Whither Thy Brain?

I even have a schedule.  A weekly schedule in handy spreadsheet format reminding me which day is Laundry Day, which day is Veggie & Fruit Cutting Day and which day is Cleaning Day.  I hang up the laundry outside when the weather warrants such earth friendly efforts and fold it all up at the end of the day.  I dust and vacuum weekly.  I scrub the kitchen and dining room floors once a month with a sponge on my very own hands and knees!  I even do toilets.  Our house is a fully operational Johnson & Johnson commercial.  They should have me on the Mr. Clean bottles instead of that bald-headed albino freak.

And no, the spreadsheet is not the saddest testament to my analness yet.  It’s a motivational ploy to actually get me to do this stuff.  It’s amazing how easily a 8 ½ x 11 sheet of paper can guilt trip a person more effectively than a mother-in-law (this analogy is based solely on network television clichés not any specific personal experience … really … seriously … no, I’m serious … honest).

The spreadsheet is also needed because I’m 41 and on the fast track to full blown senility.  Oh, the MRI says my brain is perfectly normal but I can assure you I’m the future poster child for early onset Alzheimer’s.  It’s frightening how poor my memory is getting.  And I keep mixing up words.  I could suck litres of fish oil right out of a tuna’s backside and still have the cranial capabilities of a nicely polished rock.

[By this point I had lost all patience for longwinded accounts of my ongoing health issues in my letters.  This memory issue was quite worrisome and involved more than simply forgetting things.  I would misspeak words while reading stories, for example.  I was referred to a neurologist and got another brain MRI which, ta da, came back negative for everything.]