Moomoirs of a Gay-sha

As if my mother's internet struggles weren't already enough (she still has dial-up and is waiting and waiting and waiting for her development to upgrade to FIOS), she has somehow lost the ability to sign in to Blogspot and leave comments.

This may be a good thing for me, however. ;)

I've mentioned a couple times that I crashed and burned on a kickball field two years ago and knocked myself out. My head hit the ground so hard at second base that people on the sidelines heard it. I had a nice bout of amnesia for the rest of the evening and never regained any memories of the actual accident or most of that night. And that was after one beer.

Unfortunately, there seems to have been some permanent damage. My memory was getting a little fuzzy anyway, but it has been markedly worse since then. One of my best friends has a pool going at work as to when the full-blown dementia kicks in -- I believe she's given me less than two years.

I'm beginning to think I'll be lucky if I last that long. I was re-reading some old blog posts on here and had COMPLETELY FORGOTTEN that I had an ulcer issue last fall and a misdiagnosed ovarian cyst that wound up being a mystery pain. Seriously. And that was only a year ago.

Sigh.

So I guess I shouldn't be surprised that I received the following email from my mother:

"Just read your blog. OMG, you are tired. It was Mom he told to keep buying lottery tickets, which you have mentioned many times over the years, and she did as she was told until she couldn't remember what the lottery was!!!!!! Sleepy [AJ]...Ha.

Love,
Moomories Are Made Of This"

Ah, so much in one little email. "Mom" is my maternal grandmother. I overheard my mother calling her parents "Mom" and "Dad" as a baby and I guess decided to do the same. We got some curious looks when my grandmother, mother, and I were shopping together and I'd ask my mother, "Where's Mom?"

The reference to my grandmother forgetting what the lottery was is because she unfortunately developed Alzheimer's. I believe that's Strike 2 against my poor noggin'.

And my mother's signature is a little game we've played forever. I had a history teacher in high school who used to talk about whiny kids who went crying to their "S'Mum-Mums." I began calling my mother "S'Mum-Mums" which eventually morphed into "S'Moo," and then finally, "Moo." (I didn't escape unscathed, by the way. I became "S'Aim-Aims"...)

I started working Moo into her name on card envelopes that I mailed to her and occasionally she'll bust one out on her own. Excellent work, Moo!! :)

Guess I should be thankful for NaBloPoMo. Maybe if I get enough of these stories out, my mother can correct the ones from my childhood and I'll have the current ones to review in the years (months? weeks?) to come when I don't remember them anymore.

Wonder if I can mainline ginkgo?