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Yesterday was a disturbing day. I often rail about Crazy D’s many dances with death and dismemberment as he careens off cliffs on his bikes, rock climbs or camps in freezing temperatures. He asks for trouble.

We were due for some snow — finally. He was the only one in the family (and probably in the city) who wanted snow. The rest of us are done with winter — even though it’s just February. He was gleeful as the flakes started cascading down. Heavier and heavier the snowfall became. He rushed upstairs to get his laundry in preparation for the imminent bike ride.

“Mom, do I get special dispensation for doing a load of laundry during peak hours? All my stuff is dirty and I haven’t gone for a decent ride for days. This looks like the day if the snow keeps coming. I’m so pumped!”

Who am I to turn down such unbridled joy? I didn’t care to investigate where the dirty stuff had been festering for lo these many days since every mother knows that is an exercise in futility and high blood pressure. “Sure, have at it.”

An hour later, I heard cussing coming from the laundry room (a not uncommon occurrence in our house.) Usually I’m the one cussing when the washing machine tears straps or pieces of fabric off garments. I should have returned the wretched appliance after the first time it pulled that stunt, but I thought it was merely an aberration. I gave it another chance. And another. By then I was too embarrassed to admit I’d bought a lemon to do anything productive about it — other than find new curse words. And THAT particular exercise has proven monumentally productive — I’m now well into German curse words.

“What’s wrong?” I yelled. If the machine had ruined some of his high-tech, expensive sports equipment, I was going to my Safe Room (bedroom with wine supply) until things blew over.

“My jacket still stinks! I washed it and dried it but it stinks of curry. It’s awful!” Crazy D loves to eat curry, so I was puzzled as to his rage.

“Where did you eat curry recently? We haven’t had it here.”

“When I went to the cafe yesterday for lunch. You could smell it all over. The smell must have clung to my jacket.” With that, he shoved it under my nose for verification.

I sniffed. I sniffed again. “Nothing,” I said. “All I smell is the faintest possible perfumey smell from some hippie-dippy laundry soap. Absolutely no curry.”

“Smell the blue part,” he ordered. I did. Still nothing.

“You’re nuts!” I concluded. “Or you’re hallucinating.”

“It smells like fucking curry!” he insisted.

And that’s when it hit me! I thought back to all those medical shows where they do the experimental brain surgery, touching various nerves or whatever with the patient still awake so he can tell them what he feels or smells.

I seem to recall the smell of burnt toast is something bad. A quick email to Gill verified the burnt toast idea. (She too spends way too much time watching medical shows.) If burnt toast is bad, curry must be catastrophic!  I’m convinced Crazy D’s brain is finally worn out. Maybe he’s having a stroke!!  I suggest this as a possibility, which he rejects totally and starts checking the Internet for something that will take the smell (the non existent one) from his jacket without harming the fabric. Because when you’re having a stroke, the first thing on your list of priorities is a clean jacket that doesn’t smell of curry…

Okay, so I’m a worrywart mother. It comes with the territory — especially in this house of clowns. I’m watching him carefully.

And the upside is, if he isn’t having a stroke (and I hope he isn’t), another great blog topic just fell into my lap!