MOVarazzi

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

1000. Dolphin in a Wheelchair and Other Disturbing Things


There are some phrases you never hear uttered, such as, “That chocolate was disgusting,” “I would totally vote for Nixon if he were alive,” and “Hooker with morals.” 

No one says these things, because they are unacceptable to say.  They are lies.  We all know there is no such thing as “disgusting” chocolate.  Heck, even stale and melty M and M’s are better than no M and M’s. 

Another thing you never hear about is when someone who used to love to write suddenly (or maybe not so suddenly) just stops.  STOPS.

STOPS.

WRITING. 

What?  Did Hemingway stop writing? Did Shakespeare stop writing?  Did John Grisham one day just stop writing??

No, of course not.  They had something to say, and an audience who wanted to hear it. 

As a blogger and eventually book writer, I also had something to say.  More than something.  I had a LOT to say. 

But guess what?  After 1000 posts (that’s right, count ‘em), I think I have said it all.  And not only that, I am a little bit sick of hearing my own voice.  So, Blog, I am divorcing you.    

It’s been a fun ride.  I remember when I started and had zero followers.  And then two.  And then, unbelievably, 10.  Then somehow, 100.  And now, over 600!  In just five years. 

For someone who considers herself shy in real life, this is a huge accomplishment for me.  People wanted to read what I wrote! 

Somehow, I cobbled it into a book.  And then with help from a fellow blogger, we made a second book.  The insecure me I was when I was 11 might not believe that.  But it’s true. 

I thank you, dear readers, for reading what I wrote, and for commenting.  (I was a bit obsessive, sometimes checking my comments every 15 minutes, sometimes less).  I thank you for making me feel like what I wrote mattered.  And for taking the time to come back and read just one more essay, one more paragraph, one more story.  I was writing for you.

But lately, the busy-ness of life intrudes.  The laundry.  The job.  The carpool.  There are never enough unoccupied minutes to build a pyramid of words.  Discarded words lay littered across the floor of my study, mocking me (“MOV, you’ll wish you had us back!  Mark my, uh… words!”).      

Now I must bid you and this lovely blog adieu.  It pains me, because I know as soon as I sign off, Muse will return with buckets full of ideas for me (“Muse, honestly, where have you been for six months?!”). 

I never thought I would utter this phrase:  Goodbye, Blog. 

Sunday, August 17, 2014

994. Help, I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up


I recently wrote about my face not cooperating with my brain and now my feet are apparently in on the mutiny:  yesterday I fell while walking.

Notice I don’t say “while skateboarding” or “while bungee jumping” or some equally glamourous or athletic endeavor.  Nope.  Walking. 

Let me set the complicated scene.  Daytime.  My front yard.  Walking at a normal pace (not running) toward my car parked out front.  Accompanied by my kids (because let’s face it:  there are always witnesses to help record life’s embarrassments and retell them in excruciating detail after the fact).  I made the critical mistake of stepping off the curb when suddenly my rebellious left ankle chose this precise moment to go out. 

I came toppling down (with a surprised, squeaky sort of grunt sound effect emanating from my nose and mouth, young witnesses later confirmed) and landed face down in a heap in the street, keys and purse strewn about the asphalt. 

I felt like I’d been pushed, or at least tripped. 

This is when my life switched into slow motion, like some sort of Matrix movie.  I lay there in a crumpled up pile for what seemed like 10 minutes (but was probably 10 seconds) evaluating what had just occurred.  Who was my assailant?  Had Tall played a cruel joke on his middle-aged mother and given me a well-timed shove?  Had Short picked up the sidewalk and shook it fiercely, like a blanket?  Had a rare earthquake just announced its presence?       

No.  My feet just did not get the memo to perform a complicated maneuver (e.g. “walk”) and therefore I fell. 

The fall was not without repercussions.  Skin was scraped.  Ego was bruised.  Blood was involved. 

The children (who are used to falling off their bikes and such) were immediately sympathetic and helpful:  “Mom!  Are you okay?”  “Do you need help?”

I pushed myself up and for the first time noticed my elderly neighbor Harriet staring at me from her front yard across the street.  Harriet is about 99 years old and has a live-in nurse. 

I did not want to alarm Harriet, so I waved and called out:  I’m all right! 

She waved back from her walker and responded, “Don’t worry, dear, that happens to me all the time.” 

I dusted myself off, got in the car with the kids and drove away, praying Harriet would not post a video of my fall on YouTube later.      

MOV

Wednesday, February 26, 2014

986. If I Get Your Name Sorta Right, It Should Still Count


For some strange reason, I was not blessed with the DNA coding to remember people’s names correctly.  Fortunately, I can remember that I do know the person, and that we had a long chat about where their daughter is going to college or about how their cat might have to have surgery, but then the part about their actual name?  Not so much. 
Sharon?  I want to call her Karen. 
Winnie?  Let’s make that Wendy. 
Brad?  How about Bob. 
JoAnna?  I’ll change that to Jessica. 
I should get points though, right?  Partial credit?  It means I was paying a tiny bit of attention at some point, but maybe not all the way. 
The Husband (big surprise here) does not quite agree with me. 
“If you know you forgot their name, why don’t you avoid it all together?  Because if you get the name wrong, it’s not like in math class where you get some points for showing your work.  You lose points.  It is better to not say a name at all and then you stay at zero points instead of negative.”
Zero points?  Who wants to stay at zero points?!? I want the possibility to earn points!  
I call the kids in for their opinions. 
“Grande, Little, Mommy wants to ask you something.”
“It’s Tall and Short, Mom.” 
Nevermind. 
MOV 

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

984. Floppy Beach Hat


I bought a floppy beach hat today.  It is 22 degrees out.
My purchase is partially wishful thinking that the weather will tropicate overnight. 
But even if it did—what then?  I am not a floppy beach hat girl.  I wish I was.  I so want to be her.  I imagine myself languorously drifting into the local market, embellished with the floppy beach hat. 
People I don’t know would whisper about me behind my back:  “She is wearing a floppy beach hat.  Therefore, her life must be perfect in that casual not-trying-too-hard kind of way.” 
I want people to think I am not trying too hard. 
But I am actually trying really hard. 
I own a black coat with a fake fur collar.  For floppy beach hat girl.  I also have a pair of 5-inch stilettos acquired on trip to New Zealand two decades ago. 
I have worn the shoes exactly once.    
Floppy beach hat girl would wear those shoes to go see the dentist. 
You know she would. 
Floppy beach hat girl is fearless.  She wears what she wants, when she wants.  She doesn’t agonize before leaving the house if she is dressed appropriately and then ultimately put on jeans and a Target t-shirt (again) just so she can look like a suburban soccer mom.  No.  Floppy beach hat girl will wear bracelets made of rubber bands (bestowed upon her by her 7-year-old) with an evening gown to go to her husband’s work party.  She dresses for herself, not caring what others think one way or another. 
I take a cue from floppy beach hat girl.  I put on black corduroy pants, a pink sweater, and a crazy wood necklace shaped like arrows that I bought at a second-hand store in LA.  I lace up chunky leather boots.  I look in the mirror and smile. 
As we are about to leave, my snarky 4th grader groans, “You’re not wearing that, are you, Mom?” 
I zip back to my closet and change.  Jeans and a sweatshirt.  No necklace.       
Floppy beach hat girl will have to wait another day. 
MOV

Sunday, February 2, 2014

982. Dating Superman


It’s not like I didn’t know who he was when we met.  He had on the cape, the tights, the giant letter “S” across his chest.  He looked like a very handsome caricature of himself. 
“Hello, I’m Superman,” he said confidently, as he extended his hand. 
“MOV,” I replied.  I felt my cheeks turn red.  It’s not every day you meet a superhero. 
His grip was tight, but not too tight.  He could probably bend steel with those hands if he wanted to. 
Once we started talking, I confirmed that he was single.  I know what you’re thinking:  Lois Lane.  That’s what everyone says now when I tell the story.  But we actually met way before he and Lois were an item. 
Superman and I had a lot in common.  We both liked long walks on the beach, saving puppies, and listening to rain while enjoying a good book and a cup of hot cocoa.  Oh, didn’t I tell you?  We met through a dating service. 
This was back in the days before the Internet and Match Dot Com.  You had to fill out a questionnaire with, like, 50 questions, and poof!  They would set you up with your perfect guy. 
I don’t remember all the questions, but I do remember my answers:  Super!  As in, “If you unexpectedly found yourself with a day off, what would your first thought be?”  Or, “Tell us about your relationship with your next-door neighbor,” and, “What is the one word your best friend would use to describe you?” 
It just seemed natural that they would set me up with him.  I liked Super and he was Super.   
The beginning was great.  He called when he said he would, showed up with flowers, always paid for dinner—that kind of thing.  He was courteous and thoughtful.  I even started to think about introducing him to my family.   
But then something changed.  He was very show-offy.  Say a giant metal safe was falling out a window of a high-rise building just as we happened to be walking under it?  He would reach out and catch it and prevent us from being killed.  Okay, maybe that’s a bad example because I am glad that I didn’t get crushed by a safe.  Oh, here’s one:  if a baby was playing on railroad tracks FIVE STREETS OVER then he would woosh away and save the baby or stop the train or whatever. 
The whole saving people thing got to be annoying.  It interrupted a lot of romantic moments, if you know what I mean. 
He was always “on”—always paying attention to something else, somewhere else, some element of danger lurking that I had no idea about.  And everywhere we went, people had to come up and shake his hand and thank him. 
“Oh, Superman,” they would swoon, “you are the greatest!  Thank you so much for saving my dad from being eaten by that shark,” blah-blah-blah. 
Of course I would stand to the side, smiling and nodding politely (what else was I going to do?) and then the people would turn to me and say how lucky I was to be dating Superman. 
Lucky.  Yeah, right. 
Then, totally out of the blue, he proposed.  Literally out of the blue: he scooped me up, flew me in his arms to a mountain top, and pulled a diamond ring out of a secret pocket in his cape. 
I said yes.  Not because I wanted to say yes, but because I felt pressured.  And the fact that I was on a random mountain top and not sure how I’d get home if I said no. 
He wanted to elope, and I wanted to break up.  He told me to meet him down at City Hall but I was a no-show.  I felt bad, but I couldn’t go through with it.  It’s not like I have to be in the spotlight all the time, but with Superman I knew I would never be in the spotlight.  Ever. 
He knocked on my apartment door with a big bouquet of roses in his hand.    
“MOV, can we start over?” 
My roommate glanced up from watching TV and rolled her eyes. 
“Look, S,” I began, “I love the idea of you.  But the you in the flesh, well … it’s a little hard to take.”   
He set the flowers on the table and left.  I never heard from him again.  Well, until last week, that is.  He sent me a friend request on Facebook.  I immediately checked his relationship status:  Single. 
And according to his profile, he still likes saving puppies.
MOV

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

978. The Set-Up

“Mommy, will you always remember me?”

“Of course!”
“Tomorrow?” 

“Yes!” I enthuse.
“Next week?” he persists.

I nod. 
“Knock-knock,” he grins.

“Who’s there?” I dutifully respond.
Aghast, he shrieks, “You don’t remember me!”


MOV
****
Trifecta challenge:  make us laugh in just 33 words

Friday, December 13, 2013

977. Wintry Mix

We live in a part of the country that gets hit by big storms this time of year.  I expect that.  Not embrace, so much, just expect and tolerate. 

What I did not expect, and have some difficulty tolerating (or even understanding) is this new thing the meteorologists like to call, “wintry mix.”  The cute blond weather girl bobs her head up and down, cheerfully explaining that we must have our ice scrapers at the ready because she anticipates a “wintry mix” on Saturday.  She smiles as if someone has just told her she won a new car.  Smile, smile, enthusiastic nod, wintry mix.    
I’m not even sure I am spelling it correctly.  Is it “wintry” or “wintery” or “wintree”?  It’s hard to spell something when you don’t know what the heck it is.   

I do what I always do when I want information but am too lazy to type it into Google:  I ask The Husband.
“What’s this ‘wintry mix’ all about?” 

“What do you mean?”  He stops reading his book and gives me a look as if I had asked why oranges are orange. 
“Well, what is it?” 

“MOV, you know.  Snow, ice, freezing rain.  Wintry mix.”  He shrugs.  His shrug says Oranges are orange, don’t ask me again. 
“Then why don’t they say ‘snow, ice, freezing rain’?” I inquire thoughtfully.  “That would make more sense.” 

“Well, they don’t know which one it’s going to be.  See, at certain altitudes, if the cold air is intercepted by precipitation, then it could be hail, depending on the temperature.  But if warm air is trapped under the clouds, it might only be rain.  Snow happens when the temperature stays below 32 degrees, but it is hard to predict because if they are even off one or two degrees, it could change.”
I was scrunching up my face, trying to listen, but honestly he had lost me at “altitudes.”  Sure, I was a flight attendant for 10 years, but the only altitude I had to remember was 35,000 feet.

Once again, I was being punished because I was from California.  No one in California in their right mind would say, “summery mix,” as in:  a mix of sunshine, ocean breeze, and chirpy bird noises.  Summery mix is implied by the mere fact that the zip code starts with a 9 and a 2.  (A 9 followed by an 8 is Seattle.  I wonder if they have “rainy mix” there.)
I look out the window, confused.  It is pure, fluffy snow.  I want to call it “snow,” but I know better.  Wintry mix, to me, sounds like it should be some elaborate cocktail involving vodka, Sambuca, and liquid nitrogen. 

I walk in the kitchen and am vaguely disappointed that we never purchased any liquid nitrogen, like they always have in the pantry on my favorite TV show, Top Chef.  Straight vodka would have to suffice. 
Wintry mix, indeed.   
MOV