Your Memory Is A Monster

Completely anonymous, letting the guilty live free and the interested live happily.

To Grandmother’s House We Shall Go November 25, 2007

Mom: A seven letter word for Wine’s Rooms. Wine’s Rooms? That doesn’t make any sense.
Dad: Do you have any of the letters? Where is it on the puzzle? (as he looks over at the puzzle my mother is holding)
Me: Dad! Stay in your lane!
Dad: What are the cross clues?
Me: Dad! Stop looking at the puzzle! That’s the second car you almost ran into.

Sis: Let’s walk down the street to the bar. It’s only 3 blocks away.
Me: It’s pretty cold outside. I don’t know.
Sis: It’ll be fine.
Me: Halfway there, after having walked 5 blocks) Dude, it’s raining. And it’s 40 degrees.

Guy-Sis-Only-Pretends-to-Like-Because-He-Will-Always-Be-DD walks into the bar, wearing a knee-length, fur coat, two gold chains and a pinky ring.
GSOPTLBHWABDD: This coat is so atrocious, but I lost my leather coat, this is the only one I had. My grandpa gave it to me.
Me: Yeah, man, that is ugly.

Brother later that same night: I’m glad that guy showed up to give us a ride in the rain, but I think he’s probably either part-way gay or in training to be a pimp.

Me two days later, when GSOPTLBHWABDD shows up for Thanksgiving dinner, having been invited only because he’s got nowhere else to go: Still wearing that coat, huh?
GSOPTLBHWABDD: Yeah, man, it’s awful. People stare at me.
Me: Yeah, you love that coat. Your other coat is sitting at home, and you just love that coat.
GSOPTLBHWABDD: No, I really don’t. Chuckle chuckle.
Sis: to GSOPTLBHWABDD You have got to take that pinky ring off if you want to stay at our Thanksgiving table.

Brother later that night: It’s been two days! He could have gotten a new coat! They’re on sale for $30 at Target! Not only is he part-way gay, he’ll be part-way dead if he comes near me again.

Text message to cousin: You dad bought us all McGriddles yesterday. I was still asleep so he left mine on my face.
Response: Best text message ever.

Text message from GSOPTLBHWABDD to Sis: I’m at rap club and they love my coat. They all think I’m a pimp. Seriously.

Text message to cousin: I can’t believe you’re not here this year. You’re missing grandma’s useless junk and expired food pass around.
Response: She really does think those are presents, doesn’t she?

Text message to several friends: We just drove past a Mexican Restaurant named “Mexican Restaurant.” Oklahoma is one classy place.


Things We Share November 18, 2007

Filed under: Men Life Gossip — memorymonster @ 9:53 am
Tags: , , , ,

We all share the same three ex-boyfriends:

1. The great love.
2. The fun to fight with.
3. The jerky passionate one.

We all share the same regrets:

1. Not telling him.
2. Telling him too much.
3. Letting him get away with it.

We all share a break-up routine:

1. New playlist.
2. New hair.
3. Old dirty jeans.


Like a Flash

It seems to always start as an innocent attempt to watch the Mavericks game (we sent the Spurs home crying to their mommas or, in Tony Parker’s case, their skanky wives).
Let’s just go grab a beer, watch the second half. Early night. Lots of work to get done, lots of papers to grade before the Thanksgiving holiday.
It’s not remarkable that some of us really did make it an early night, nor that others, the two of us who said “we’re not staying long” the loudest were the ones getting booted from the bar at closing time.
That girl we’d been making fun of seconds before she showed up that night? She was suddenly our dearest friend as we needed a ride to an after-party. Well, needed…Ha. We needed lights and sirens taking us home to our beds. We wanted a ride to the after-party.
We’re not only the kind of people who fake a friendship for a ride, we’re also the kind of people who get believed, who get trusted, who get rides.
The after-party went a little something like this.
Drink whatever is on the table.” Says our friend, a resident of the house.
I drink the lid-less, probably week-old vodka and chase it with the lid-less, undoubtedly older Diet Coke. No one else seems interested, so I continue this pursuit while my friend A, who had been at the party longer than me, sang a 90s song on the house’s leading draw: the karaoke machine.
I take that back, too. The guys’ house on Alice Street has a clearer, stronger draw: only guys live there, guys without real jobs, bedtimes or particular concern for cleanliness.
A Corona 40 appears shortly after the vodka’s empty.
A video-camera appears shortly after I start singing REM’s “Losing My Religion.”
The video camera has been entrusted to me as some go for refills, others in search of a lighter.
“Are we smoking in the living room?” I ask, not wanting to leave the comforting world of blue arm chair-opia.
We are.
We are also singing Alanis, Elvis, the “I’m too sexy” song.
We are also passing joints from our left to our right, as always, except once, including ourselves. That’s new.
We aren’t leaving until people start falling asleep on couches.

On the walk home, I make many drunk calls, leaving many drunken voicemails, the best of which includes the line “I know where I am but I feel lost.” Drunken rambling? Yes. Poetic life philosophy? If you so choose.


It isn’t like that anymore. November 15, 2007

Filed under: Men Life Gossip — memorymonster @ 7:18 am
Tags: , , , , , ,

I’ve found myself becoming more attracted to a man’s health insurance plan than his McDreamy hair or Zach Braff-ian charm.
Clearly, I watch too many medical TV shows.
Remember when you liked someone for them? I know, that’s the goal our mothers try to give us: find someone who loves you for you. Find someone you love as they are.
But it isn’t like that anymore.
Tolerate who they are, enjoy some things about them, yes.
Just as important: Their extras.
We’re not just looking for a rich family. In fact, most women are smart enough to know that a rich family is as dangerous and emotionally trying as they are beneficial.
Now I want a low co-pay, a decent prescription plan.
Now I can deal with dull at parties if I can trade in for does the grocery shopping on his way home from work.
Now I know I can slowly improve his passive agression, and I am willing to climb that hill for battle, so long as you have no debt other than college loans.
How my mother would smile and shake her head. I don’t love him for who he is because I am looking past who he is, ready to change who he is.
We can have disparate taste in movies, I can even hate your taste in movies, if your job gives you a company car we can take road trips in.
These are just sample trades.
Now I know, after being in several weddings, to ask on the first date if your parents drink, or at least don’t condemn it. If you have the parents who don’t want beer at their son’s wedding, then a first date is as far as we need to go.
When she tells me, my mom, that I am going about this the wrong way, I’ll remind her of who my dad used to be, before I knew him, before he knew what she was worth. Worth selling the sports car for something family friendly. Worth commuting to work so she’d be close to her job.
Men have been making the trades, determining the value of changing something, sticking with something, persuring something, moving the tangible around so that the intangible (the love, the sugar, the sweetness and goop) comes at the smallest cost and provides a good return.

So, tell me, do you need a referral to specialist?