It Takes a Village (idiot)

I started making a list of things I need to do today, but I lost the list. OK, enough of the list thing. I bought a mini-recorder for daily reminders, but unfortunately, I don’t have a reminder to turn it on and speak into the microphone. The damn thing is still in the truck probably needing a battery because it has been in there since, crap, I don’t remember!

I also bought a daily agenda note book. It would work if I remembered to open it sometime during the day instead of late afternoon so I can then gaze at all the things I forgot to do during the now departed day. It’s also the same with my Rolodex. It doesn’t help to have it sitting on my home office desk while I am in the truck miles away trying to remember the name of a business. I don’t dare call my wife; she washed her hands of my memory, or lack of, years ago. Besides, I would only call her cell by mistake or our home number (again by mistake) and she would know exactly who called and why with call identification later in the day. Then the laughing on her part begins, followed by her single comment, “Idiot.”

To make matters worse, my cell phone battery after three or four years crapped out on me. So I go to the phone store to get a new one. It seems you have to go online to get a new battery now-a-days and they cost more than a new phone with shipping and all. Like a dumb ass, I go for that line and end up with a phone that needs an engineer to operate and, of course, won’t fit into my old case. A couple hundred bucks later, I walk out with a cell that only rings because I haven’t figured out how to answer it yet. I could have asked the sales creep, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing my wife’s term concerning my mental state is accurate.

The hell with modern technology – I am back using sticky pads. Yes, they are stuck everywhere. My wife especially doesn’t like them on the living room furniture that is between me and the wild blue yonder. We have one low profile Chester drawer next to the coat rack that in turn is next to the front door. All my Post-it notes are lined up in a neat row the whole length of the top, and I would have them extending up the coat rack if they would stick, but they don’t, so I don’t.

Yes, Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the Golden Years at their best and I can hardly wait for the next phase of life. I think it’s called: “Rolling around in a wheelchair wearing a bib to catch the dribbling while talking to myself and, naturally, answering myself with genuine interest.”

I’m just saying,

Mittster