My birthday was this week, and things are sagging—my body AND brain.
You’d think our brains would improve since they get fuller with time. Not so. Time has sabotaged my ability to clearly communicate without fumbling for the names of my children and/or everyday objects.
“Bren... Chri....MICHAEL!! Pick up that (pointing) uh... um... AARGH... soccer ball or I will steal your uh... (pointing) your... phone and tweet, “Just finished Say Yes to the Dress. #RandyROCKS.”
I’ve developed a boat-load of stupid this year. Maybe it’s my addiction to romantic comedies.
I watched one on my laptop last week, snuggled in my La-z-boy and wearing my earphones. I used earphones because I didn’t want my kids to bother me as I engaged in flirty internal dialogue with Bradley Cooper.
I was blissfully engrossed in his facial stubble when my daughter interrupted me.
In my best serial-killer voice I seethed, “Can you not give me one minute to myself to watch Murder She Wrote? I don’t have to live like this!” Actually I was just thinking that last part.
Normal people understand that someone wearing earphones desires privacy. Not only was I peeved that my family wasn’t normal, but also that the movie wasn’t as loud as it typically was, and turning up the volume barely helped. I thought maybe the margarita I spilled on it may have frazzled some of my Mac’s motherfunction capabilities on its motherboard ram-cache. I learned that in my COBALT programming class in college.
My daughter and her Friends That Won’t Leave entered the room.
“Mom, I can hear it.”
“Hear what?” I said. Oh, no, I must’ve mumbled out loud the virtual conversation I was having with Bradley.
“I can hear your computer!”
I fumbled with the earphone cord, noting that it was indeed plugged into the computer.
“OMG, I can’t believe I’m from this gene pool,” she muttered, trudging over to stick the connector all the way in.
Wow, that helped. The Twitterati walked away, typing something.
I’m actually pretty good at growing technology, especially feeding the animals in Farmville and navigating iPhones.
Once I was on the phone with my husband. Hubs was on a roll and pontificating.
I tried to interject, “Hon, do you know.....”
He wouldn’t stop to listen to me. He was actually talking over me.
“But hon, how are they.....” I said.
He continued to rant as though I weren’t even there. Covering the mouthpiece, I laughed and mouthed to my daughter and her FTWL, “He won’t let me get a word in edge-wise!”
Confused, she stared at me like that time I had APD (Acute Prozac Deficiency). It took a while for me to realize I wasn’t on a call. I had dialed voice mail and I was listening TO. A. MESSAGE.
Mumbling ensued about the gene pool thing again.
The good news is that my therapist, Kendall Jackson, says that my brain brown-outs are due to my bi-polarness, not my age. Maybe. Or maybe too many margaritas have just short-circuited my motherfunctioning capabilities.