The other day I was trying to figure out if ever, in my lifetime, I had to sprint back into the house three times for things I had forgotten.
I know I’ve run back in twice for things left behind. Keys. My beloved companion, the pen. Head. I’ve made it to the gym only to realize I forgot my gym trunks.
They frown at such behavior, working out in your baggy, dingy, more grey than white jock strap. Gym management feels it attracts the wrong element (divorcees) and, besides. It excites the perverts with the combover hair over on the bench press machine.
Eight’s my magic number.
There was a neat novel back in 1980 — Jean Aeul’s “Clan of the Cave Bear.” They made a movie about it with Darryl Hannah. Ms. Darryl plays the knuckle-biting bodacious hubba-hubba blonde Swedish suntan lotion bikini she-cave babe. One of the film’s persons-of-cave is a kindly but aging shaman. The medicine man. Not the toilet paper. Considering lifespans then, by “aging” the Neanderthal mystic was probably 14. Anywho. He was a really smart guy. You know. Like Republican congressional candidate and city councilman, Jason Gibbs? The shaman could count all the way up to eight. Jason can count far beyond that. Ask him some time. Bring a lunch.
But getting that nosebleed high up numbers’ ladder? It hurt the cave shaman’s head.
Leaving the house in the morning? Eight things is all I can remember to lug out to the car. Eight.
Cell phone. Keys. Wallet. Sippy cup. Reading glasses. Cool sunglasses. MAGA literature on self-responsibility in case I should bump into the homeless who always need something uplifting to read. Cowboy hat.
That’s eight items.
If I have to mail my taxes or take out the recycling, I’m going to be spending my day squinting because by adding that one extra thing, I left the sunglasses on a shelf by the door so I wouldn’t forget them. If I made a mid-day meal, either the Hopalong Cassidy lunch pail or my pen is staying home.
Don’t let the cavalier approach to Life deceive you. I’m anal retentive. I’m a serial list maker. I send texts to myself reminding me to read, and perform, the items on my To Do List. For those of us with serious control issues, like people on the copy desk, ‘To Do List’ is always capitalized, bold-faced and italicized out of respect.
I’ve heard boasting from the other team. You know. The morally superior? The ones who fudge about their age, weight and shoe size? Women? Women can somehow leave the house with 1,346 items to remember. Lip gloss. Eyeliner. Perfume. Perfume de-enhancer in case they splash their girl aftershave on too thick. Yoga mat. Tooth whitening strips, and, for women not from Palmdale, teeth whitening strips. Jiminy Christmas. The things women can remember to take with them so fundamentally necessary for survival.
I’m not suggesting women are flawless. They can remember to stuff that little dry cleaner pickup receipt the size of a fortune cookie prediction in their purse and drive off with the baby in the car seat precariously balanced on the roof of the minivan. (EDITOR’S NOTE: Look for The Mighty Signal’s special upcoming advertising supplement and CD — “104 Tips For Driving With Your SCV Baby On The Minivan Roof.”)
I’m not completely forgetful. I’m at least as competent as the shaman with the 14-inch forehead in “Bear du Cave.” Why? Because we can both count to eight. But what is this noggin road block dooming me to leaving flagrantly important items atop a piano or dog’s head?
Once, I walked out of the house late for work, which was tough because I’ve never had to keep regular office hours. I wondered why everything was so blurry. Seven in the morning. Wasn’t drunk. Noticeably. Blind as a bat, 5 miles down our dirt road, I had forgotten to put in my contact lenses.
I’ve left for a flight to San Francisco without my plane ticket and that was back when you had to present an actual, official piece of cardboard purchased from a corporeal travel agent before boarding a plane. Bright side? This was back in the hedonistic, drug-hazed ’70s when they’d hold the plane for you for days.
Went to dinner at an expensive restaurant. Left my wallet not at home or in auto, but at someone else’s auto, parked at their home.
FRIEND: “John. Nice try. This is the fourth time this month you’ve pulled this stunt and it’s only the third …”
I know there’s a plethora of instructional documentaries on how NOT to be such a short attention span chango. Problem is, I have to write myself a note to remind myself to watch the YouTube video then write myself a note reminding myself to read my note to remind myself.
Do other people leave the house forgetting things? Do doctors forget their little black doctor’s bags? Plumbers leave behind their Latrine Plungers, which — say it with me — makes a great band name? Does my personal friend and president, Donald J. Trump, start to climb the stairs of Air Force One, smack himself in the forehead and cry, “Cripes! I left the nuclear test ban treaty in the golf cart at Mar-a-Lago!!”
Well. No. That would be Biden, wouldn’t it?
I should get a purse. Or, maybe a woman to walk behind me carrying my purse. Or, large basket atop her head with the purse inside.
Long I’ve yearned for the days of my 20s. There lives the lure of immortality from my too-short Motorcycle Parenthesis. Back then, when leaving the house, I only had to remember four things.
Pants. Boots. Wallet. Bike key.
If the weather was right, and, it pretty much always is in Newhall, I didn’t need a shirt. Back before helmet laws?
Didn’t need to remember a helmet, either …
With more than 11,000 columns and 100-plus awards (119!), Santa Clarita’s John Boston is the most prolific humorist/satirist in world history. Look for his long-awaited sequel to “Naked Came the Sasquatch” — “Naked Came the Novelist” coming out this fall.
