I hit a new low yesterday. I have been wondering for several days why I have received so few RSVPs for Whit’s birthday party. For the record: not RSVPing is one of my major peeves. But still, this was an even lower turnout than usual. I bumped into a mother I know at school today and I mentioned it to her, trying to be off-hand to make up for what I felt was a rude inquiry (part of why I hate non RSVPers is I hate pestering people for what their answer is, because I feel like a jerk).
The mom mentioned off-hand that she had not recognized the email address I’d given on the invitation. Hmm. I went home and checked the invitation. An invitation that I had proofed not once but twice. And then mailed out. And never blinked about. And, right there: my email address misspelled. Great.
People think of me as very anal and type A. And in many ways I am. My closet has several shelves of shoeboxes, each with a photograph of the shoes inside stuck on the outside. My spices are alphabetized. My Christmas cards go out the first week of December. Etc, etc, etc. Loosey goosey I am not. It’s something I dearly wish I was, but, let’s face it: no.
But today’s flub is one in a short but noteworthy list of times I have been well and truly full-blown flaky. And those times make me wonder if I am slowly losing my mind. If somehow, parenthood or middle age or too much splenda or too much white wine has contributed to punch small holes in my brain, almost imperceptible but porous enough to allow my meager mind to leak out slowly. Drip, drip, drip.
The others on the list? Well, I paid the wrong mortgage company for three months. Three months. Automated billing will do that for you. But it still amazes me that the old mortgage company didn’t let me know they were getting an extra $XK every month from us that they didn’t deserve for three solid months. I also left the oven on for a whole weekend. That was pregnancy brain. But, not super responsible.
The best ever, though, was when we had our preschool interview for Grace. We parked the car, walked to the nursery school, toured and interviewed. I think we were probably at the school for 90 minutes. As we walked out, I felt in my pockets (I had been driving) and wondered aloud where the car keys were. I rummaged through my bag (side note: in said bag, today, I found a pair of Grace’s socks and an epi-pen. I did not, however, have the chapstick that I needed) as we walked to the car. No keys. Starting to panic, I looked up when Matt exclaimed, “Oh, my God” under his breath. The car. Parked on a side street. Running. I guess that explains where the keys were.
Losing. My. Mind.