The Persistence of Memory

Memory's a funny thing. Remember in school, when you'd pull an all-nighter before a big test, cramming all those dates and names and facts into your head? You'd ace the exam, but come finals week, it was like Greek to you. Unless, of course, you were studying for Greek class, in which case, it was like math, or chemistry, or Spanish. Anything but what you needed to remember.

Then there are the things you'll never, ever forget. I'm not talking about the time you were pantsed in front of the girl you had a crush on in the middle of 7th grade gym class. I'm talking cold, hard facts, useless stuff, taking up valuable space in your brain.

I could recite my 13-digit bank account number in my sleep. It's helpful when filling out deposit slips, I suppose. I could rattle off the LOST numbers even half-drunk, which would have come in handy if I'd actually played them in Mega Millions last week and walked away $150 richer. I still remember my college boyfriend's old cell phone number-- useless on several levels, especially in this age of the digital address book. Who needs to memorize phone numbers, anyway?

Some people have a high school locker combination they'll always recall, but I would sometimes forget mine over long weekends, so that's definitely something that didn't stick with me. I, like many others, however, can never forget the jingle from the Empire Carpet commercials-- "800-588-2300, Empire...today!" So that makes at least two phone numbers I still remember but will never call.

At any given moment, I can list six of the seven dwarves. The caveat is that it's always a different combination of dwarves-- you know how it goes. Put me on the spot, and my dwarf-listing abilities under pressure might knock that number down to four or five.

Like many others of our generation, I will forever remember the lyrics to hundreds and hundreds of pop songs from the mid to late '90s. Put "Semi-Charmed Life" on the jukebox at a bar and watch everyone try to act cool, like they don't know every word. They do. They all do.

I'm usually decent at team trivia, pretty good at play-along-at-home Jeopardy. But I think it would help if I could clear out some of the useless to make room for the trivial. There are $30 restaurant gift cards at stake here, after all. I don't think the trivia guy or Alex Trebek are ever going to ask me to sing the Empire Carpet jingle, but if they do, I'm all set.

If they ask for seven dwarf names, though, I might be screwed. Lazy's one, right? Homely? Creepy?