Exhibit A

So Glenn and I decide to go to a pizza restaurant last night. We go in, spend a few minutes deciding what we want, and then I walk up to the counter. The girl is nice and asks me what I want.

“Garlic—” I freeze. I panic. There’s three words in what I want. And I can see what I want in my mind’s eye, but I can’t remember the next two words.

There are three registers at the ordering station, but only one is open and taking orders. Under the other two registers, there is a menu. Under the register I’m standing in front of, there is not.

I look at her helplessly. She looks back. I look at Glenn but he’s just looking at me, too. I walk over to the little menu under the unused cash register, but things are in a different order than in the huge over-sized menu they had at the entrance. Plus it’s a different shape—this one is landscape, while the other one had been whatever the opposite of landscape is. The menu is a huge blur and I can’t get my eyes to focus on any of it, so after a moment of staring at it but not finding anything, I start to walk back to the huge sign, because I remember that what I want is on the upper right.

Before I get there, Glenn pipes up, “Garlic Cheese Bread.”

I sigh in relief.

Feeling more confident now, because I only have one item to remember—a pizza—I walk back to the lady and tell her I want a small piz—How big are your smalls? She points to a sign that has pictures of each, but, and I kid you not, there are like SEVEN CIRCLES of SEVEN DIFFERENT SIZES. I mean, GEEZE! So I’m comparing them, trying to come up with a decision quickly. A small is 10 inches, and I remember that a large at my old pizza place used to be 12 inches, and a small was 8 inches, so 10 inches is not so small as to be one of those little personal pan pizzas. I double check to make sure that the one that was 10 inches is called “small,” while Glenn grumbles, “Yes, a small. We decided on a small.” I take a breath. “I’d like a small pizza with—”

My mind blanks. I panic again. Three seems to be the number that overtaxes my brain, because I clearly remember we want three things and that they are white, black, and green. Resigned now, I walk over to the menu. I have to coach myself this time. I’m literally telling myself that even if I don’t know where what I want is, I have to read some words, and then through process of elimination, I will discover where what I want is on the menu.

I force my eyes to focus on some text halfway down on the right. My gaze fastens on a bunch of meat, but I know we aren’t getting meat. I just can’t see the rest of the menu, even though it’s right there. I tell myself to try another spot on the menu, but I’m still staring at the meat. I know the other ingredients are listed somewhere else, but I read the meat section again to be sure, because I can see that and everything else is fuzzy.

I tell myself to stop looking at the meat. I decide that next time I’ll grab a paper to-go menu, get a pen out of my purse, probably the purple one, the fountain pen (yes, I think all this while I’m trying to find the vegetables on the menu) and I’ll circle what I want, that way it’ll be easier when I give her my order.

And still I’m staring at the meat, at the same section. I force my eyes to roam the rest of the menu but I can’t see anything else, even though I have my glasses on.

So I start trudging back to the huge sign, because I remember it was the second section down on the left. I’m also feeling sorry for the cashier because I used to work in a pizza shop, and it was always so annoying to listen to people take forever to spit out their order.

And all the time, I’m thinking, “green… it’s green… something green…”

Then Glenn not only has the mental wherewithal to laugh at me, but also to say, “Green peppers, onions, and black olives,” as if it’s easy to remember these things.

This is why I don’t talk on the phone except to friends.

Exhibit B

As soon as I get on the phone, my mind blanks. I just sit there. And I go along with whatever the other person says until we hang up, and then Glenn invariably says, “Did you ask them about X? How about Y? And Z?” And of course I forgot all those things. And then he’s all, “But isn’t that why you called them in the first place?”

Worse is if I write down the questions. Then I can generally squeeze them in, but I often have to ask them twice if the question has been answered out of the order I have on the paper.

And then I hang up and Glenn’ll ask me what they said.

I don’t remember. Seriously, and this drives me crazy, but he’s always asking me what people said. And I never remember. And I get so mad at him, because it seriously taxes my brain so much it hurts to try to come up with even a general idea of what someone said.

And at this point I generally explode and tell him that it’s his job to do the phone. I don’t DO the phone. As in, during the first phone call with any company, I authorize Glenn to speak on my behalf. I’m pretty sure I’ve even authorized him to speak to the IRS on my behalf.

Exhibit C

When my best friend first found my blog, her first remark, with all the appropriate I-love-you-the-way-you-are-and-I-mean-this-in-the-best-way apologetics, was that she was surprised I wrote in organized paragraphs—so coherently, she said.

Part of why I love writing is that I can put things in order while typing. If I put my fingers to keys, something magic happens, and everything is easier. Yeah, I still forget within my writing work, but that’s a post for another day.

And that’s fiction, not non-fiction. (You should ask the most generous Mark about the time I emailed him, panicked, because I couldn’t organize my thoughts into a thesis statement for a non-fiction essay. He was very kind and did not tell me I was crazy and that there couldn’t be anything more basic than that, although he wisely also stopped suggesting I look into doing non-fiction freelance work if I wanted to be a writer with a good income, LOL.)

So. How forgetful are you?

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© Natasha Fondren for Natasha Fondren, 2009. | 28 comments

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