The Imperfections of Brains

One of my favorite typographical errors is "Brain." I've seen it on correspondence occasionally when someone misspells "Brian." This error makes me laugh hysterically. I'd feel really special to get a letter addressed to "Dear Brain." I wonder if that's how zombies begin their missives?

Alas, without some legal expenses and explaining myself to my family, a psychiatrist and some clergy, I don't think I'll ever get a letter directed to me with "Dear Brain" on it. *Sigh*

Maybe if I was super-smart Bill Gates might send me a letter- something akin to the Nigerian price who's always trying so hard to get me to hold onto his money (Shhh, don't tell anyone that because it's a secret.) Now if Bill sent me a letter addressed "Dear Brain" offering me some cash, I might start thinking about helping him out.

Anyway, I do have a point. My brain is faulty. I have passed the faulty brain gene onto my unsuspecting offspring.

I think before they were conceived their souls floated out in the ether, following waves of Bach music while dancing on clouds, imagining what life would be like to be an Einstein or a Cheney (that guy has to be smart to have co-opted the office without GWB noticing). But WHAM. They came to me instead and I forget stuff all the time.

I can never remember my blood type, where I parked my car, where I left the phone, what's for dinner, why are these people wanting to be fed the stuff I can't remember to make, what happened the last 8 years, or why I can only get one leg into my jeans. The last part is a real mystery because Vodka is a low-fat food choice unless you add bacon grease.

Peter can't remember anything either and it's a curse- from me to him- but one that he somehow manages to use like a mental boomerang to whack me repeatedly in the right frontal lobe. His brain does engage every morning at 6:43 am- two minutes before the bus comes. He remembers all sorts of stuff- 4 dozen cookies, his George Washington report, the Trojan War diorama, the field trip to camp for a week and the $400 check he needs. This is surely an acquired skill because the stuff I forget, I rarely get back. I think he's really gifted to orchestrate his thoughts in one massive compendium of brain synapses at exactly 6:43 am EVERY DAY.

I blame the imperfections of his brain on his gene pool. Surely this makes him zombie proof?