memory

Hey, Brain, Stop Eating Beans!

/ Diane Henders / 21 Comments

I must be consuming a high-fibre intellectual diet, because I’ve been having an awful lot of brain farts lately.

A few weeks ago I was out walking in the park near our place. We’re a friendly bunch here in Calgary, and when we meet fellow walkers we usually offer a ‘hi’ or a ‘good morning’ even if we’re total strangers.

I was striding along, my brain totally wrapped up in a plot point for Book 9, when I noticed this smiling lady approaching me. To normal people, this would be a visual cue that some response would soon be required.

But I think we’ve already established that I’m not normal. She said ‘hi’, and my brain short-circuited.

I knew some response was required but I couldn’t formulate any appropriate words. Fortunately my mouth kicked into gear a moment later and I managed a ‘hi’ in return.  Not exactly complex linguistics, but the amount of effort it took was downright scary.

Then a couple of days later I was deep in writing when I remembered it was bread-baking day. I went down to the kitchen and got out my mixing bowl and spoon, pulled my hair into a ponytail… and started looking for my safety glasses.

That’s not quite as random as it sounds. We’d been trap-shooting a few days previously and it’s reflex to put on my safety glasses when I shoot.  But I don’t know why my brain suddenly decided to substitute ‘shooting glasses’ for ‘apron’.  I’ve never heard of anybody requiring eye protection for flying flour dust.

And I guess I was thoroughly involved in my plotting, because a few days later I flopped onto the couch and moved the TV remote from the seat cushion to the coffee table. Just as I let go of the remote, a sudden urgent thought popped into my mind:  “Oh, shit, I just left fingerprints on the remote!”

That was immediately followed by a facepalm. I’ve lived in this house for sixteen years.  My fingerprints are everywhere.  Since I don’t watch TV they’re not terribly likely to be on the remote, but I’m sure in the course of the last decade or so I’ve handled it a few times.

And anyway, why would it matter? I can’t think of any crimes one could commit effectively with a TV remote.  Bludgeoning someone to death would be unnecessarily laborious, and the batteries’ tiny bit of electricity wouldn’t make them do much more than twitch and squeak…

Ahem.

No, I haven’t spent a lot of time considering this; why do you ask?

I guess there’s always the possibility that Hubby secretly owns a fingerprinting kit and has been trying to catch the malignant ghost that causes his PVR to periodically ditch its programming. But even if I had been the guilty party, I hope the consequences wouldn’t have been too severe.

Then again, messing with a guy’s PVR programming is probably grounds for divorce. (Hubby, if you’re reading this, I didn’t push any buttons.  Honest.  You can dust them for fingerprints if you like.)

Meanwhile, I’m trying to figure out what I can feed my brain that might reduce my cognitive flatulence. Any suggestions?

Stand Back: Brain Farts!

/ Diane Henders / 40 Comments

My brain has apparently been eating ‘way too many beans lately.  The brain farts are getting embarrassing.

The past few weeks I’ve been totally immersed in finishing Book 6 in the Never Say Spy series.  Who knew fiction writing could cause such nasty brain flatulence?  Must be all the fibre in the pages.

The other night I slid into bed and Hubby said, “Oh, are you finished in the bathroom already?”

I stared at him blankly for a moment.  No, I wasn’t wondering ‘Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?’  I wake up in the middle of the night to do that.  Seriously.  It’s the weirdest feeling.

But getting on with the story…

I realized I’d completely forgotten to wash my face and brush my teeth.  So I got out of bed, went to the bathroom… and put on deodorant.

Shortly thereafter, I had a session with my muay thai trainer.  I’ve been going to the gym regularly for quite a few years, and when I realize it’s time to go I often leap up from my computer without fully disengaging my brain.  (Yes, actually, that is quite painful.  Thanks for asking.)  So before I leave home,  I perform a short ritual similar to the Catholic “Spectacles-Testicles-Wallet-And-Watch” to confirm that I have my shorts, running shoes, gym card, and hair elastic.

Knowing I’d be distracted that day, I took extra care , double-checking to make sure I had everything before I left.  So I arrived, full of pride, with the four things on my checklist.  But… without my hand wraps, boxing gloves, water bottle, or shin guards.  Smooth.  Very smooth.

Several days later, I booked an appointment with my accountant.  I had just completed a marathon 14-hour writing session the previous day and I was coming into the home stretch with the final chapters.  I knew I was going to be distracted.

I repeated the appointment time to myself and to Hubby several times, beginning two days prior to the appointment.  I put the appointment in my computer calendar with a popup reminder and an audible alarm.  The night before, I reminded myself again:  “Appointment at 11:00 AM tomorrow.”  The morning of the appointment, I got out of bed and reminded myself, “I have to get up from the computer at 10:00 AM to get ready for my meeting.”

When I looked at the clock next, it was 11:15.  Much grovelling ensued.

You’d think I’d have learned my lesson.  But no.

Only a few hours later, I was heading out to the gym.  Not because I’d remembered it; simply because it’s muscle memory after all these years.  I can’t count the number of times I’ve arrived at the gym and begun my workout only to wake up and go, “Shit, I didn’t feel like doing this today.  I was going to skip it…”

Anyway, I was getting changed before I left home and I forgot to put on my bra.  Fortunately the bathroom is upstairs, and by the time I got downstairs it had become uncomfortably obvious that I wasn’t being supported in the manner to which I am accustomed.

My final draft should be finished and out to my editors/beta readers this week, after which I’ll be able to return to a state that passes for normalcy (at least for me).  I shudder to think what other gaffes I may commit in the interim.

I think it’s time to get a T-shirt: “ Beware:  Brain Farts.  Keep back 15m.”

Anybody else suffer from brain flatulence?  And please tell me I’m not the only one who wakes up wondering “Who are you and what are you doing in my bed?”

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I’m doing another Goodreads giveaway this week:  Two signed copies of Never Say Spy are up for grabs.  Follow this link to enter the contest!

Skipping Down Memory Lane

/ Diane Henders / 48 Comments

I have the strangest selective memory of anyone I know.  It usually plays back as smoothly as a good LP (kids, look that up). I have a few minor pops and crackles, but it’s generally fine.

And then suddenly my needle skips a track.

I can effortlessly spout off all my credit card numbers with expiry dates and PINs.  I even remember my very first Mastercard number from nearly 30 years ago.  If you’re interested in the value of pi to 9 digits accuracy or the torque spec for my lug nuts or my grandparents’ phone number from the late 1960s, they’re instantly retrievable.  I also know all my business and personal bank account numbers, PINs and access codes… except one.

For reasons known only to my brain, that one bank account number won’t stick.  Usually I can look at a number a few times and it’s effortlessly stored, but no matter how many times I try to memorize that one, it just won’t stay with me.

I take a pill for acid reflux every night.  Literally within minutes of swallowing it, I forget I’ve taken it.  So I’ve developed a system.  I take the pill, and then I eat a cracker.  I can never remember taking the pill, but I always remember eating the cracker.  Don’t ask me why it works, but it does.  I’m afraid to question it.

And then there are the not-so-shared memories.  One of my siblings will begin, “Do you remember when…”

I don’t.  Ever.

And it’s not just obscure reminiscences.  A few years ago, the conversation turned to grade school, and somebody (I can’t remember who, go figure) asked me, “Do you remember when you beat up (name redacted to protect the guilty)?”

I didn’t.

The guy in question was four years older and twice my size, and apparently I got in trouble.  You’d think something like that would’ve stuck in my mind, but I have absolutely no recollection of it (though I’ll proudly claim the victory just on general principles).

My dad once said, “While everybody else is still thinking about it, Diane’s already got it done.”  I took it as a compliment, but the truth is I’m not exceptionally industrious or dedicated.  I get things done simply because if I don’t do them as soon as they’re mentioned, I’ll forget about them completely.

I generally retain names with no trouble, but every now and then one vanishes, never to return.  I remember that my orthopedic surgeon’s first name is Kevin, even though I have never addressed him as Kevin or heard anyone else call him Kevin.  I saw it once on his office door, and I’ll know it forever more.  His last name escapes me despite the fact that I’ve referenced it repeatedly on various medical records for years.  I know it’s a common name that starts with ‘H’.  Every time I look it up, I think, “Aha.  Now I’ll remember it!”

I don’t.

Back in my interior design days, I once swore I’d never visited a building.  The drawing notations indicated I’d done the site measurement, but I was positive I’d never been there.  Until I stood in the lobby and went, “Oh.  Yeah…”

It’s a good thing I like surprises because with a memory like mine, I get lots of them.

Anybody else have a wonky memory?