Persistence of Memory Loss

Whenever Patty grows frustrated with me because I’ve once again forgotten some important call I was supposed to place or check she’d asked me to cash, I defend myself by gently reminding her about the flaws in her own memory. Specifically, I call her attention to what has come to be known, in the O’Mara-Croft family lore, as The $60,000 Question. The mere mention buys me at least a short reprieve.

Patty and I, along with three of our five children, moved together into a rental condo in the spring of 2001. Patty had just sold her home, and we eagerly awaited the arrival of a sizable bank draft, her share of the proceeds (her soon-to-be-ex-husband received the rest). When it finally arrived, we were ecstatic, because we’d both brought into this relationship more than a few debts from the ones previous. In short, we were horribly broke.

Patty waved the check in the air. “We’ve got it. Thank God…we’ve got it!” A stranger taking in the scene would have been fairly convinced she'd discovered a black hole under our kitchen sink. She tossed the envelope on the kitchen counter, gave me a big kiss, and poured us both a celebratory drink.

When we returned for the check, it wasn’t there. Patty looked around everywhere; I looked around everywhere again. None of the kids had any idea. Our initial chuckles at her absent-mindedness—Ha, ha, you threw away our future, ha, ha—quickly devolved into a sharp, grating and nearly volcanic variety of panic.

“Think, Patty. Did you put it in your purse?”

“I checked my purse.” I grabbed her purse, opened it, felt a sense of awe about just how much she’d managed to fit in there, realized this task was bigger than me, and set it back down.

“Did you file it away in a drawer somewhere?”

“Why would I do that? It needs to go in the bank.”

“I know it does. But we’ve tried all the sensible places. Now it’s time to think of the dumb ones.”

“Then maybe you took it.” Why, at the mere mention of dumb ideas, do I always immediately become the patsy?

“Don’t put that on me. I don’t have it; I never did. Did you throw it out?”

“Now you’re just being ridiculous. Why on earth would I throw away tens of thousands of dollars?”

Fast-forward one hour: she’d thrown it out.

Patty hates clutter, so when in her short-term memory this check stopped being—oh, I don’t know—our fragile lifeline for the coming months, it instantly transformed into nothing more than junk mail. A year later, she would throw out another huge check from an inheritance. I could forgive the oversight, even after it happened twice; we’re all only human (even those of us who tend toward the dumb and ridiculous.)

I once raced like a man possessed to get our two other children (from my first marriage) to the airport for their return flight to Canada. I weaved in and out of traffic, cut off emergency vehicles and, once or twice, came close to breaking the sound barrier, all the while staring at the clock in the car, whose numbers were fairly spinning. I arrived with a screech of rubber at the curb of the terminal—only to discover, in my haste, we’d left home without their passports…or any of their luggage.

So I could certainly wrap my head around the idea that, in Patty’s frenetic cleaning, she’d swept the check into the trash. What I still don’t understand, though, is why I ended up the dumpster-diver. Or why I was the one nominated to deposit a massive check coated with what I presume was a generous swipe of pizza sauce and a soupçon of mashed banana.

On some fronts, Patty enjoys a near-photographic recall of things past. She can without hesitation draw out minute details of experiences from her early childhood. One of my favorites was a true Hallmark moment when, on a family vacation, her mother tried to skip a rock across a lake. The flat stone didn’t blip-blip-plonk across the mirrored surface, to the delight of her children, as she had intended. Instead, it shouted out a meaty thwock as it slammed full-force into the back of her daughter Kathleen’s head.

My sister-in-law, to whom I’ve bestowed two nicknames, Kiddo and Bitch, makes me crazy, usually in a good way. So I relish the retelling of this story about her near-demise, in exquisite detail, whenever Patty’s willing to share it. And all the details are there, every time.

So maybe, just maybe, long-term memory isn't about remembering everything. Perhaps it's just about remembering our favorite things.

Food for thought

I read this morning about a certain television celebrity who is taking her husband, another TV celeb, to court because he allegedly drained their bank account of $230,000, leaving her with only $1,200 to raise their eight kids.

My first thought was, "Wow, what would it be like to have that much in my bank account?" My second was, "Oh my God, how will she ever find a way to survive, toiling in obscurity as she is? What's she going to do? Work at a fast food joint?"

Good question. Apparently, this celebrity has said that, if necessary, she'd flip burgers for a certain fast-food chain that has, based on my admittedly suspect research, served as many people as have ever lived on this planet. I wonder--has she filled in an application yet?

I also wonder--why do people continue to watch this ongoing train wreck?

I don't even want to be ridiculously wealthy if that's what fame and fortune do to people. Okay, I'm lying. I want to be stinking rich, just to see what kind of class-A asshole I become. I'm only at class C so far, but I'm pushing hard for a "B" rating and have glorious ambitions.

To be fair, I'd be a bit miffed if Patty were to drain our account of nearly a quarter of a million dollars--not because she'd taken it, because she presumably would have some good use for it, but because the bank fees on an overdraft of this magnitude would be, I would guess, somewhat crippling. I know I wouldn't be the one answering the call from the bank.

"For the love of God, don't answer the phone!"

Still, I'm curious. Would I really be upset? There's only one real way to prove this, and I'm willing to be your guinea pig, no matter how painful I find the experience. You're welcome.

Consider this an open call for 230 of my closest friends (another challenge, since only about a dozen people really like me) to send me $1,000 each. If you would like to send more, please feel free; I'm not going to pillory you for your altruism. This experiment will work just as well, I'd imagine, with half a million dollars. If it doesn't, I'll take out full-page ads in several major newspapers with the headline, "Who knew?"

If you send a huge check, I will cash it...I promise. When all the funds are there, I will pass over a shiny new ATM card to Patty and encourage her to go to town. If she has trouble spending it all, I will even help her, because she's the love of my life and that's what loving spouses do.

I will post the outcomes here.

What do you think?

Highbrow eyebrows

Every time I look in the mirror, I find some other reason to feel I'm the road upon which the cruel march of time is stomping relentlessly. The size-thirteen crows' feet on either side of my face (a genetic gift from my mother) gather in and point accusingly at the ample, drooping fanny-packs under my eyes. I've thought about jabbing a pin in one, just to see if it would deflate, or if candy would spill out, but a little voice keeps telling me this may be a bad idea.

It's not pretty.

Were this not enough to fill me with angst, a newer, distressing phenomenon is adding insult (upon insult) to injury. As you can see in the photo, my eyebrows are, quite simply, out of control. They look like one of those overcrowded road signs that point to hundreds of faraway towns (Marakesh: 2,800 miles; Loserville: You are Here).

Left to their own devices, I presume these hairs would simply grow, and wind, and grow again, until they would shroud my eyes like a freakish pair of frameless sunglasses.

Every time I visit my personal stylist's (a fancier way of saying "GreatClips"), I'm forced to swallow my pride, point to the horror show and ask, "Is there anything...anything...you can do about THAT?" I then carefully watch to ensure the unfortunate stylist who called my name is not mortified, or nauseous, or preparing to flee. Most are kind enough to comfort me with, "Oh, that's no problem. It happens a lot with our older customers." Thanks.

I felt a ray of hope this afternoon when I read about "guybrow" nights being held in upscale British salons, in response to demand from others, like me, who are hirsute where they shouldn't be. Apparently, for a reasonable fee, some brave soul will do battle with these stray wires and, as if by magic, transform my "Neanderthal unibrow" into a "sexy, James-Bond-style arch."

I have to admit...I'm tempted, especially since similar hairs seem to be sprouting from my earlobes. Still, since I can't afford a monthly foray to Britain to maintain a double-o-seven arch, my mirror time for the immediate future is sure to leave me both shaken and stirred.

Paths to good fortune

Last night, I warmed up an enormous casserole dish of leftover Chinese food. This was my third meal of said leftovers; such was the penance set by our resident priest-slash-spouse for ordering sixty-seven dollars' worth of take-out as lunch for two. In essence, I had moved an entire buffet three blocks from a restaurant to my kitchen counter. This seemed logical to me, especially in an economy of high gas prices.

By round three, no attempts were made to arrange, in a neat presentation, the garlic chicken next to the chop suey next to the lo mein next to the combination fried rice; the works were thrown into one dish, zapped for three minutes and eaten as an amorphous stew called simply, "Chinese".

Patty's observation, "Oh...my...God! You eat more on one fork than I eat on seven!", touched me. Clearly, she was noticing I was hungry. Had she been even more perceptive, she may also have noticed a residual tinge of bitterness about my being denied other choices for my meal.

When I finished, I reached into the enormous bag of plum sauce, hot mustard and soy sauce (which, for some inexplicable reason, always explodes out of the package upon opening) and fished out a handful of fortune cookies.

The fact there were at least a dozen cookies only reinforced Patty's smug assertion that I'd ordered far too much for two people. Whatever. I didn't hear her complaining as she tucked into the potstickers on Day One and "reserved" the remaining potstickers for lunch on Day Two (with some thinly veiled threat of impending menace.)

My fortune:



I thought, "I don't get it. What is that supposed to mean? I don't have time for this!" I tossed it to Patty, said, "Here...you figure this out," and opened another:

Okay, this was a trifle unsettling. I've long known that my Mom has some pull, but this was just creepy. I imagined a Stephen King/Dan Brown collaboration about a neglected mother commanding a vast network of worldwide resources, all in an attempt to browbeat a child into a state of unbridled terror, all for a lack of attentiveness.

I grabbed a napkin from next to my plate and patted the cold sweat from my brow--in the process adorning my face with a soy-sauce variation on Ash Wednesday. Omnipotent or not, Mom could wait until later.

I made a resolution. I would do this fortune cookie thing, over and over, until I ran out of fortune cookies (I could always order more) or found a prediction I could live with. The next:

"Okay, okay, I get it, Mom! I'll call you in just a minute. Haven't you ever heard about the value of patience?"

Something told me my next message would read, "Bang. You're Dead," but I felt compelled to read just one more, even if my fate hung in a tenuous balance. With some trepidation, I gently eased the white slip out of its almond-flavored batter envelope.

At first, a smile played at the edges of my lips. I liked this. Oh, I really liked this.

Still, ever the realist, I set the cookie down and reached for another.