I can't remember ever being able to remember stuff

Forgetting things is what I do best.

Little things. You know what I mean. But a bunch of little things can become, rather quickly, a BIG THING.

Which is why I'm telling you this in the first place.

Let me see. What was I going to say ... ?

Oh, yes. Forgetting stuff.

Even when I was a child, I had a limited capacity for remembering. My mother would tell me to do something, and I would, usually, remember to do it. She might tell me to do two things, and I might forget at least one of them. If she ever told me to do three things, it was a lost cause.

Still is.

You've heard the story about the wife of the forgetful husband who sent him to the store to get three items: A loaf of bread, a can of tomato soup and a head of lettuce. When he got to the store, the man went straight to the cereal aisle and got a big box of Cheerios. When he got home, his wife looked in the grocery bag and saw a box of Cheerios. "I knew it," she exclaimed. "You forgot the bananas!"

That's not exactly a scene from the Sullivan household, but the forgetful husband bit is right on the money.

A week or so ago, my wife sent me to the supermarket to get several items. She prepared an organized list for me. I went to the market and found everything on the list. Everything! I was pretty darn proud of myself.

The checkout person was a young woman I had not seen before. I surmised she was a newer employee. Because of that reasonable deduction, I watched closely to make sure the checkout went smoothly.

Later that day, after I had put all the groceries away, my wife asked, "Did you get the yogurt and celery at the store?" Yes, I said, it was on the list, and I got it. "Are you sure you put it away in the right place?" she asked. I looked for the yogurt and celery. I thought I might have -- accidentally, of course -- put them somewhere other than the refrigerator.

Nope. We couldn't find any trace of the yogurt and celery, except on the receipt from the store, which indicated I had purchased those items.

I must have left them in the bag at the checkout, I said. I'll go to the store and see if they will give me some yogurt and celery.

The next morning, armed with the store receipt, I went to the customer service area of the supermarket. As it turns out, the store keeps a precise log of items left at checkout counters. My yogurt and celery were on the list. The pleasant customer service employee offered to go get the missing items. I left the store pleased and impressed by the efficiency I had just witnessed.

Three days later -- three whole days -- my wife asked, "Did you put the cheddar cheese in a different compartment in the fridge? And what about the almonds? And the sweet potatoes? And the pears? And the two yellow onions?"

I distinctly remembered finding all of those items and putting them in my shopping cart. And I remembered that all of these items were among the last things I put on the conveyor belt to be checked out. They would have gone into the last plastic bag. And, obviously, I had left an entire bag -- or two -- at the checkout.

So, back to the store I went. A different customer service person listened to my sad story. She kept clinching her mouth -- to suppress the laugh welling up in her throat, I think.

But, sure enough, there were all my missing items listed in the wonderful black-binder notebook.

"Now, let's go over this list," she said, speaking loudly and clearly, assuming that forgetful old people can't hear either. "Let's make sure you get everything this time, OK?"

OK. I'm up for that. But I won't make any guarantees.

At the end of what turned out to be a stressful week, my wife and I were hungry for a fast-food cheeseburger. I went to the "have it your way" place and ordered two cheeseburgers and an order of fries to split. My wife and I are pretty precise about what goes on a cheeseburger: mustard, pickle and onions. In her case, extra onions. That's what I ordered. A few minutes later I was handed a sack of hot food, and I headed home. My wife looked in the bag. There was only one cheeseburger. And fries.

She insisted that I eat my burger while it was still warm -- and, no doubt, to fortify me for my return trip to the fast-food restaurant.

Back I went. I showed the counter worker my receipt. Profuse apologies all around. "Can I get you anything else?" asked order taker. "Maybe some more fries for your trouble?"

Both of these tales had happy endings, if you don't count the time and effort to go revisit these stores when one trip to each should have been enough.

Some contemporaries of mine have been telling me about the screenings for dementia they have recently gone through. Among the questions they were asked was, "What's today's date?" I don't know about you, but isn't that why we all have smartphones? I never know the date, but I'm pretty good at finding it in a hurry.

And another thing on the test was being told three things, and being asked to repeat those three things later in the test. You can see I'm in for a lot of trouble.

Unless, of course, there's a black-binder notebook I can consult. I wouldn't want to cheat, but I would like to take advantage of anything to get me through another visit to the supermarket.

There. Another column finished, and pretty much on topic. Thank goodness I didn't wander off to tales about Missy Kitty or some such nonsense. I think that should hold me for another week.

Joe Sullivan is the retired editor of the Southeast Missourian.