For as long as I can remember, my parents haven’t been able to remember anything. When I was a kid we had a dog named Melvin. My dad would sometimes take our beloved family pet to work with him, and good old friendly Melvin always got a lot of attention. When someone would ask my dad what the dog’s name was, he would look at them blankly for a second and then say “Marvin?” When my brothers and I would hear my mom start yelling syllables, we always stopped what we were doing and waited to hear whose name was going to come up last. I was usually known as “Mar-Jo-Ron-Candie.” No problem mom, you squeezed me out of your crotch one day, I can’t expect you to remember me when we bump into each other around the house. My parents once left my two-year-old brother at church. When my dad finally went back for him the deacon who had him said Ron made it all the way to the road before someone caught him and dragged him back inside. When I was seven I was left in the bathroom when someone called in a bomb threat to my church. After a couple of hours of listening to the minister go on about Armageddon and the Second Coming of Christ, I got up quietly to use the restroom. Imagine my terror after walking back to the main hall and finding the building empty. At least my parents haven’t misplaced Gramma. Her ashes are, to this day, in a box in the hall closet with the word “Mother” written on the outside with a laundry marker. One day, as a teenager, I decided to walk to the local convenience store to buy a snack. I asked my mom if she would like a candy bar and her immediate response was “I’d like a Nutty Nonsense.” Nutty Nonsense? I thought about this for a few seconds. I had never heard of Nutty Nonsense, and keeping track of the brand names of chocolate was definitely something I kept myself current on. “Oh! You mean a Nutrageous?” I suddenly realized what she was talking about. “Yes! That’s the one, thanks!” I stopped by the garage on my way down the driveway and asked Dad if he wanted anything. “Sure!” Dad said from behind the open hood of my car. “I’ll take a Krinkle Bar!” And life still hasn’t changed. My mom can’t remember my name so I sure can’t expect her to know the name of my favorite actor, Benicio Del Toro. Oh, she can place his face all right, but I sometimes get phone calls like, “Candie, I saw Belnikio in a movie about drugs last night.” Or, “Do you really like Belicio better than Tommy Lee Jones?” My dad just calls him “That guy from Way of the Gun.” I guess I can’t blame Mom and Dad; I sure couldn’t handle raising four kids; I have a hard enough time keeping track of my one daughter. In fact I think I’ll find What’s-Her-Name now and go get us each a Mr. Goodwrench bar.