I thought I was done writing for the night, but then something strange happened. I went to lie down on my bed and glanced at my nightstand. Lying next to my candle, lamp, books, glass flower, picture of my niece, and a large tub of Vaseline (I SWEAR it's for my mouth lips), lay a fork. What the hell? Where did this come from? I'm totally confused. I retrace my steps tonight, but alas I don't remember eating anything in the bedroom, yet alone using a fork for a bookmark. Did I bring this in here as a weapon while my helmet-haired neighbor pounded on my door the other night? He's been trying to invite himself up to drink some of his sherry, and is freaking me out. No, I would've brought in a knife, not a fork.
I don't get this. Thing is, I'm not entirely surprised. I've been doing this a lot lately. I was missing my remote control recently only to find it in my car the next morning. How did
that happen? Maybe the same way that a box of Saltines ended up in my freezer, or the way that a tank top ended up in the drawer next to the stove containing hot pads. I think I'm getting old and senile. Or maybe I can excuse this as being a bit
too free-spirited. Yes, that must be it.
Yet, I'm really thinking it's old age. Why? Because I think I've developed Parkinson's too. Last week I went out to dinner with my sister, and had a great therapeutic dinner with her. I had leftovers from my fajitas, and two margaritas later, we went to exit the restaurant and walk to the bookstore. As we entered the lobby, I held the anti-environmental styrofoam container between my elbow pit and my waist. I shifted slightly and the puppy flew out from its grip and shot at some poor woman waiting to be seated. She ducked and swiftly moved her feet to the left. My leftovers container purged towards her ankles, but she moved them in time. I burst out laughing and walked over to retrieve my box. "I almost gotcha with my chicken!" I exclaimed. The woman smiled hesitantly. My sister held open the door and yelled, "Hey drunk!" I explained that I wasn't drunk, just clumsy.
The next night I went to the grocery store for a few things. I grabbed a Lean Cuisine and five boxes shot out at me and loudly collapsed on the floor. I shouted the mandatory "Shit!" required for such occasion and gathered the mess and put it back. Then I went for tuna. I grabbed two cans and an additional three attacked me, rolling down the aisle. "Shit!" I cried again as I went running down the aisle chasing various cans of fish. I'm not a klutz, I thought. I have Parkinson's. That must surely be it.
Thing is, I know I don't. I flashback to a moment on a flight from Seattle to California many years ago. My family and then-husband were flying down to witness my sister's first marriage. The five of us were on the same flight and the flight attendant passed out our nut snack...SNACK, I said! I tried to open it, nothing. I strained more to open the package. Nothing. So with all my might, I pulled that package as hard as I could and it opened....hard and fast. Nuts exploded like a geyser. They flew at my husband and brother. They flew over my seat and hit the people behind me in the head as well as a select few across the aisle AND the flight attendant who gave me a really dirty look and huffed loudly as he pushed his cart forward.
This is not Parkinson's. This is being a dumb ass. This is Duffinitus.
So maybe I'm getting older. Maybe I'm getting senile. Maybe I can't turn the channel because the buttons are frozen. Maybe I will never figure out why I have a fork currently sitting on my nightstand, but at least I know that I will always be entertained by this strange existence.
