Should I grow old or simply grow up?


I’ve begun to notice the older I get the more errors I make.  Could this be the onset of Alzheimer’s?  It’s a bit scary.  I’ve become very dependent on my husband.

Yesterday morning my husband sneaked into our bedroom.  Just enough whisp in the air to awaken me.  When he saw one of my eyes open, he said, “Do you think you could have written a check to the water department for $4393.00.  I just looked at our current statement and there’s a check to them for $4393.00.”

Me:  Holy cow, I hope not.  But let me look.

Moments later.

Me:  John, I think I did.  I think I should have posted that check for $43.93.  Man, I can only imagine how difficult it’s going to be to get that money back from the water department.

Actually, it wasn’t.  But John had to call the bank and the water department and visit the bank and the water department.  Shelia from the water department called me at home.  “I have your check right here.  Do you want me to mail it to you?”

Me:  Actually, let me call my husband.  He’ll pick up the check and write you another for the correct amount.  I feel so stupid.

Shelia:  Don’t.  You’re not the first.  We got a check for $50,000.00 one time.

Me:  Well, if I had done that, it would have bounced so at least the bank would have caught that one.  Thank you so much.

Between the two of us we can usually, though it’s a circuitous route, relay the information we’re trying to transmit.

This is the way a conversation chugged along on our way to dinner last night.

John:  You know that attorney whose office is in the next block south of the post office.  No, maybe it’s one block east of there.  Whaz his name?  He’s one block west of the attorney whose father was a judge.

Me:  What side of the street is the attorney’s office?

John:  South.

Me:  Are you talking about the attorney’s office that is across the street from the green house?  There was an attorney in the green house who got caught doing drugs or selling drugs?  Didn’t I used to play bridge with his wife?

John:  Yes, I think you did.  But no, that house is one block west of where I’m talking about.

Me:  Oh. Where was his father a judge?

John:  Sulphur.

Me:  Coleman.   Is that who you’re talking about?

John:  Yes, but I’m talking about the attorney who is one block east of Coleman.  Brent.  His first name is Brent.  What is his last name?

Me:  He’s not that attorney who looks like he might be a senior in high school and advertises divorces on a billboard at the intersection of Commerce and Broadway?

John:  No, this guy has been practicing law for years.  Anyway the point is they’re tearing down the house that faces east of this Brent’s office.

Me: Do you mean that old house that’s across the street from the attorney who did Vivien’s divorce?  You know, her husband is slowly going blind.

John:  Yes, that’s the one.

Me:  Oh.

On other occasions my activities have been a carbon copy of that email that goes around about  starting to do one thing but distracted by another errand, then another until at the end of the day nothing has been accomplished.  I, however, have added a new twist.

I head to the laundry room to get bathroom cleaner.  By the time I get to the laundry room, I’m wondering why I’m in the laundry room.  Oh well, I might as well run this load of dirty clothes.  But I should spot clean them before I run the washer.  Where did I last use the spot cleaner?  Maybe it was in the bathroom.

I return to the bathroom and remember I had gone to the laundry room  to get bathroom cleaner.  I head back to the laundry room and see that I need to scoop the litter box.

I do remember to take the litter bag to the outside garbage can, but on my way back through the garage, I remember that I need to look for my mother-in-law’s handicap tag that I’ve been illegally using.  Maybe it slipped under one of the floor mats.  But I need a flashlight for this serious inspection.

I head inside to look for a flashlight.  Think I left one by the bed, you know, in case of a storm and we lose electricitiy.  When I walk into the bedroom, I think I might as well make up the bed, but, no, I might as well change the sheets.  I head back to the bathroom where the linen closet is and remember I had started on the search for bathroom cleaner. I head back to the laundry room.  And so it goes.

The handicap tag reminds me of another mistake in my forgetfulness, I forgot.

Last Friday, I joined my cousins for lunch at Hattie’s in Oak Cliff, which now claims to be in Dallas.  I had to use my GPS to find my way there.  I wanted to be early so I could find a parking place.  I park two blocks away on  Eighth St. and decide to trek it to Hattie’s in my high heels over broken sidewalks at least 100 years old.

When I exited the car, I remembered how I had been cautioned not to leave the GPS on the dash.

“People will knock out your window and grab that GPs right off your dash.  Always hide it.”

With my butt and an opened car door sticking out in front of on coming traffic, I search around the car for some way to hide the GPS.  I’m not the only one looking for that illusive parking space.  First I pitch the GPS in the seat and cover it with a towel.  No, that looks exactly like I’m trying to hide something.  I look in the back seat and locate a red bag where I keep the GPS  and stuff it in.  Then I see my mother-in-law’s handicap tag hanging on the mirror and think I might as well put it in the bag too.  After all if someone would knock out a window to get a GPS, they’d probably knock out a window to get a handicap tag.

I carefully maneuver my high heels over broken sidewalks and wobble down the block, turn the corner and pick my steps to the end of the block to see that Hattie’s now offers valet parking.

The next day I go shopping at Garden Ridge and search for the handicap tag.  No where.  I finally leave John turning the car inside out. I return and, no, he hasn’t found the handicap tag.  Not to worry, I bet I put it in the purse I was carrying yesterday.

I spend three days searching for the damn, blankity, blank, blank _ _ _ _ tag.  I cannot imagine where I’ve put it.  I try to blame the loss on John but I can’t make that work even in my wildest dreams.  I’ve lost it.  I’m the only one who has touched it and I’ve lost it.

Late Monday afternoon I stop to buy little pots of sweet potato vines for the front flower beds.  Although I’ve searched all through the back seat for the tag, it suddenly dawns on me where the tag is.  I see the red bag as I place the little pots in the back floorboard.

I’ve often announced that I need a wife only to have friends and acquaintances look at me as if wondering about my gender preference.  I’ve now decided I don’t need just any wife.  I need a young one with an ace memory.  One to trail along behind me writing down every where I put things.  My cell phone is Number 1 on the constant lost list.

Me:  Can you call my cell phone?  I can’t find it.

Should I eat more peanut butter? Seems I read it helps with a failing memory.   I don’t even like peanut butter and besides I think it’s too late to start the peanut butter regime.

If by any chance, I have written in older blogs where I put my support hose.  I haven’t worn them in two years.  Please pass the information on in the comment section at the end of this blog.


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