Category Archives: Yep…she’s gone a bit looney

A Letter To All Those I Should Know

I took a trip to my home-town yesterday to observe my sister’s kindergarten class. (Reasons for this will be disclosed at a later date.) She walked me around the school, my old elementary stopping ground and the same building in which our father taught hundreds of children (me included), Art. But, my overflowing-nostalgia post has already been written and is not the point of this one, so I’ll move on.

We walked into the main office and chatted for a while with old family friends, friends of my Dad and now my sister’s colleagues.  Upon exiting, I turned to one of the gentlemen and said,

“Nice to meet you!”

Once the door clicked behind us, my sister sighed and put her hand up to her forehead.

“Emily.   You know him  He was in your high school  class. ”

Dammit. I refuse to be held responsible for this mental malfunction.

This story is one of many. It happens all the time. I have a problem. A serious and concerning problem.

All too often, I run into people both from my youth and my professional lifetime, that run toward me, yell my name, and embrace me with fervor.

I’m blank. Completely blank. Often I recognize them, but can’t place what school we attended at the same time or which show we did together.  It’s embarrassing. And, if embarrassing was all it was, I would deal with it, wait for my cheeks to drain the red and move on.   But, it’s rude and inconsiderate, and comes across as an aloof disregard for other humans with whom I cross paths.

The list of my flaws is approximately fourteen miles long, but I can assure you that “rude”and “inconsiderate” are not two of the qualities making up that mileage.

I care about every person I meet. In fact, I still feel badly that I didn’t offer an appropriate “Goodbye” to the stranger I was briefly chatting with on train today. So, I don’t believe this indicates a tendency to devalue my fellow-man due to an inflated ego. If you have read even a handful of my entries, have received an email or two, or have met me, you most likely agree that the mere suggestion of that idea is ludicrous.

I simply have some sort of face/name amnesia.  Either I spend very little time present enough to make lasting memories, or I get so nervous about hurting people’s feelings that I create a mental block that freezes my brain and all data stored inside it.

I’m choosing to believe the latter. The first possibility is too depressing.

But, the other day I back-flipped over  proof that I’m not alone. I was at an audition, and ran into a girl with whom I roomed on my first national tour. She looked at me and shouted,

“Mary, right!”

Thank you, Jesus.

I corrected her and reminded her of our shared bunks across the country. I also explained that she absolutely made my day by calling me “Mary”.

Because, when people remember my name, it just makes me feel bad.

And, how dare you?

Love,
Mary

have a click!

Advertisements

Let’s Get Groovy!

Well, hello there, lovely readers!  Are you still there?  Or have these nine long and excruciating days of silence forced you to let go of any hope of my return?

Big news!

No.  Not pregnant.

Bigger news!

I want to be.

Yes.  You read that right.  I am totally insane.

As if we have found any modicum of balance within our family of four.

Mother Nature seems to be a sinister soul with her spell of procreation, doesn’t she?  Hypnotizing away any amount of common sense, erasing all memories of maternal nervous breakdowns.

But before you  hold your breath for the next 28 days, anxiously awaiting a Wordless Wednesday picture of a double pink line, this is not something that is in the works any time soon.  Just because I want something (notice I didn’t say we…one of the adults in this family has not been bamboozled by a recent cessation of lactation hormones) doesn’t mean that I’m going to get it.  It is all contingent on finding ourselves in a place of stability.  A place where money flows freely, our time is ample, and our worries of affordable health care, college tuition and adequate retirement funds are but a thing of the past.

Journey with me, if you will, to the 1970’s for a moment…

A decade in which my parents purchased a seven bedroom Victorian home amidst excellent public schools for $20,000, began building their family of seven, and supported it with ease (ish) on a single Public Teaching salary, allowing my mother to exercise her choice to stay home, and my father the ability to co-parent with her after 3:45 pm during the school year, and all day, everyday during the summer months.

Me and Dad – 1978

But, alas, no matter how many times I use my favorite Instagram App filter, we are most certainly not in the 70’s.  So until pigs grow wings and fly this family of four to a groovier time, a family of four it shall remain.

But, by my calculations, we have a good four or five years to make all of these changes.  So, let’s get groovy!

Mamma wants a third!

Blogger’s Note: I am aware that the slang “groovy” was created in the 60’s, a decade in which none of the births of my parents’ five children took place, but the  more accurate term “Far Out” is just not my favorite.  So, go with it.  It’s been nine days.  I’m rusty.

*Apparently, “Groovy” actually originated in the 30’s.  Click here for more on that life-altering piece of information

P.S.

To all of my loyal readers who stuck around even after my recent abandonment,  would you be so kind as to click on the “vote for me” banner below?  Even if you have done so 17 times?  I simply must stay ranked as a Top Mommy Blogger.  I just MUST!

Missed you all dearly

Have a click!

Facebook Confessions

Last evening, I posted this as a status update on my personal Facebook page:

Zachary – “Mommy, Isabelle was screaming and crying for you the whole time you were upstairs” (it was a total of two minutes and 47 seconds)

Me- “Did you tell her that it was OK and that I would be right back?”

Zachary “No. I kept my voice in my mouth”

Yes, my kid is cheeky and hilarious, but not the point of this post.

After a few comments, I responded with this:

 “Mommies should NEVER have to pee”

After I hit ENTER on this one, I felt a tinge of warmth flush my cheeks, but I moved on to break up a wrestling match between my two toddlers.

Then came this one:

 “I can’t believe you got away to pee for a whole two minutes and 47 seconds all by yourself!!! Not even the bathroom is sacred in my house! :\ Good for you, Em!”

My palms began to twitch and bead with sweat, my skin prickling with the tell-tale signs of guilt.  Unable to bear another second of my transgression, I left my children to solve their own skirmish and pecked out this admission to the Facebook ether:

 Confession: I might be telling a white lie as to not look like a horrible mother in a facebook status…the real story is…I left them in the car for a total of 35 seconds while parked 1 foot away from the chinese takeout place where I ran in to get the food. I could see them the whole time and isabelle did NOT look like she was screaming. Which may mean that my son tells just as many tall tales as his mamma 

The moral of the story is:

I can always be implicitly trusted to tell the truth and nothing but the truth, no matter how shameful…

Until I can’t be.

At which point I will fess up within approximately four and a half minutes.

Sincerely…Most Sincerely,

Emily

**Never before published Bonus Confession:

Overwhelmed with guilt over serving my children the sweet and sour chicken combination platter, which is possibly not really chicken and fried in a delectable batter of gelatinous crap which consists of ingredients I’m certain I do not want to know (don’t you dare leave them for me in the comment section), I devoured each and every last piece and served them cereal for dinner…

Because in addition to being a white liar, I am a martyr.

have a click!

Joined the Flub

Some of tou may not know this, but I have written all of my entires for this blog on
My blackberry.  How else wound i find the time to write as frequently as i do? The train, the car (as a passenger of clues), the bathroom (my family thinks I suffer from chronic  atomachaches. )

Although
Y trusty Device. Had been showing signs of near death, I fought joining the massive. Lib of iPhoneErs.   not as much for the fact that I like to be a black sleep, but more because of the love affair I was having with
Y blackberry keys. I found such comfort in the positioning of fingers to buttons and the way the flow of words  licked happily into webs pd stories with ease.

But, alas…

My friend, my love, my blogging right hand man took his last breath before freZin into a glaze of static grey, en route to NYC the other day. I took the plunge at a small  eizpn store in the middle of penn station and purchased the  ‘cool kids’ toy. This Decade’s moola hoop.

I am now one of the billions, proudly joining the ranks of the sigitally unintelligible.

Only dorkas write te t messages and emails that make any amount of sense. It’s all so  lear to me now.

I write this entry to all of you as my induction.

No edits. No spell. Heck.

These words are those that Mr. iPhone felt appropriate

And by God almighty, Mir. iPhone knows BEat!

Sent from my iPhone

Wordless Wednesday

Retracting Previous Allegations

I must retract previous allegations against St. Barnabas Hospital in NJ.

I was unfair in my blanket statement concerning the whole establishment.

While I stand by my original assessment of the phlebotomy lab totally sucking, it turns out the Pediatric Emergency Room and it’s staff are all perfectly wonderful.

I had the pleasure of being corrected on the issue this evening while admitting Isabelle into their very kind and capable care with a dislocated elbow.

I do not however plan on writing either a letter of apology or an expression of gratitude.

I feel it is in everyone’s best interest that I shut my mouth for an undetermined period of time.

And possibly relocate my family to a padded room.

Padded for my children’s delicate bones and ligaments, padded for their Father who has thrown out his back lifting little spica man, and padded for their stark- raving, bat-shit crazy Mother.

I will however expect a visit from Child Protective Services sometime within the next 24 hours.  Should they not come knocking, I will be disappointed in the system as they are clearly not doing their job.

On another note, before my self-imposed silence,

All those of you who have been hurt either emotionally or physically by yours truly in the last 35 years, perhaps a childish shove on the playground in 1983, a prepubescent roll of the eyes in the early 90’s , anything you can think of,
please let me know how I may pay my debt to you. An email, a phone call, a letter, lunch, perverted sexual favors…anything.  Whatever you feel is necessary to lift the curse affecting my family.

Or wait!

A mirror! Maybe I broke a mirror!  Which is only good news if the break occurred seven years ago bringing us to the end of our bad luck. Five would still be bad news. Two more years of this is not acceptable.

Think, Emily! Think!

Drat!

I can recall no broken mirrors.

Back to plan A of paying my debt to society.

Send all grievances along with proposed  payment to:

Motherfog Padded Room

Sincerely,

Loony Toons Mcgee

A Motherfog Trilogy

I went to the Morrow Church Turnover Sale this morning in search of some books and games for Zachary in his lame state. If you missed that: 

“The Negative is A Given. May I Instead Express My Gratitude?”

I found this:

$5.00

For those of you who are missing the humor, you may have also missed one of my latest posts:

“I’m Not Paying That When I Can Make it Myself!”

LOL!

(LOL usage completely acceptable and appropriate in this context.)

For those of you who don’t understand that statement, refer back to:

“Death to LOL”

And there you have it.

Three entries in one.

A Motherfog Trilogy, if you will.