Last night was my book party. More than 70 people showed up. That is about five more than came to my wedding.
There were people my age, older people, kids, and even a few babies. There were friends from the high-end kitchen store, friends from my moms’ group, friends from PTA, friends from my neighborhood, friends from the kids’ bus stop, many people I’d never met before, and of course my family. I kept noticing my friend Rachel’s darling little girl (age 3 ½) weaving in and out of teetering book displays and searching for her friends. Her name is Katherine, and she was dressed in a black sweater, houndstooth check skirt, opaque white tights, black ballerina flats, and a crimson flower head band. She looked like a French puppet.
Everything was Virgo perfect: delicious gourmet cookies, Pinot Grigio, upbeat music, silver and clear balloons, and a sea of smiling faces. And oh, there were books! People started buying my book, and the next thing you know, they were crowding around me, standing in line waiting to meet me and have me sign their books. I felt exactly like Charlize Theron.
Or Santa.
The owner of the bookstore started clinking her wine glass to get people’s attention. I read a chapter from my book (this one HERE). They laughed, they cried, they cheered, they took photos, a few people fainted (not really on that last part). As I was reading, a surreal thought washed through my brain: These people are paying for my words. Words. They are writing checks to the bookstore for words on a page, words from the Oxford Dictionary, words that anyone has (free) access to, but that I have rearranged and written down.
I was reading out loud (which I had practiced in my kitchen with a timer, did I mention I’m a Virgo?) and trying to make eye contact with the crowd, but I kept seeing that children’s classic book, Caps For Sale, in my mind. Except it was Words For Sale, Words For Sale, fifty cents a word!
The crowd applauded and cheered, and then I told them, “Thank you so much for coming! The book retails for $15, but as a special promotion for you tonight, it's just $20.”
The evening was absolutely perfect. Everyone went away feeling that they had a great time and got what they came to get.
Except one person.
Toward the end of the evening, adorable tiny Katherine approached me to—I thought—give me a congratualtory hug. No. She tapped insistently on my skirt and said in a mild panic,
“Excuse me, ma’am? Where is the cake?”
MOV
Showing posts with label Mom's Had A Rough Day. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Mom's Had A Rough Day. Show all posts
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
633. The Name Game
I have always been terrible with names. I lie and pretend I’m not. I turn to my best friend for validation and I say, “I’m great with names! Right, Lisa?” “It’s Shelley.”
The problem is, when I first meet someone, I have a million random thoughts buzzing through my head like so many annoying mosquitoes trapped in a screened porch in July, each demanding attention: Is this person having a good first impression of me, Have I already met this person before, Do I have broccoli in my teeth, Do I have bad breath, Did I put enough quarters in the parking meter, Did I accidentally park in the handicapped spot, Does this person have kids the same ages as my kids, and Did I already say what my name is?
That last one is a big part of the problem. I have a name that is quite similar to another (popular) name, so people are forever misunderstanding me when I introduce myself. “Hello, my name is MOV,” I’ll say as clearly as possible while shaking the woman’s hand, and then she’ll lean in and mumble, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, MOVela. I’m (Some Name), I think your son is in my daughter’s class.”
The resultant noise in my brain is overwhelming, what with having to correct her about her misinterpretation of my name (I certainly don’t want her to continue calling me the wrong name) as well as the brand new information that Short (or Tall? which one!?) knows her child (are they friends? is this an opportunity here? do I need to attempt to set up a playdate now?). A simple introduction has become a complicated game of mental chess where I have already ricocheted five moves ahead. I ignore the basic premise of meeting someone, which is to learn their name. I know I need to concentrate, but then I am distracted by her pretty scarf or distinct accent or some other completely irrelevant detail that has absolutely nothing to do with her preferred moniker and how the hell I am going to remember it.
You can see how I get into trouble. All the books on improving memory suggest repeating thevictim's new person’s name back to them, as in Stephanie, it is so nice to meet you! I’ve heard wonderful things about you, Stephanie! I am happy to finally put a face to the name, Stephanie! (Although, as an aside, doesn't the overzealous parroting of someone's name make you sound like an exceptionally eager and over-caffeinated bank employee desperately trying to win the customer's loyalty and convince her to open a CD or refinance her mortgage?) Or, failing that, the helpful books advise coming up with imagery you associate with the person, like if her name is Lily, you visualize a lily across her forehead so that every time you see her you remember, Yes of course—Lily!
I search the Google of my mind for an image of a lily to mentally graffiti onto her unsuspecting face. Oops—I think that’s a daisy. What do lilies look like, anyway? Tulips? Roses? And what color are they, are they always white? Or can they be blue? What is the name of that blue flower I like, is it iris? Wait—did she actually say her name was Iris?
She is moving on to the next person she is meeting here at school, or work, or a party, or wherever, and she turns and says, “Great meeting you again, MOVela! We should get together for tea sometime!” and there I am stranded: Again? Why did she say again? Again as in right now again, or again as in she met me last week again? And do I look like a tea person? Maybe most MOVelas drink tea? Is MOVela a British name? Does she think I’m British? I could be British, but I hate tea. I have tried tea with sugar or without, with milk or without, hot, cold, with lemon, and you know what—I am just not a tea person.
Yes, yes, let’s get together for tea or coffee sometime, that would be lovely! Thanks, Iris! er, I mean Rose?
I fare no better at events with name tags, as messy penmanship is involved. The worst is when I am suddenly required to introduce two people who I supposedly know to each other. “Milk, this is my dear friend, uh, Tennifer.” They both wince and then re-introduce themselves with very boring versions of the names I just said, like Mike and Jennifer. Then learn how to write your damn names, Mike and Jennifer! Do they take a perverse pleasure in making me guess? How hard is it to write legibly? Set the glass of wine down and focus for five seconds.
The Husband approaches me and leans in to whisper something. “How are you doing with learning everyone’s name?” he asks slowly, like he's talking to a four-year-old.
“Awful,” I confess. “I hear them say their names, but it’s like I forget the name as they are saying it. I swear, I am really trying!” I am relieved that he has taken the time to come over and help me, so I gaze up at him with my eyes full of admiration and love. He confuses this look for drunk.
“MOV, I have an easy way to remember people’s names. Just listen to them. Without distractions. Set the glass of wine down and focus for five seconds.”
Oh, that Gusband. He thinks he’s so smart.
MOV
The problem is, when I first meet someone, I have a million random thoughts buzzing through my head like so many annoying mosquitoes trapped in a screened porch in July, each demanding attention: Is this person having a good first impression of me, Have I already met this person before, Do I have broccoli in my teeth, Do I have bad breath, Did I put enough quarters in the parking meter, Did I accidentally park in the handicapped spot, Does this person have kids the same ages as my kids, and Did I already say what my name is?
That last one is a big part of the problem. I have a name that is quite similar to another (popular) name, so people are forever misunderstanding me when I introduce myself. “Hello, my name is MOV,” I’ll say as clearly as possible while shaking the woman’s hand, and then she’ll lean in and mumble, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, MOVela. I’m (Some Name), I think your son is in my daughter’s class.”
The resultant noise in my brain is overwhelming, what with having to correct her about her misinterpretation of my name (I certainly don’t want her to continue calling me the wrong name) as well as the brand new information that Short (or Tall? which one!?) knows her child (are they friends? is this an opportunity here? do I need to attempt to set up a playdate now?). A simple introduction has become a complicated game of mental chess where I have already ricocheted five moves ahead. I ignore the basic premise of meeting someone, which is to learn their name. I know I need to concentrate, but then I am distracted by her pretty scarf or distinct accent or some other completely irrelevant detail that has absolutely nothing to do with her preferred moniker and how the hell I am going to remember it.
You can see how I get into trouble. All the books on improving memory suggest repeating the
I search the Google of my mind for an image of a lily to mentally graffiti onto her unsuspecting face. Oops—I think that’s a daisy. What do lilies look like, anyway? Tulips? Roses? And what color are they, are they always white? Or can they be blue? What is the name of that blue flower I like, is it iris? Wait—did she actually say her name was Iris?
She is moving on to the next person she is meeting here at school, or work, or a party, or wherever, and she turns and says, “Great meeting you again, MOVela! We should get together for tea sometime!” and there I am stranded: Again? Why did she say again? Again as in right now again, or again as in she met me last week again? And do I look like a tea person? Maybe most MOVelas drink tea? Is MOVela a British name? Does she think I’m British? I could be British, but I hate tea. I have tried tea with sugar or without, with milk or without, hot, cold, with lemon, and you know what—I am just not a tea person.
Yes, yes, let’s get together for tea or coffee sometime, that would be lovely! Thanks, Iris! er, I mean Rose?
I fare no better at events with name tags, as messy penmanship is involved. The worst is when I am suddenly required to introduce two people who I supposedly know to each other. “Milk, this is my dear friend, uh, Tennifer.” They both wince and then re-introduce themselves with very boring versions of the names I just said, like Mike and Jennifer. Then learn how to write your damn names, Mike and Jennifer! Do they take a perverse pleasure in making me guess? How hard is it to write legibly? Set the glass of wine down and focus for five seconds.
The Husband approaches me and leans in to whisper something. “How are you doing with learning everyone’s name?” he asks slowly, like he's talking to a four-year-old.
“Awful,” I confess. “I hear them say their names, but it’s like I forget the name as they are saying it. I swear, I am really trying!” I am relieved that he has taken the time to come over and help me, so I gaze up at him with my eyes full of admiration and love. He confuses this look for drunk.
“MOV, I have an easy way to remember people’s names. Just listen to them. Without distractions. Set the glass of wine down and focus for five seconds.”
Oh, that Gusband. He thinks he’s so smart.
MOV
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
626. My Rebound Fling With Santa
Did I ever tell you about this? It was years ago. I was recovering from a bad break-up, and that’s when we started dating.
What first attracted me to him was his positive attitude—he was always in a good mood. He just had this way about him, he could light up a room, so to speak.
Kids, in particular, loved him. My mom has always said you can tell a lot about a guy’s character by how children and pets react to him. I didn’t have a child or a pet, but I could see other people’s kids adored him.
And he was thoughtful. I’d mention I had a tough day at work, and he’d give me a little felt penguin to cheer me up. My room-mate and I had a fight, and Santa would show up with a tiny plush snowman. One time I called him when my car died to ask if he could pick me up. Of course he said yes. I smiled to see he brought a small fuzzy moose with faux suede antlers.
The longer Santa and I were together, the more shelf space I needed for my stuffed animal collection.
But it wasn’t the materialism that drove us apart, nor the binge eating.
Oh, I didn’t tell you about Santa’s weight issues? He had a sweet tooth. In fact, he liked to joke that he had his dentist on speed dial. (This was way back in the days before cell phones and iPads, I guess everyone’s on speed dial now.) He’d have cake for breakfast, cookies for lunch, ice-cream for dinner. It was the Sugar Channel, 24/7. At first, that was great. I crave sweets, too. But aren’t you supposed to be with someone who makes you a better person, not an obese one?
The thing that came between us, though, was Santa’s insatiable appetite for attention. People recognized him everywhere we went, and it got to be a bit much for me. But S.C. (that was my pet name for him) thrived on attention. He needed it, like I needed a trip to Hawaii.
There you have it. Another of our fundamental differences. When things started to get serious, we would talk about where we should live, as the long-distance thing was killing me, but he loved the cold and snow. He’d say, “How about Montana? Or Alaska? Do you like Northern Canada? Have you ever been to Russia?”
I’d suggest Miami or San Diego and he’d cringe. He’d say (in that upbeat way of his), “Wow! Miami is fantastic! But you know what’s even better? Greenland!” There was just no arguing with him.
He bought me a new winter coat, or I should say he had a friend make it for me. He had a lot of “friends” that worked for him, he never told me his exact line of work except that is was “seasonal” and involved “import/ export.” Frankly, the way he hid the details of his life, I thought he might be involved in dealing drugs or embezzling funds or something shady like that.
Turns out he was married.
He had been upfront about things when we met, saying that he was separated. His wife was a bit of a control freak, and the other thing was that they couldn’t have babies. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but Santa was really crazy about kids. It broke his heart to think he might not be able to have any of his own. He brought up the topic a lot:
Santa: MOV, how many children would you like to have someday?
Me: Oh, I don’t know. I never really thought about it. One. Maybe one, or I guess I could have two. Definitely no more than two.
Santa: I want 15.
Me: Did you say 15!? Are you out of your mind? How would you pay for 15 kids?
Santa: Oh, I’m pretty financially secure. Money is not a problem.
See? There was that secrecy thing again.
He showed up on my doorstep one morning with a giant toy polar bear. That’s when I knew something was wrong.
“MOV, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Carol and I are getting back together. I’ve really enjoyed our time together. You’ve made me feel young and merry, but I miss Carol and I need to give our relationship a chance. You are a wonderful person, MOV, and you deserve someone better than me.”
That was it. That was his whole explanation. But instead of feeling like I’d been kicked and dragged by reindeer, I actually felt good. That was part of S.C.’s charm, allure, and charisma: he would take his idea and make you think it was your idea. How could you be mad at someone like that?
I haven’t thought about Santa in years, but the other day I found an old Polaroid of us. I was sitting on his lap, and we looked happy.
MOV
What first attracted me to him was his positive attitude—he was always in a good mood. He just had this way about him, he could light up a room, so to speak.
Kids, in particular, loved him. My mom has always said you can tell a lot about a guy’s character by how children and pets react to him. I didn’t have a child or a pet, but I could see other people’s kids adored him.
And he was thoughtful. I’d mention I had a tough day at work, and he’d give me a little felt penguin to cheer me up. My room-mate and I had a fight, and Santa would show up with a tiny plush snowman. One time I called him when my car died to ask if he could pick me up. Of course he said yes. I smiled to see he brought a small fuzzy moose with faux suede antlers.
The longer Santa and I were together, the more shelf space I needed for my stuffed animal collection.
But it wasn’t the materialism that drove us apart, nor the binge eating.
Oh, I didn’t tell you about Santa’s weight issues? He had a sweet tooth. In fact, he liked to joke that he had his dentist on speed dial. (This was way back in the days before cell phones and iPads, I guess everyone’s on speed dial now.) He’d have cake for breakfast, cookies for lunch, ice-cream for dinner. It was the Sugar Channel, 24/7. At first, that was great. I crave sweets, too. But aren’t you supposed to be with someone who makes you a better person, not an obese one?
The thing that came between us, though, was Santa’s insatiable appetite for attention. People recognized him everywhere we went, and it got to be a bit much for me. But S.C. (that was my pet name for him) thrived on attention. He needed it, like I needed a trip to Hawaii.
There you have it. Another of our fundamental differences. When things started to get serious, we would talk about where we should live, as the long-distance thing was killing me, but he loved the cold and snow. He’d say, “How about Montana? Or Alaska? Do you like Northern Canada? Have you ever been to Russia?”
I’d suggest Miami or San Diego and he’d cringe. He’d say (in that upbeat way of his), “Wow! Miami is fantastic! But you know what’s even better? Greenland!” There was just no arguing with him.
He bought me a new winter coat, or I should say he had a friend make it for me. He had a lot of “friends” that worked for him, he never told me his exact line of work except that is was “seasonal” and involved “import/ export.” Frankly, the way he hid the details of his life, I thought he might be involved in dealing drugs or embezzling funds or something shady like that.
Turns out he was married.
He had been upfront about things when we met, saying that he was separated. His wife was a bit of a control freak, and the other thing was that they couldn’t have babies. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but Santa was really crazy about kids. It broke his heart to think he might not be able to have any of his own. He brought up the topic a lot:
Santa: MOV, how many children would you like to have someday?
Me: Oh, I don’t know. I never really thought about it. One. Maybe one, or I guess I could have two. Definitely no more than two.
Santa: I want 15.
Me: Did you say 15!? Are you out of your mind? How would you pay for 15 kids?
Santa: Oh, I’m pretty financially secure. Money is not a problem.
See? There was that secrecy thing again.
He showed up on my doorstep one morning with a giant toy polar bear. That’s when I knew something was wrong.
“MOV, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Carol and I are getting back together. I’ve really enjoyed our time together. You’ve made me feel young and merry, but I miss Carol and I need to give our relationship a chance. You are a wonderful person, MOV, and you deserve someone better than me.”
That was it. That was his whole explanation. But instead of feeling like I’d been kicked and dragged by reindeer, I actually felt good. That was part of S.C.’s charm, allure, and charisma: he would take his idea and make you think it was your idea. How could you be mad at someone like that?
I haven’t thought about Santa in years, but the other day I found an old Polaroid of us. I was sitting on his lap, and we looked happy.
MOV
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