Where Everybody Knows Your Name

I have this slightly irrational phobia. For some reason I think people won't remember who I am. Maybe it stems from my childhood (and adolescent, and young adult) ambition to be famous? Perhaps I think that because I'm just a regular person that people won't remember me?

Maybe it's because I've been called Megan more times than I care to remember, or that lots of people don't say my name correctly. I would never change my name, nor its spelling, but I have heard lots and lots of Margitts, Margotts, and Margretts. Is it that I think because they don't say my name right, they won't remember me?

This oddness exhibits itself in a handful of ways. One is at church. I'm continually amazed when people know my name. Or when they remember something I've done or said in Relief Society.

Another way is on Facebook. I'm one of those that only befriends people I've known in real life. So, in theory, I should feel comfortable commenting on or liking anything anyone on my list says, right? But I don't. I start to type in a comment, then I stop myself. I think, "Wait, has someone already said this? Am I being redundant? Do I comment on what they say often enough for this to even make sense? Have I established a strong enough feeling of familiarity between us for it not to be weird that I'm commenting?" Lately I've deleted most of my comments before I hit the share button.

Am I going through an identity crisis?

A few weeks ago I was feeding Phoebe and reading stuff on the computer when one of my Facebook friends opened a chat window with me. This is a girl that I had a class with at BYU, and I went to high school with her husband, but we don't really have a Facebook-chat kind of friendship, so I was a little surprised. She asked me if I could sew. Not really, was my reply. Turns out she was starting a long-distance quilting bee and she thought it would be great if I joined. I said I really wasn't a great seamstress, but she could send me the information in an email and I would make an informed decision.

I was flattered to have been invited (it's always nice to feel included), but I was a little perplexed. Why me?

I got the email a few minutes later. The moment I opened it and saw the first word, my phobia was realized. She had addressed it to my middle name. Now, I use my middle name on my Facebook page and my middle initial is part of my signature, but I have never ever gone by my middle name. Did she not remember who I was? Why on earth had she accepted my friend request? I think I just happened to be online when she was online and she was short participants.

Maybe it's not an irrational fear after all.

P.S. I'm not doing the quilting bee. Those examples she sent me (or that she sent my middle-named alter ego) were way beyond my skill level. You know, in case you were wondering.

Hunting Season

We went to Bryan's grandparents' house for Sunday dinner last night. Moments after we arrived home and pulled into the garage we heard someone knock on the front door. I was busy trying to extricate myself from the car (funny how I'm not so agile anymore) and open the doors for the boys, so Bryan went to see who it was.

It was a bounty hunter.

Seriously.

He wasn't looking for us. Some former tenant must be on the run because that's who this guy wanted. Apparently our visitor had a name tag on identifying his profession. And tattoos and a big gun.

Something similar went on within a month of moving into our last place. What happened in these condos before we took up residence here?

Climate Confusion

Peter and Cooper are both winter babies. This will be my first summer baby. As a summer baby myself, I'm kind of excited about this. However, my maternity wardrobe is full of long sleeves and sweaters. I've been anticipating needing to buy short-sleeved shirts in light-weight materials. And I was a little sad that I wouldn't be able to use some of my cute, cold-weather wardrobe.

I needn't have worried.

I took this picture about ten minutes ago while standing in my front doorway:


And this picture just now:


It is currently snowing big, fat flakes. Isn't it almost June?

About that whole global warming thing...

The Mighty Alot

It occurred to me the other day that not everyone has discussions about grammar. To some the topic might be dry or, dare I say it, dull. I am not one of those people. Neither is Bryan. We've had many talks about grammar, we make jokes about grammar, we even laugh at those jokes.

It's one of the things that confirms my belief that we are well suited for each other.

This is one of many grammar jokes that Bryan has emailed to me. Here's a picture of the noble Alot, the main character of the post.


Caution: I noticed a bit of profanity on the side bar for this blog, so tread carefully. The post itself, however, is free of the offending language.

Marge in Charge

I think I have control issues.

On Saturday Bryan picked up lunch from the Golden Arches for our family. Included in his order were two Coca-Cola glasses. Peter thought they were really cool and immediately wanted to drink out of one of them. I told him they had to be washed first, so he started emptying the dishwasher of clean dishes. I helped him and soon that big magical box was ready to wash our new breakable toys. I even let him (very carefully) place the glasses in the dishwasher. Then Peter reached for one of the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink so he could put it in the dishwasher as well.

And I asked him to stop.

Let's review this, shall we? My child voluntarily emptied the dishwasher and attempted to fill it up, but I wouldn't let him.

Crazy much?

I'm not sure why I stopped him. He was picking up a plastic dish, it's not like it would have broken. Was I afraid he would fill it up *gasp* wrong? I work really hard to have the boys help me around the house, even if it means projects being done differently than I would do them.

I think I need a new mantra. Maybe something about letting things go or not having to always have control. How about "If you let them, they will clean." That has a nice ring to it.

Are You Being Served?

So it's almost 10 at night. I was about to turn off the computer when someone pounded on the front door and rang the doorbell. We don't get many visitors this late at night. I asked Bryan to answer it. Turns out it was a man from the constable's office. He was looking for one of the guys that used to live here. We told him that we moved in a few weeks ago and didn't know the former tenants but recommended that he call the management company. He thanked us and left.

Seriously, what kind of stuff went on here before we moved in?