I was making meatball madness the other day in the slow cooker. I’d tasted the sauce and it needed some salt. I couldn’t find any in the spice cupboard next to the cooker hob. We have pinch pots on our dining table for salt and pepper, with twisty tops. As I entered the living room, my husband was playing an online game with his mates. (I appreciate I sound like I’m married to a fifteen-year-old gamer). He’s not, for the record.
Fifteen, that is.
He had his headphones on. I crept in, past where he was lounging in his chair, and reached for the salt pot.
Off come his headphones.
“Are you making coffee?” he asked hopefully.
“No, I’m making meatball madness,” I replied.
“Oh, amazing. What film was that from?” he asked.
“I can’t remember what I had for breakfast. I am not going to remember the film you got jealous over the size of the meatballs.”
“Do you know what goes well with making meatballs?” he said with doe eyes.
“Don’t tell me,” I said, standing back, palms up, with a shocked expression. “Coffee?”
After giving him an evil smile to his smug expression, I took his empty coffee cup and got three steps away.
“Pete says you need to google snickerdoodles.”
Pete is one of his gaming mates.
Before I could reply, his headphones were snapped back in place, and the bad guys were being eliminated.
I came out of the living room.
My kitchen is three steps forward, my office is three steps to the right. With his empty coffee cup, I turn right and search IMDb for movies starring Charlize Theron as that was the only actor I could remember was in it. When I found the film is Hancock, I nod at the laptop, satisfying my curiosity. Then I searched for snickerdoodles and discovered, to my disappointment, there were no snickers involved. I rechecked the ingredients and see it needs salt.
I go back into the living room, stretch my hand past his chair and off come to his headphones.
“Coffee?” he askd me hopefully.
“Sorry, yes, I was just going to make it. Hancock, by the way.”
He looks at me like I have two heads, gives me the curious side-eye, and snaps his headphones back on. I pull one hear off and say, “the meatballs you got jealous over, it was the film, Hancock.”
I let the cushion headphones drop back into place while he registered what I was saying.
Heading to the kitchen this time, I checked the cupboards for the ingredients for snickerdoodles because they sounded good to make and only took ten minutes in the oven. So I pulled out what I needed.
I couldn’t remember what temperature the oven should be at. Moving to the office again, I brought the laptop to life, saw Charlize Theron’s advert for Dior, and clicked. It took me to YouTube.
My husband came into my office.
“Did you have a sneaky coffee?”
“No,” I replied indignantly.
“But there is a second empty cup?”
“That’s yours I picked up.”
“An hour ago?”
“No, it can’t be an hour,” I said, looking at the clock in the bottom left corner of the laptop.
It was an hour. I’d got stuck in a realm of thirty-second videos because YouTube took me to TikTok.
“Are the meatballs on?” he asked.
“Yeah, they’re in the slow cooker.”
“I need salt for the sauce. That’s what I came in for a while ago.”
My husband gave me an eye roll and left my office. To make sure I knew what I was supposed to be doing, I followed him out. He went left, back to his game, and I went right into the kitchen. Checked the meatballs in the slow cooker, took the teaspoon sitting in the dish and dipped it into the sauce.
“Could do with some salt,” I muttered.
Going off on tangents, getting distracted, finding something shinier to look at is my forte these days. If I have to do something, like get the washing out, I chant washing while I walk out of my office, and I allow nothing else to enter my head.
Washing, washing, washing.
I work from home, and my husband goes out to work. But when he has a day off, he follows me, sometimes trying to listen to what I’m saying. I hadn’t realized I started chanting aloud.
Much to his amusement.
The problem is, I’ll get the washing out, then go back for the pegs, which are in my cleaning bucket, and realized I need to buy washing up liquid. Then, sometime later, I’ll go back into the living room to find the washing from a few hours ago, balance in the washing basket precariously on the doorstep to outside.
Menopause life is never dull, that’s for sure.
The meatballs never got any added salt because I’d gone back into the living room, and my husband had said, “coffee?”.