Would you like some wine with your disorder?
by Bill Mehlman
This is a good one.
I was talking to an old friend last week. The usual kind of chitchat: “How're the kids, Have you eaten at such-and-such restaurant, Aren't you glad we don't live in L.A. (sorry, folks, I call 'em like I see 'em), What else is new?”
So I mentioned to her that I was doing some blogging for a website devoted to ADHD. My dear friend's nostrils flared and her face took on an interesting shade of puce. Not terribly flattering, but obviously indicative of an imminent firestorm.
"We were at a cocktail party last week at the _'_s. You know I've been trying to get her to throw her support behind the new addition to the junior high. So I thought this was a heaven-sent opportunity."
I should pause here to note that her husband is an orthopedic surgeon of some renown. He's also notoriously forgetful, and we know what that's about, don't we? Like so many doctors, he won't take medication and, in fact, refuses to believe there's anything wrong with him. When he's working, he has laser focus. When he' s not... not so much.
"So we get up there — have you been to her place? Gorgeous, all that Biedermier and — oh yes, so we're standing around having drinks. She's using the cocktail glasses that her grandmother brought over in her luggage from Venice before the war. It's going well, even when my husband asks the housekeeper for a bloody mary. I mean, really. But she didn't bat an eye. Out she comes with the drink. He's on about some new kind of screw that they use for broken ankles. She's bored stiff, her husband looks mildly interested, must have been wondering if he should find out what the company is and buy some stock. But now Josh needs both hands to demonstrate his point, and asks me to hold his glass. I reach out for it, he moves his hand toward me, and then, bingo, he drops this gorgeous Venetian crystal right on the marble in the foyer. All over me. All over _'_s new ecru dress. Nightmare. I tell her to send me the cleaner's bill, grab Josh, drag him out the door.
In the elevator, I'm screaming. Can't help it, screaming, they must have heard me in Central Park:
"WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH YOU? ARE YOU CRAZY?"
The big oaf is miserable.
"I'm sorry, honey. I thought I'd given it to you."
"He FORGOT. In that microsecond, he forgot that he had a glass in his hand, and opened his fingers to grab the metatarsal he was thinking about, and CRASH. End of glass, end of new addition. It's hopeless."