People who take Topomax should never do anything.

Today's #ReverbBroads11 prompt: What are your biggest pet peeves? via Em at  http://warmedtheworld.blogspot.com/

I'll focus on one: forgetfulness!

I hate when people forget things. It makes life like this: everyone else is a cub scout but me-I'm the den mother. Did I mention my whole family has ADHD? (My middle son leaves socks around our house the way the Easter Bunny leaves eggs.)

Here's the worst part:

A couple of months ago, my neurologist prescribed me Topomax for my migraines. And it dramatically reduced my migraines. Which is a big deal, since, prior to that I had UPGRADED to an average of 15 migraine days a month.  But it made me an idiot.

The first week, I lost my credit card, forgot to pick my six year-old up from school, and tried to set fire to my house over and over again with a glue gun. Now it's a bit better. But I can't write letters backwards in the air anymore! (Shut-up. I need to. It's part of my job. I'm a reading instructional coach.)

A funny thing happened today.

I can't hand-write the addresses on my holiday cards anymore, because of my fibromyalgia, and my husband had the brilliant idea of using Excel and Avery labels to make the job easier. So, last night, I was carefully aligning and sticking labels onto holiday cards. Which I send to everyone in the goddamned world. 'Cuz I'm that good. I even wrote a cute holiday letter.

So today I'm carefully, lovingly folding each letter to include with the photo cards of my three kids and my canine-donkey hybrid dog. I've got through about thirteen when I notice they all say

"We hope 2010 finds you happy and well."

Maybe it will be construed as a joke?

Just when I was feeling really low, though, my mother, a brilliant woman and writer who graduated summa cum laude with a degree in creative writing, calls me:

Mom: "My car is gone."

Me: "WHAT?"

Mom: "It's just completely GONE. I parked it on the side street, on Bathtub Row, outside the Senior Center, and when I came out, it was just...gone."

Me: "It isn't."

Mom: "What do you mean?"

Me: "It's not gone. You just can't find it. Do you need me to come and get you and help you to find it?'

Mom: "Yes, because I'm about to cry."

Me: "OK. I'll be there in a minute."

Mom: "I'm in front of the Senior Center. I'll be the one crying."

So, I got in my car, my self-esteem having already been slightly elevated. My mother, although having been blessed with a well-honed wit, has been given short shrift in the mathematical and directional skills departments. But, to be fair, this was her first visit to the Senior Center since moving to Los Alamos.

I drove up to the square grey Senior Center building and adjacent parking lot, and came immediately upon my mother's silver Toyota Corolla, with her sunglasses perched on the hood. She was nowhere in sight.

I phoned her. The ringing ceased and a loud rustling sound commenced, which continued for about forty seconds, until I hung up. "God damn it, mother!"

I put the car in gear, rounded the corner, drove down a side street and discovered my mother standing on a snowy sidewalk outside a brown apartment building, looking expectant.  I honked.

She got in the car. "Well, I don't know where the fuck you think YOU were but your CAR is at the Senior Center."

And we both started laughing. It's good when you can laugh through the dementia.

It eases the pain.