Lewis
“You’re traveling to another dimension, a dimension not only of brain-fog and confusion, but also of mindless minutia and memory loss, a journey into a meltdown whose boundaries exceed the imagination. At the signpost up ahead, your next stop – – ‘The Hormone Zone!’” (Cue irritating eerie music and Rod Serling’s voice getting on my last nerve!)
Today was averagely efficient. I loaded dirty laundry into the dishwasher, stepped on the gas pedal thinking it was the brake while driving to McDonald’s (where I paid the cashier on autopilot then zoomed right on through the pick-up window without stopping for any food, much to my kid’s chagrin), and went home to find the Windex in the freezer where I was looking for some ice-cream. The frozen dessert was of course a consolation to my kids for their french-fryless existence and was finally located in the refrigerator doing the perfect impression of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Soup.
But then, Dear Diary, something miraculous occurred! I was given a sign from above that, in my forties, I’m to become a mother again! On the kitchen table was a stick from one of those test kits with a little pink holy cross in the results window (somewhat odd for a Jewish girl) but most would call this a “plus sign,” meaning a positive pregnancy!
Never mind not recalling ever taking this test – -it wouldn’t be the first time my memory failed me. But the point is — I am with child! I searched online for statistics of women my age who have buns in ovens, and instantly craved Cinnabon. That’s when our home phone rang.
“I’m busy gurgling something important on the Internet,” I informed my teen daughter.
“It’s Googling, Mother,” she sighed.
“Right. Guess what? I’m pregnant. I found a stick I must’ve peed on and it’s positive.” Patient silence.
“Firstly, You did not pee on a stick. You spit in a tube. Last night, remember? Secondly, you’re not going to have a baby. You have high cholesterol.”
After my disappointment waned (not over losing diapers and breastfeeding, rather, over losing eggs and red-meat) we had our usual conversation.
“Why don’t you save money and get rid of this landline that we’re talking on? After all, you do own a cellphone now,” she reminded me.
“Because I need this home phone to call my cellphone. When I misplace it.”
She hung up exasperated. And I immediately called my cell phone. Eight different times.
In my defense, the ringer was off, making it inaudible. On the ninth time, I found it in the kitchen garbage (more a commentary on my age than the quality of my Android!), but I was thrilled to see eight new voice-mails had recently come in!
My literary agent? Publisher’s Clearinghouse? My high school boyfriend saying his life hasn’t been the same since dumping me? My kids planning me a surprise birthday party?
But all eight recordings were from myself, saying the same nasally thing, “Will you children be quiet while I call my cell? I’m trying to hear it vibrate!” Oh yes, there WAS a ninth caller – my own mother, (whom I must’ve forgotten phoning earlier with my wondrous “I’m knocked up” news) congratulating me on my pregnancy, but adamantly refusing to babysit one more grandchild. Naturally.
Sigh, goodnight Diary.