When Memory Lane Meets Amnesia Alley

This is a quickie I’m hammering out to get it on paper. Make that pixels. My Substack is fast becoming an official record of my record foul-ups. Today was no exception. As Dr. Russell Barkley says, ADHD is Intention Deficit Disorder.

And I’m living proof.

I had three packages to mail out. I procrastinated because I didn’t have an address for my friend Lynn and I didn’t feel like looking it up. I finally peered in the “Contacts” on my phone and sure enough, the address wasn’t there. D’oh! Instead of bothering Lynn (and admitting that I never added her new address from when she moved three years ago), I tried Google. It didn’t look right, so I finally had to text her and ask. Lynn showed me grace.

Next, I wrote out the address on the second package to my best friend. This address I was confident I knew for sure. I’d been to her new home dozens of times. I could drive it in my sleep (altho’ I don’t know why that saying is a saying — must’ve originated because someone was on Ambien). I wasn’t quite sure of the house number, so I took a quick peek in my Contacts. Okay, I was wrong on the house number, but I was confident the rest of her address was right. I knew one thing for sure: she lived on Mockingbird Lane.

This launched me into a daydream, flooding my brain with many thoughts at once. Was it The Munsters or The Addams Family who lived on Mockingbird Lane? (I still don’t know because I’m not curious enough to bother Googling it.)

For some reason, my mom never let us watch either of these shows, so in my mind, they’re one mashup show. I wondered why my mom objected to horror comedy. (She let me watch Young Frankenstein.) I wondered which show was broadcast first. I wondered which version people deemed to be a lame derivative of the other.

Dave asked me if my mail was ready to go, disrupting my extensive reverie. “Ready!” I declared, feeling somewhat victorious, since I conquered my procrastination demon for today. I did myself proud.

Three hours later, deep into the throes of rewriting a chapter for my new book, the phone rang. Wherever Dave was calling from, there sure was a lot of background noise. Turns out, he was at the post office.

Dave, yelling over the noise: “The postmaster says Marovich’s address doesn’t exist!”

Me: “What?!? That’s impossible. Of course it exists! I’ve been there dozens of times. Hold on, let me check online.”

I knew if I searched the contacts section on my phone, I’d accidentally hang up on Dave and he was already irritated enough with me. I did a quick online search for my bestie’s address. My face was flushed. I hate feeling rushed. Panicked. I felt ridiculous. How could I possibly have it wrong? I read aloud the house number to Dave and that’s when I processed the street name:

“…HUMMINGBIRD Lane………..oh…….”

I’d done it again. I cannot keep Mockingbird and Hummingbird straight in my head. It’s a good thing I’m not a paid ornithologist (my extreme bird phobia would put a quick end to that career).

As I hung up, I glanced over at the pile of gifts staring back at me, shaming me for not having sent them already to my beautiful niece, who just birthed twin boys. My sister-in-law Denine patiently restated the address for me on the phone several days ago. I wrote it down as she said it, promising to add it to my Contacts in my phone. Then I hung up. Then I forgot. And somehow, that piece of paper got lost. Now I have to make the dreaded ‘fess up my fuck-up call. I think I’ll wait a bit.

I sure hope those gifts get mailed before my nephews hit puberty…