What I Saw From the Kitchen Floor

Mind-numbing pain shoots through both legs. My knees buckle as the heat from hell’s inferno sears down to the bone. Sweat pops on my brow. A pounding in my head is surely the hoof beats of the approaching Apocalypse. My stomach churns.

I collapse to the kitchen floor. In vain I try to pull myself to the telephone but am only able to lie there panting and awaiting eternal darkness.

Apocalypse Now But Not Before I Clean Up This Mess
Hold your doomsday horses, folks.

What is this I see? Oh, golly. My kitchen floor is filthy! Look at the grease accumulated there by the stove and crumbs stuck to every corner from the droplets of a thousand spilled juice drinks. Goo drizzles down the front of my oven door.

Ugh! One glance and I notice the colorful hook rug on which I lie hides myriad stains and crusty gookiness. If only my legs would cooperate, I’d jump up and toss it in the washer.

I thought the kitchen was passable, but I’d never gotten this kind of bug’s eye view. At this moment, all I can think is: Please don’t report me to America’s Messiest Home.

With God as My Witness, I’ll Move Again
I begin to focus and realize I’ve not been seized by satan. I’ve experienced excruciating leg cramps the likes of which would take down an Olympic high jumper. These were the grand-daddy of all leg cramps.

An eight-hour workday in high heels and two more schlepping through the grocery store had proved to be too much on my poor aging calf muscles.

Twenty minutes of leg massage and housekeeping self-examination, and I was able to limp to the couch where I rested and reflected.

Cleanliness is Next to Someone Else
Anyone who’s been to my home will agree I’m no Suzie Homemaker. Small tufts of dog hair float down the hall way. Dishes await a washing. Windows are smudged. As in life, when I don’t look too closely, I can overlook the grime and dirt that isn’t in my face.

And as in life, tomorrow is another day, and that’s when I’ll think about hiring someone else to clean up this mess.

Play the Fool Like No One's Watching

Despite my silent promise to the contrary, I’d made a fool of myself – again.

My reputation had been firmly set years ago, and it didn’t take much encouragement to convince me to break my vow of somber seriousness.

Lying in bed, I relived, with shame and worry, my antics of the night before. Were my friends tsk-tsking behind my back? Did they laughingly recall how I acted, what I said, what I did? Most importantly, did they think less of me? Oh, how I want to be thought well of. But how can that happen when I act like a Silly Sally?

Okay, Here’s What Happened
I attended my friend Diana’s annual awesome, all-out family karaoke holiday extravaganza. Years before, with an I-don’t-care-what-the-world-thinks attitude, fueled by the raw emotions of a failing marriage, I’d grabbed the microphone of her karaoke machine. Some Vegas night club cheeseball persona took control, and I started chatting up the party guests.

“Hey, everyone, happy holidays. Are y’all having a good time? Who’s from out of town here? Anyone from the east coast? Hey, mister, is Santa gonna treat you right? You been a good boy?”

A wink. A smile.

Yipes. What was I doing? My kids are here!

Without thinking, I belted out “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire,” and by belting out, I don’t mean in an undiscovered talent way. I mean, in a cringe-worthy, I ‘m horrible and way off-key way.

They Like Me, They Really Like Me—I Think
To my surprise, my friends and neighbors laughed. Their smiles, giggles and come-backs were an elixir, and I wanted more, more, more.

A friend said she’d laughed so hard, her sides hurt. An elderly neighbor told his son he hadn’t enjoyed himself this much in months.

Wow. Did I have that kind of power?

But, You See, There’s Always a Down Side
“Are you drinking, Mom?” my son asked?

“Nope. I’m sober as a judge, darlin’,” I drawled. “Can’t mama have fun without y’all thinkin’ I’m tipsy?”

And it was true. I was high on mirth and the attention a microphone brought me.

Every year, against my better judgment, this night club act reveals itself.

But what do my friends really think? Do they groan when they see me? Does it really matter? They continue to talk to me. They continue to invite me out in public. And Diana continues to ask me to her annual awesome, all-out family holiday extravaganza.

From now on, I’m going to live like no one’s watching, except when I’m holding a microphone.

Attention, please, I’ve got the floor!