THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, March 12, 1995 TAG: 9503090022
SECTION: REAL LIFE PAGE: K1 EDITION: FINAL
COLUMN: HE SAID, SHE SAID
SOURCE: KERRY DOUGHERTY & DAVE ADDIS
LENGTH: Long : 116 lines
KERRY SAYS:
Well, Dave, it struck again. Male amnesia. It's a condition that seems to afflict men when they're dealing with women, especially their spouses.
Men who can recall the citations for a hundred legal cases when they're in court, who know the final score of Super Bowl XIV and the batting averages of the 1961 Yankees can't remember their plans for Saturday night.
Or their wife's birthday. Or their anniversary. Or the dates and times of the children's soccer matches.
In fact, Christmas always seems to take my husband by surprise. Every Dec. 25 he gives me a gift, while apologizing that if he had had more time, he would have gotten me something else.
As if Christmas came early that year.
Last Saturday afternoon my mate proudly arrived at home with a videotape: ``Little Buddha.''
I glanced at the box and thanked him before politely asking when we were going to watch it.
``I figured we might want to see it tonight since we're staying home,'' he said.
``We're going out tonight,'' I replied.
``Why didn't you tell me?''
Of course I had told him. On Tuesday when we discussed baby-sitting arrangements for Saturday. But he had no memory of it.
It's eerie, as if I had this detailed conversation with a life-like man who appeared to be conscious. And yet. . .
Same goes for outings to the circus, dinner with friends, trips to my parents' house.
``Is that this weekend?'' he asks with annoying regularity.
This from a man who has memorized large chunks of the U.S. Constitution and can recite dialogue from 30-year-old ``Star Trek'' episodes.
At first I thought it was me. Perhaps I was only imagining that I had spoken with my husband about upcoming events. So I began making mental notes. When he would deny knowing about something I could pluck a detail from our earlier conversation that would force him to admit he had forgotten.
Then I worried that I simply wasn't securing his attention before talking to him. I tried this:
``Honey. Honey. Honey,'' I would repeat until he actually glanced up from the newspaper. ``Please look at me for a moment, Dear. And put the paper down, please. I have to tell you something.''
``Are you listening to me?'' I'd ask, searching for signs of active nerve endings. ``This is really important, so you can't forget this.''
``I'm listening, I'm listening,'' he would say impatiently.
To no avail.
The next day it is as if the conversation never happened.
``You know I can't remember anything,'' he admits.
That's why I now confetti the house with Post-It notes: ``Our anniversary is Wednesday, send flowers.'' ``Soccer game Saturday at 1.'' ``Christmas - Dec. 25th this year.''
OK, Dave, let's see you explain this phenomenon - if you can remember what we're talking about.
DAVE SAYS:
Oh, no. I knew this would happen sooner or later, but I didn't expect it this sooner.
I have no defense. You have maneuvered me into a corner, stripped away my knights and castles, and left me no alternative but to tip over my king and whimper, ``Checkmate.''
The phenomenon you speak of is real. I suffer from it myself. Though I have no defense, I can muster up a couple of explanations and rationalizations. They may be cheesy, but they're all I have.
I'm going to plead the Humphrey Bogart gambit. Bogart, as Rick in ``Casablanca,'' portrayed the man all of us wanted to be when we grew up. Tough. Worldly. Mysterious. Painfully handsome.
The closest any of us came was a Bogart-like broken nose from falling flat on our faces.
Early in the movie, Rick has an exchange with a blond woman at the bar. It goes something like this:
Woman: ``Rick, where were you last night?''
Rick: ``I don't remember that far back.''
Woman: ``Will I see you later tonight?''
Rick: ``I never plan that far ahead.''
In this simple exchange, Bogart defines a male trait that is maddening to women: We focus intensively on the moment. Anything that is set up for the future goes immediately into a mental bin marked: ``I'll deal with that later.''
Unfortunately, we've never developed the habit of checking that bin daily, as women seem to do, so ``later'' has a way of creeping up on us with embarrassing results.
Like those times, Kerry, when you unwrapped a Christmas gift that looked suspiciously as if it had been purchased on a dead run through the K-Mart blue-light aisle at 6:55 p.m. on Dec. 24.
A recent study of brain scans of men and women proved that women really do process information differently. When processing the same detail during the test, only one portion of a man's brain lights up. For a woman dealing with the same detail, brain parts light up all over the place, like a nickel slot machine that just hit three cherries.
Kerry, the scientists proved that y'all are leaving little yellow Post-It notes all over the insides of your heads. No wonder you never seem to forget anything.
I think this is a case of human evolution failing to keep pace with social evolution. Men are still processing information the way they did 10,000 years ago: A caveperson confronting a saber-tooth tiger, each intent on being the other's dinner, would be cat meat if his concentration was broken by the sudden thought, ``Gee, I wonder if it's my turn to pick up the kids?''
Thus, to this day, some survival instinct tells us to pay attention to the moment or we'll wind up dead. Women have developed a more global way of thinking. This might explain why women make excellent astronauts, but men are far better behind the wheel of an Indy car.
It might also explain why your husband can quote James Madison in the heat of a court battle, but is a total yutz when it comes to remembering the kid's dance recital. Screw up in court, your career becomes a carcass. Screw up the recital time, you can recover by springing for a little ice cream.
by CNB