So The Husband and I are at a holiday party, and the hostess is considerate enough to provide “wine charms” for all the guests to put on their glasses. Have you seen these? Essentially, they are little decorative bits of metal or plastic shaped like things (think grapes, apple, pear, strawberry) that you attach to the base of your glass, so you can say, “Aha! That one’s mine, I remember that my glass had a little charm of some grapes on it.”
Not so fast, my friend. I’m at the party. I’m drinking alcohol. It’s tricky enough for me to remember basic stuff (e.g., when I have to pick up my dry-cleaning) while sober let alone complicated things after a few glasses of wine, things like: did I have a miniature lime or a peach charm on my glass?
In theory, I like the idea. The MOV who sits at home and types her blog on the computer while sipping ice water or cappuccino really likes the idea. The MOV who eats five chocolate mini-éclairs before she even thinks about touching the carrot and broccoli crudités can’t be bothered with adding more information to her addled brain.
The Husband approaches. “MOV,” he begins, innocently enough, “I thought your Chardonnay had a pineapple on it? Why are you holding the glass with the banana on it?” He looks around suspiciously. “MOV!” he hisses, not so innocently now, “I’m pretty sure you are drinking from Susan’s glass! Put. It. Down.” His look is its own cocktail of embarrassment and alarm with a dash of pity thrown in; I've seen this look before. “Don’t you remember she said she loved banana crème pie so she would remember the banana charm?!”
Oh, geesh. I can’t even remember my own charm (apparently pineapple) and now I'm expected to remember Susan’s charm? I just met Susan 10 minutes ago and can’t even recall her last name (Richlen-something? Richardson? Richman? And hello, Ms. Party Hostess—turn your damn music down so I can hear what Susan’s full name is when we’re introduced!). And by the way, I thought Susan was drinking red wine. So there.
I am mentally transported to Disneyland, senior year of college. My boyfriend and I had spent all day at the park, riding Space Mountain and making out on the People Mover. It was time to leave. Unfortunately, we (me? why am I always blamed for these mishaps?) couldn’t remember where we parked the car……… Fast forward two hours and one very nice security guard later. I was convinced the car was stolen (really, what other explanation could there be?). The guard kept asking, “Miss, can you remember which row you parked in?”
All I could think was: it was a Disney character plus a number. Cinderella 5? Or Snow White 3? Maybe Mickey Mouse 18?
No one stole my car (really? no one wants a seven-year-old Celica with 100,000 miles on it?). We finally found it sitting near some motorcycles in a distant row (Goofy 1—how fitting). All I kept thinking was: if they really want you to remember where you parked, they should name the rows bizarre things that have nothing to do with one another, things like “Asparagus M” or “Paris 931” or “Kitchen Table Blue”.
I need to come up with some memory trick to help my poor beleaguered brain to remember stuff. Aha! I’ve got it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a wine glass to identify. I think there was a smear of chocolate on the side of it.
(“Memory Of Vino”)