River is a hypochondriac, even though I’m not supposed to call her that. Not the best thing for a nursing student to learn about all the horrible diseases she (thinks she) has. She’s convinced she’s going to get Alzheimer’s, even though the only sign she currently shows is forgetting to have sex with me. So she asks me a favor: “Put me in a home sooner rather than later.” “What, like tomorrow?” “No, after I’m diagnosed.” “Did you forget you were already diagnosed?” Ha ha, I’m just kidding. “I’m a social creature you know.” Who is she kidding? She hates social almost as much as I do. Maybe early onset Alzheimer’s is kicking in. “I want to make some friends.” “But you won’t remember them.” Then I get it. “But they’ll remember you.”
But I’ve got a nagging question. “So what am I supposed to do when you’re in a home?” “Move in with me.” They allow that? I guess they would. But for some (good) reason I always envision a boys’ wing and a girls’ wing. “So how am I supposed to pick up women when I have to take them home to a home and introduce them to my wife with Alzheimer’s who doesn’t remember me?” “They’ll be flattered.” “What are you talking about?” Again I’m thinking maybe she does have Alzheimer’s already. “You’ll have a captive audience.” Oh. Now I get it. She thinks I’m talking about picking up women who live in the home. Women like her. According to River, who has worked in such a place, that happens fairly often. And men are significantly outnumbered by horny old ladies. “No, I’m talking about women from the outside.” “Oh. You can have your bachelor pad.” She’s so sweet to me. How could I not grant her wish, and put her in a home sooner rather than later. Maybe even tomorrow.