Diagnosis: Broken

[scripty]
STEE
I find it charming that you will diagnose people after hearing only three symptoms.

PAMIE
I do that?

STEE
From athlete’s foot to kidney failure.

PAMIE
I do that. Yeah. I get it from my father. He did that all the time.

STEE
As if you have a medical degree. It comes from the same school of thought as when you state something as true even though you’re just supposing it really happened.

PAMIE
I’m thinking of throwing a dinner party for my single friends.

This is some strange, hopefully new thing I’ve recently noticed I do: I change the subject completely, without warning, and if the focus isn’t on me, I’ll turn it there. I mean to be adding to the conversation, but I miss my mark. Like I’m so clumsy at the art of conversation that I knock the entire thing over and everyone stares at me, wondering why I even bother.

STEE
You won’t worry that all of your single friends think you want them to hook up with each other?PAMIE
No. It’ll be a celebration of the single. All the food will be Independent themed.

STEE
No.

PAMIE
Like how I had salmon in heart-shaped parchment, and ice cream brownies for two? This time it’ll be foods that you eat by yourself.

STEE
Pam, people aren’t single because they enjoy being independent.

PAMIE
They’re not?

STEE
It’s not a politcal statement, is what I’m saying. Not for everybody.

PAMIE
So… you’re saying I need to serve Heartbreak Pasta? With Fuck ’em Fusili?

STEE
Masturbation Mashed Potatoes.

PAMIE
Lonely Heart’s Club Peas?

STEE
Blurred vision, back pain, swollen tongue.

PAMIE
Rickets.

STEE
That’s what I thought. Swollen feet, cold fingers, tendency to forget to set TiVo to tape something.

PAMIE
Gout.

STEE
Voice sounds like a horn when you talk, you hear Barry Manillow wherever you go, and your hair falls out in clumps.

PAMIE
That would be Muppet-Muzak.

STEE
Oooh. You’re good.

PAMIE
Tragically, the first man to come down with Muppet-Muzak didn’t know he had it for twenty years.

STEE
That’s so sad.

PAMIE
He thought he had the hiccups.
[/scripty]

So I recently got a cast iron pan, and I’ve been very wifey about it. I seasoned it, cooked it, and envisioned years of biscuit-making, greasy bacon breakfast mornings. Despite the fact that I don’t know how to make a biscuit, and I live with someone who doesn’t eat red meat, I was confident that I would still fry up a mean skillet. The pan turned a few weird colors, but with my dedication and about a roll of paper towels, it started looking like my parents’ cast iron pan. My mom told me that hers is about forty years old, so I’m trying to put it in perspective.

Anyway, last night I finally decided to bust it out for potatoes, peppers and sausage. Everything smelled great and it was all cooking up nicely. I put the lid on top of the pan so the potatoes could cook a little faster. Then I started thinking nice thoughts about the glass lid. This is the first glass lid I’ve ever had, and I just marvel at how nice it is to see the food underneath, letting it cook as long as it needs to before I open it up and…

You guys understand how lids work. Sorry.

Anyway, I took the lid off and rested it on the other burner as I began serving the food. I don’t know, it all happened so quickly. But I think I must have nudged the lid with my arm as I was scooping the food out of the pan. The lid slipped but my hands were full with plates and utensils. SMASH. The lid shattered at my feet. Chunks of glass went flying.

As I swept, my food turned cold. For whom does the world’s tiniest violin play? It plays for me.

If there’s something in front of me, I’ll drop it, break it, crack it or spill it. If it’s something I need to pass by, I’ll bump it, shove it, nudge it or warp it. My hands stop working, my forearms smack everything, my thighs are attracted to sharp edges.

Clearly: Pinkeye.

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