This was edited April 2014 from its original first published as part of my July 2013 letter.
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.]
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