THE IMPERTINENCE OF MEMORY
I can't really remember what this one is about

Just last Saturday, as the morning dwindled into afternoon and I sat lazily by, watching it go, I decided that I was really rather hungry. But what to eat? Eggs. Eggs would be perfect. There is some milk that needs to be consumed, plenty of pepper is in the cabinet. Perhaps my roommate will not mind if I use some of his "It Ain't Real Bacon, Honey" brand bacon bits. I have some onions and some sun dried tomatoes that can go in; I can even chop up some potatoes and make an event out of it. Mmmmm, yes, a nice little brunch of eggs shall be just the thing for your intrepid friend, Gentle Reader. Ah, how I felt, enjoying the happiness of life (or "joie de vivre," as the French would have it). Perhaps I even thought of the seven of you as I headed for the kitchen, the hunger pangs now cripplingly strong, driving me mad as I stumbled from the couch clear across the three feet that separate it from the shoebox we call a kitchen. Perhaps I did think of you, but I can't say for certain. What I did know for certain, though, was that I had a new carton of eggs, ready for the eating.

Or did I ?

No. I did not. There was no carton of eggs in the fridge. Not anywhere. I even checked the freezer. No eggs. "No big deal," I hear you say, Gentle Reader, "Thinking that you bought eggs and finding that you haven't is a universal experience. It's part of Growing Up." While this is true, and I thank you for trying to make me feel better, the fact is, I have distinct memory of selecting the eggs I believed I had purchased.

They were a larger size than the ones I normally get, in a white carton rather than the typical yellow. I went looked through four or five containers, as each of them had at least one broken egg, which struck me as unusual. I had to dig down a lower level in the stacks before I found a pure dozen. I remember this clearly, for I turned each egg in each carton, seeing if it stuck, revealing its cracked husk (or "shell," as the British would have it).

Some of you, recalling past columns, may suggest that I easily could have dreamed this entire episode. While it certainly is not beyond the norm that I might have had a dream as boring as selecting eggs at the local grocer's, I am sure it was not a dream. The four talking geese who tend to serve as a Greek chorus in my dreams were not present at all there in the dairy section.

There are other, slightly more dangerous instances when my memory has faltered. One of note was about a month ago. I had been asleep for an hour or so, I surmise, when I woke up and thought, "Argh, I must take out my contacts before I succumb to the night's sleep." Out of bed I hopped, padding down the hall to the bathroom. I had washed out my lens case and was proceeding to pinch at my conjunctiva when the fruitless pain made me realize that I must have already taken out my contacts. What ho, can it be? Ah, now I remember. Sort of. It must have been hours ago. And now those contacts are on their way down the drain and out into outer space (if my recollection of New York plumbing is accurate). And, ow, my conjunctiva hurts. And come to think of it, how the hell did I make it out of bed, down the hall, to the bathroom, and through the case-cleaning stages, before realizing that I was already blind. I mean, I am near-sighted enough that I have to hold a book practically behind my head in order to make out the lexical representations (or "words," as the Canadians would have it).

Perhaps more infuriating and equally myopic is that I have come to be unable to distinguish between extremely strong opinions. Mine, others, it doesn't matter. All I will remember is that there was a strong opinion. Many a time have I seen a movie, eaten a meal, or conquered a land based entirely on knowing that someone had a strong feeling about but unfortunately never recalling that the feeling was disdain. I know that so-and-so either hated or loved this movie. One of the two. I remember reading that Such-and-such Company was either really good about the environment or really terrible for it. Black and white. Don't get me wrong -- I will always know that FedEx is awful and evil (but that's a rant for another time), and Budget is deceitful and malevolent, but that's because they both caused me severe personal distress. But was The Tin Drum good or bad? Are hand dryers better or worse than paper towels? Did my friend like or despise Julianne Moore? Is my cousin allergic to or fond of rum? I'm not sure, but I do know that one of the two answers was adamantly true.

So, what does it all mean? Is it for good or for ill that I cannot hold onto the estimations that shape the present? Will I remember you? Will you want me to, after the way you've behaved? Who do you think you are? Who are you, anyway? Do you owe me money? Why am I bleeding? Am I getting enough levulose (or "fructose," as the Americans would have it)? Will I remember my children? Do I have children? Wait, what was I talking about? Is this ending too predictable? Say what you will; it shall not take me long to forget.