Friday, February 10, 2006
So. It seems that I have a problem. No wait. I have several problems. Actually it goes beyond several. I'm fairly certain the the number of problems I have actually out-numbers the number of things that are normal and healthy with me. Chew on that poorly-constructed sentance for awhile.
There is something seriously (seriously) wrong with my memory.
Things I can remember:
The outfit I was wearing on any sort of memorable or important day. More often than not I can remember outfits that I was wearing on less than important days too. My great grandmothers funeral? A crushed velvet purple turtle neck sweater, a black velvet knee length skirt, black tights, and black mary-janes. And? Silver bendy clips. The day before my first day of Summer stock? My Abercrombie jeans, and a pink J.Crew Polo and pink Reef flipflops. This is a family trait that I share with my mother's family. We all have this talent to an extent but I go above and beyond anyone with it, I can very often remember what other people were wearing on dates of importance.
Random, obscur quotes from television shows. There's a shtick my brother and I do about a nutterbutter that makes my mom pee herself with laughter, she didn't know until Christmas break that it's from an episode of Friends circa 1996.
Factoids about random celebrities. I dominate at the Kevin Bacon game. Dom.in.ate. While watching a movie someone can ask, "Hey, who's that guy?" and nine times out of ten, I'll know his name, what you saw him in and some random piece of trivia about his life.
New York City Metro System. I've lived here for less than four years and spent one of them walking every where and yet can get anywhere in any of the 5 boroughs (with the exception of Statan Island and far away parts of Brooklyn and Queens).
So okay? I have a great memory. No. Not at all. Today I deposited my paychecks. Plural because I can not remember to go pick them up every week until I have four dollars in my checking account and realize that I have a month of back paychecks. This is not a joke. The week before I went home for Christmas I went to pick up, what I assumed was, a single paycheck. I had seven. Se-ven checks waiting for me. The people at my agency think I'm mildly retarded I have no doubt because I come and they're like, "yea, heres a check from September stupid face." So I deposit them and I get my lunch and I'm walking along and I stop in the middle of 5th ave. Did I finish my transaction at the ATM (yes, I deposit checks at the ATM, I'm really lazy)? Did I just leave with the "what would you like to do now with your money?" screen still flashing? Did the next person come up behind me and go, "Score! That dumb girl just left me all seven dollars in her bank account!"?
I, seriously, could not remember. I assume (read: pray) that there are precautions in place at Citibank to protect the nimrods like myself. Then I call my mother to say Hi because I'm a good daughter. And I get her on the phone knowing I have a question to ask her. Knowing that there is a post-it note on my laptop with a question, circled, to ask her. I'm on the phone with her for ten minutes and I can't remember it. Then I hang up and it immediatly comes to me. So I have to call her back and she judges me...harshly.
I will go through half my day then wonder if I remembered to turn off my flat iron.
I forget that I'm lactose intolerant and wonder why I'm doubled over with stomach cramps after a cup of Chocolate Milk.
I always forget to lock the door to my apartment, which gives my roommate heart palpitations.
I don't know why my brain works like this. I'm assuming that it's because I've stuffed it with so much crap knowledge its just decided to make room by trashing the other stuff.
She's pint-sized and amazing.