My husband apparently has no memory.

We went to Chick-fil-a the other day for breakfast. Berck ordered the chicken breakfast burrito. I was kinda surprised because he had ordered it the last time we went to breakfast there and had decided it was okay but not worth giving up a chicken biscuit. He got the salsa with it, and as expected, Chick-fil-a does not specialize in salsa.

The clerk asked if Berck wanted salsa with his new burrito. “It’s Chick-fil-a salsa,” I reminded him.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” said Berck, declining the salsa.

We sat down, and Berck took a bite of his breakfast burrito. “This is really good!” he said. “Here, try it!”

“I tried it last time,” I said.

“What do you mean ‘last time’?” asked Berck. “I’ve never had this before!”

“Yes, you got it the last time we had breakfast here!”

“No, I didn’t! I’ve never had this before! Try it!” So I took a bite. “What do you think?

“It tastes exactly like it did the last time I tried it.”

Ask Berck. He’ll insist that he’s only had a Chick-fil-a breakfast burrito once in his life. (Unless, of course, he replies with, “Chick-fil-a has breakfast burritos? Sweet!”)

So a couple of days ago, Berck was talking about guitar music and mentioned how reggae Jimi Hendrix was.

On our honeymoon, Berck had said the same thing. I played every single Jimi Hendrix song on the MP3 player to try to prove that Hendrix was in no way reggae and that he was confusing Hendrix with Bob Marley.

I couldn’t believe we were having this same discussion again. “Hendrix isn’t reggae!”

“I Shot the Sheriff??” declared Berck. “That’s reggae!”

I’ve never heard Hendrix play “I Shot the Sheriff,” but I’m willing to accept the possibility that he played it at some point. “Yeah, because Bob Marley wrote it!”

“Bob Marley didn’t write it! He covered it. Hendrix wrote it!”

So just now the MP3 player randomly played some Hendrix song (I don’t know which one). “Nice reggae beat,” I said faceciously, nodding to the rock song.

“I’m telling you, Hendrix did a lot of reggae!” insisted Berck.

“Why are we having this discussion AGAIN?”

“Because it’s true! Eric Clapton did a lot reggae!”

“ERIC CLAPTON? We’ve been talking about Jimi Hendrix!”

“No, I said Eric Clapton!” insisted Berck. “He wrote ‘I Shot the Sheriff.’”

Fortunately, we were sitting at our computers this time around. Two seconds later we were both reading from the Wikipedia entry. “Like I said, Bob Marley wrote ‘I Shot the Sheriff’!” I said.

“Like I said, Eric Clapton did a lot of reggae!” said Berck.

“Except you didn’t say Eric Clapton! You said Jimi Hendrix! You’re mixing up a white Brit with a black American!”

“You think Jimi Hendrix is black??” (He’s African American, Caucasian, and Cherokee. And Tiger Woods is half Asian.)

Berck also can’t remember how to get out of the liquor store parking lot. Granted, it is confusing. If you exit from the street entrance, you can only go east and have to drive all the way up to the next light to make a U-turn to go west; whereas, if you go through the Advanced Auto parking lot to the light, you can turn left. But we go there once a week, and he has yet to remember.

Now if he could just be as forgetful about the last time I forgot to turn off the car headlights.