Motherhood has robbed me of my mind. I read somewhere that lack of sleep can impair your memory. I’d cite the study, but I can’t remember where I read it. I have tried a number of remedies to regenerate my memory – brain-teasers played on a hand held video game, copious amounts of ginkgo biloba, the salmon-only Omega 3 diet… I couldn’t remember any more than I did before I started these treatments, but I did have a sudden urge to swim upstream. I also drank enough green tea to float the Chinese Navy. The only thing I could remember to do was pee.
Many years ago I prided myself on being able to memorize the phone number of everyone I knew. To this day I can recite the phone number of Lisa, my 4th grade table-mate. I can rattle off all of my credit card numbers, their security codes, and expiration dates thanks to internet shopping. However, I cannot remember the sum of the two cards in my hand while playing Blackjack, even though I counted them up on my fingers. Twice. By the time the dealer nods his head in my direction, silently asking if I want another card, I have to add them up again. On my fingers. Twice. To the joy of all the other players at the table.
Consequently, my life has turned into one long round of $25,000 Pyramid, that wonderful staple of game shows where contestants had to prompt their partner into guessing a series of words or phrases that they were describing to them. I used to be great at that show, but thus far in my real life I haven’t won any money.
Standing at the kitchen sink, up to my elbows in dirty dishes and dishwater, I spy a forgotten item on the far counter that needs to be washed. “Daughter!” I call, because she is my daughter, but more so because her name escapes me at the moment. Jerking my head in the direction of the offending item, I order her, “Hand me that………shiny thing…….its silver…….you use it to eat……..it has tines…..”
“Fork?” she implores?. She has always been my brightest child.
“Yes!” I exclaim, excitedly. Daughter brings me the fork and turns to leave.
“Before you leave will you please put away the……..it goes in the refrigerator………its white……..we drink it……..”
“Milk?” she supplies helpfully. One day she will become a doctor, or maybe an astrophysicist.
“Yes!!!” I shout, certain that at any moment Dick Clark will appear from beyond the grave (looking exactly the same as he has since 1965) and ask me to select another category.
Correct me if I’m wrong, but shouldn’t this now advance me to the next level? Why is it that I never advance to the next level?!? Where is my damn money??!!!! And where the hell is Dick Clark!?