Myparents have a penchant for over-reacting to everyday situations. Whether I come home for fall, winter or spring break, I can always count on Mom accusing the check-out person at the supermarket of taking our family carton of Cheese Whiz or Dad asserting that the bank cashier unconscionably shortchanged him $10.
Usually, Mom finds the Cheese Whiz carton half-opened on Dad's lap and Dad locates the missing money in Mom's purse, but their perception of the original situation never changes. No matter how assertively I point out what really transpired, my parents always seem to be living in their own world, creating their own illusion of daily events of their lives.
The most telling example of my parent's selective memory process (my euphemism for Alzheimer's) occurred this summer on a 10 day family excursion to Italy. First, I'd like to point out that my parents are far from world travelers, and it is just recently that they have ventured across the Atlantic to see the wonders of Europe.
Well, on this tour-guided trip, all the participants were warned countless times of the possibility of getting pick-pocketed on the streets of Italy. According to our guide, Telly, youngsters typically approach offering to sell a newspaper and they subsequently pilfer a tourist's wallet, jewelry, handbag, etc.
Fearful of losing any of their possessions, Mom and Dad practically had their fanny-packs steel-bolted to their hips by a local Italian silversmith. Their mobility was limited by more than 50 percent, they could never change their clothes, they could chew with only one side of their mouths, they could only stand half-erect but of most importance, they knew where their lira (that's Italian currency) were at all times.
Limping from cobblestone street to cobblestone street in the 100 degree heat, my parents spent the vacation struggling to keep up with the tour group and meticulously peering into the crowds for pilfering pre-pubescent punks.
On day five of our splendid tour-de-force, Mom and Dad finally confronted the situation for which they had been mentally preparing for hours on end. Two innocent-looking girls, no older than 10 years of age, approached my parents from the left side of the street holding a paper in the direction of my mother.
Dad, panic-stricken by the barbaric baby-skinned tots in front of him, began senselessly calling out what he thought were Italian words. Ragu, Prego, Helpo, Ninos Try to Steal O, Spaghetti al Pomodoro. While he screamed, he clamped onto his fanny-pack, resetting its sixteen digit combination and tightening the bullet-proof lock chained to "The Club" strapped to his wallet. Meanwhile, Mom began waving her recently purchased Korean-made fan in the direction of the children to frighten them away.
By the way, at the time Mom thought the fan was traditionally Italian; that's what the salesman told her, at least.
After a few moments of evading the plastic fan barrage of my Mom and the incoherent blabbering of my Dad, the two girls were absolutely awe-struck as to what to do. They were afraid to get closer than a few feet from my parents, yet they seemed adamant about accomplishing their mission.
However, before my parents could give them an opportunity to achieve their goal, good ol' Mom and Dad limped as fast as their security-intact bodies could move.
The children, probably in need of a number two diaper changing, showed no intent of chasing them down, and they turned back in the direction they came, dropping their paper a few feet from the side of the road.
With my curiosity heightened, I briskly walked towards the yellowish paper, picked it up and read the following advertisement: "Ristorante di Spaghetti -- 1500 lira-- Pranzo." Yup, all that commotion was a result of two kids trying to get us to try out their parents' lunch special. Now this I had to tell my parents.
Let's just say that before I got the opportunity to tell the 'rents, Mom and Dad had already caught up with the tour group. When I arrived, they were describing in detail the two unruly, savage-like teenagers who had just surrounded them, trying to rob them of health and home. Mom was certain that the "boys" had some sort of concealed weapon in the folds of their socks while Dad described in detail the feeling of being violated by the menacing hands of two ruffians who had no concept of morality. Engendering sympathy with their every word, Mom and Dad seemed on the verge of a mental breakdown as a result of their ordeal.
Powerless to alter their opinion of what happened, I stood idly by as Mom suddenly segued from the attempted assault to the supermarket cashier who had recently stashed our family pack of Cheese Whiz for her own personal keeping. Before long, Dad began telling the story of the bank teller whose avarice had deprived him of 10 hard-earned American dollars. The stories began to slowly unfold and I could do nothing but shake my head in utter disbelief.
You wonder what prompted this article. Well my parents recently returned from their week-long vacation in Brazil. Mom just told me by phone how two teenagers had intentionally kicked a soccer ball in their path in order to try to wrest possession of her newly purchased traditional Brazilian necklace.
I'll bet 10 bucks and a Carton of Cheese Whiz that the necklace was made in Korea.
