Remembering the Ridiculous

When I was young, my dad used to make comments about my inability to leave the house without forgetting things. He’d laugh and say something like, “She always has to come back in at least three times before she has everything she needs.”

Now, as a well-seasoned house-leaver, this is still a problem for me. Maybe I only go back inside once, these days, but I still forget stuff.

My tendency to forget stuff is an enigma. My memory is excellent. I’m a well-organized, detailed-oriented person. I check and double-check the details of work projects. And yet, I often show up at a destination or event without an important item.

For example, last week I arrived at a group sing-along session at the Gallatin Rest Home without my ukulele. I had the case with me, but it was empty. Apparently, I’d grabbed the case and trotted confidently out the door, walking right past my ukulele resting on its stand in the living room. When you don’t have a regular routine—something I’ve rarely had because most of my work has been as a freelancer—it's easy to forget what you need to remember. Lists are helpful. But, as the missing ukulele incident proves, they are not a definitive solution. “Ukulele” could have been noted on a list and I still would have picked up the empty case.

I don’t like it when people say they’re having a “senior moment.” Arriving without my ukulele has nothing to do with my age. I forgot stuff when I was in high school, and I’ve forgotten stuff at every age since then. But knowing that I’ve always forgotten things doesn’t help. If fact, it makes it worse because it showcases the fact that I’ve been working on my strategies to overcome this cognitive quirk for a long, long time. Decades. Way too long. With minimal success.

Smart phones have helped. I use phone apps for lists, calendars, and to connect to my files in the cloud, in case I forget to bring whatever device they’re stored on to a meeting or appointment. I also use associative memory tricks to remember the names of people and places. Imagining a portly man named Jack doing jumping jacks is a fun one. And, whenever possible, I use repetitive routines to create habit grooves in my brain. Such as:

I change the head on my electric toothbrush every three months—on four specific, well-publicized dates. Off with the old and on with the new on the spring equinox, the summer solstice, the fall equinox, and the winter solstice. That routine is so easy to remember, I don’t even need to put it on my calendar.

I change the filter in my water pitcher on the first day of even-numbered months: August 1, October 1, December 1, etc. On the first day of odd-numbered months, I wash the pitcher with warm, soapy water. Again, so easy. Even filter, odd wash.

I change the sheets on my bed each Sunday. That’s also my dusting day. But I’m not rigid or compulsive about it.  If I’m busy or out of town on a Sunday, I get to it later in the week. Sunday is just a reference point that helps me avoid dirty sheets and furniture that produces a plume of dust when I turn on the ceiling fan. Also, washing the sheets prompts me to do the rest of my laundry.

In the early 1960s, I used to sing a song about household chores. Not because I liked household chores—I was a kid, after all—but because it was a catchy tune. Maybe I heard it on the TV show Captain Kangaroo? Decades later, the Internet informed me that the concept and tune may be hundreds of years old, originating as a German or Dutch folk song. Whatever. In the song, each day of the week was assigned to a specific task.

Today is Monday.
Today is Monday.
Monday – Wash Day!
Everybody happy?
Well I should say!

The use of exclamation points emphasizes the joyful delivery of this song about repetitive, domestic labor. Of course, these chores were primarily done by women—by housewives and their daughters. The last verse of the song lists the entire week’s accomplishments.

Monday – Wash Day!
Tuesday – Ironing!
Wednesday – Marketing!
Thursday – Cleaning!
Friday  – Bake Day!
Saturday – Fun Day!
Sunday – Rest Day!
Everybody happy?
Well I should say!

Music is a powerful motivator. This song was a clever way to remind little girls about the duties assigned to their gender (at the time). That’s the only explanation I can conjure for my inability to remember to take important items with me when I leave home and my uncanny ability to remember, more than 60 years later, all the lyrics to this ridiculous song.