Can I trade in my Zodiac sign? All this Virgo perfection stuff is making me dizzy. I cannot just buy cupcakes for Tall’s birthday celebration at school, I have to bake the cupcakes myself. I can’t just use a grocery store mix, I have to bake them from scratch from a Martha Stewart recipe. One type of frosting? Please. My Virgo nature forces me to offer the options of chocolate or vanilla icing, and then decorate them in a kaleidoscope of swirly sprinkles.
My Virgo brain is not satisfied to merely volunteer for a supporting role for a fundraiser at my sons’ school. No. I must be in charge of the whole event. Who cares that my week-ends are gobbled up with drafting emails and making enough phone calls that my charger is perpetually plugged in? As long as Virgo has control, things will get done.
Virgos are overachievers.
Other signs sit back and soak it all in, wanting to help but being ever-so-slightly intimidated by the tornado of Virgo energy that silently swirls. Did you follow up on—of course. We need to do—already done. What about—check, check, and check-mate. No need to worry, Virgo will make it happen.
When I get tired of fundraising and volunteering and need a break, I go online to that website I heard about: newzodiacsign.com. After much thought and consideration, I fill out a formal request to officially rescind my Virgo status. I carefully study the other eleven signs searching for one without a penchant for extraneous commitments. I make a detailed spreadsheet of the pros and cons of the other Zodiac signs (the Virgo status has not been cancelled just yet). I write my obligatory five-page essay, explaining why another sign would be a better fit for me. As I am proofreading and editing, I am slightly alarmed to notice that three of my paragraphs start with the phrase, “I am exhausted.”
I am almost ready to submit my application. I drag the mouse and get ready to click on the one sign that might make my life a little less hectic: Procrastiquarius.
MOV
("Momentarily Over Virgo-ness")
Showing posts with label funny mom blog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label funny mom blog. Show all posts
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Thursday, November 10, 2011
575. My Swimsuit and I Broke Up
I never saw the warning signs: the stretched-out elastic at the legs, the fading color, the pilling at the bottom. Oh, sure, some might say Swimsuit was frumpy, conservative, and old-ladyish, but I knew the truth: Swimsuit had a playful side! What about that time I dove off the ledge of the deep-end at the local pool and the top of Swimsuit went down to my navel for anyone with underwater goggles or a mask to see? That was not old ladyish—that was frisky!
I had not seen Swimsuit in weeks, maybe months. I was shoving some wool socks into the front of the dresser drawer, and that’s when I caught sight of Swimsuit hiding in the way back.
“Swimsuit! How’ve you been?!” I asked, enthusiastic.
Swimsuit cringed. “Don’t touch me.”
“What? You’ve never said anything like that to me before, what’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on: I’m leaving. I’m too good for you.” The frayed strings at the top of the straps were not helping Swimsuit’s case any.
“Come on, let’s be reasonable,” I whispered softly to Swimsuit. “We’ve been through a lot together, through thick and thin—”
“Mostly thick,” muttered Swimsuit.
I could not believe this was happening. Before we first met years ago, I had literally spent hours looking for a swimsuit that would fulfill my needs, to no avail. Friends recommended I go online, but that seemed so impersonal.
“Trust me,” said my friend Anna, “I found the absolute best swimsuit on the L.L.Bean website. And it was on sale! Online is the way to go.”
I ignored Anna’s advice and asked The Husband what I should do instead.
“I think Anna is right. I always order mine online.” He was no help whatsoever.
Luckily, Gina happened to call the next day. I told her my situation and she had a solution.
“Go to Solar Eclipse at the mall. I’ll tell them you’re coming. Just mention my name.” This felt very clandestine, like a secret blind-date with a Lycra astronomer, but Gina was always ultra-fashionable so I did as I was told.
That was the day I met Swimsuit. Swimsuit was hanging behind the counter at the trendy swimsuit salon, Solar Eclipse, waiting for me.
I approached the petite saleslady cautiously and said, “Hello, uh, Gina told me—”
“You must be Congresswoman MOV. A pleasure.” The lady shook my hand, then she handed me a small bottle of chilled Perrier.
She pulled five various swimsuits, all size 12, from behind the counter for me to inspect. As soon as I saw Swimsuit, though, I knew it was meant to be.
Swimsuit and I went into the dressing room together and I pulled the purple velvet curtain closed. Swimsuit was sleek, stylish, flattering—a master of illusion. All my big areas looked small. All my small areas looked big. My iridescent ghost skin appeared tan. My 5’8” frame morphed to 5’11”. Not only was I going to buy this swimsuit, I was going to wear it everywhere.
“Yes, I’ll take it,” I said to the obsequious saleslady.
“Certainly, Congresswoman MOV,” she nodded as she gingerly took my American Express card out of my hand. “Would you like to maybe take it off first and I can wrap it in tissue paper for you then?”
Swimsuit and I had an affair, no, relationship, for many, many years. Swimsuit basked in the attention and the never-ending string of compliments we received when we were out together.
Until today.
“You’ve changed,” Swimsuit sneered at me. “We don’t fit together the way we used to.”
“Give me a break, Swimsuit! We just had Halloween! I just started a new job! Sure, I may have put on a few pounds, but it was from stress-eating. I can stop anytime I want.”
Swimsuit knew it was a lie. “I want to leave now. Don’t try to change my mind. We both know it’s over.”
I was not one to beg. If Swimsuit wanted to go, fine! So be it! I took Swimsuit out of the drawer and put it in the Goodwill box next to the front door.
“Farewell, my friend.” I gave Swimsuit one last quick kiss on the spandex to show that I still cared.
Swimsuit said nothing.
I walked away and went upstairs to the study. I turned on the computer and clicked on the L.L. Bean website. Maybe a rebound relationship was exactly what I needed.
MOV
(“Mom Or Venus?”)
I had not seen Swimsuit in weeks, maybe months. I was shoving some wool socks into the front of the dresser drawer, and that’s when I caught sight of Swimsuit hiding in the way back.
“Swimsuit! How’ve you been?!” I asked, enthusiastic.
Swimsuit cringed. “Don’t touch me.”
“What? You’ve never said anything like that to me before, what’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you what’s going on: I’m leaving. I’m too good for you.” The frayed strings at the top of the straps were not helping Swimsuit’s case any.
“Come on, let’s be reasonable,” I whispered softly to Swimsuit. “We’ve been through a lot together, through thick and thin—”
“Mostly thick,” muttered Swimsuit.
I could not believe this was happening. Before we first met years ago, I had literally spent hours looking for a swimsuit that would fulfill my needs, to no avail. Friends recommended I go online, but that seemed so impersonal.
“Trust me,” said my friend Anna, “I found the absolute best swimsuit on the L.L.Bean website. And it was on sale! Online is the way to go.”
I ignored Anna’s advice and asked The Husband what I should do instead.
“I think Anna is right. I always order mine online.” He was no help whatsoever.
Luckily, Gina happened to call the next day. I told her my situation and she had a solution.
“Go to Solar Eclipse at the mall. I’ll tell them you’re coming. Just mention my name.” This felt very clandestine, like a secret blind-date with a Lycra astronomer, but Gina was always ultra-fashionable so I did as I was told.
That was the day I met Swimsuit. Swimsuit was hanging behind the counter at the trendy swimsuit salon, Solar Eclipse, waiting for me.
I approached the petite saleslady cautiously and said, “Hello, uh, Gina told me—”
“You must be Congresswoman MOV. A pleasure.” The lady shook my hand, then she handed me a small bottle of chilled Perrier.
She pulled five various swimsuits, all size 12, from behind the counter for me to inspect. As soon as I saw Swimsuit, though, I knew it was meant to be.
Swimsuit and I went into the dressing room together and I pulled the purple velvet curtain closed. Swimsuit was sleek, stylish, flattering—a master of illusion. All my big areas looked small. All my small areas looked big. My iridescent ghost skin appeared tan. My 5’8” frame morphed to 5’11”. Not only was I going to buy this swimsuit, I was going to wear it everywhere.
“Yes, I’ll take it,” I said to the obsequious saleslady.
“Certainly, Congresswoman MOV,” she nodded as she gingerly took my American Express card out of my hand. “Would you like to maybe take it off first and I can wrap it in tissue paper for you then?”
Swimsuit and I had an affair, no, relationship, for many, many years. Swimsuit basked in the attention and the never-ending string of compliments we received when we were out together.
Until today.
“You’ve changed,” Swimsuit sneered at me. “We don’t fit together the way we used to.”
“Give me a break, Swimsuit! We just had Halloween! I just started a new job! Sure, I may have put on a few pounds, but it was from stress-eating. I can stop anytime I want.”
Swimsuit knew it was a lie. “I want to leave now. Don’t try to change my mind. We both know it’s over.”
I was not one to beg. If Swimsuit wanted to go, fine! So be it! I took Swimsuit out of the drawer and put it in the Goodwill box next to the front door.
“Farewell, my friend.” I gave Swimsuit one last quick kiss on the spandex to show that I still cared.
Swimsuit said nothing.
I walked away and went upstairs to the study. I turned on the computer and clicked on the L.L. Bean website. Maybe a rebound relationship was exactly what I needed.
MOV
(“Mom Or Venus?”)
574. Inventory
Tall walks in the door, still in his “costume” of his basketball uniform. He takes the orange plastic pumpkin and unceremoniously dumps the contents on the living room carpet. Rainbow hues litter the floor, their electric labels fighting for visual dominance: Twix! Starburst! Almond Joy! Snickers! Baby Ruth!
“Now we will sort them,” says Tall, making his Virgo mama proud while simultaneously causing his father to wonder if we need to have our older son tested for OCD tendencies.
The shorter child, still in his shark attire, readily agrees. Within minutes, the candy is lined up picture perfect, most closely resembling an ad for television special on Lifetime called American Consumerism: The Warning Signs.
The shark begins to dig into his stash, while his mother hyperventilates about melty M&M’s ruining the expensive shark outfit.
The basketball player disappears into the other room, then comes back a few moments later with his homework assignment. He takes out a pen and begins to inventory his candy.
(obviously this continues on the back of the page; not sure what a "gift basket" candy is)
I am horrified. What kind of mean teacher takes the opportunity of Halloween to have the children chart and graph their trove of candy? How long is this stupid assignment going to take? Couldn’t the kids have even one day off from homework to just enjoy being kids and devour cavity-inducing candy on a meaningless holiday?
I resign myself to the fact that I will have to help Tall with his project.
“Okay, Sweetie!” I cheer, trying to impersonate an upbeat person. “Should I get a ruler? What exactly do we need to do here?”
“What are you talking about, Mom?” he asks while unwrapping a lone Bit O’ Honey.
“Your homework,” I nod toward the piece of paper he has filled in so neatly.
“That? That’s not for school. That’s for me. I need to have an accurate record.”
My mind sings. My son is so smart! So organized! So talented! He’s creating new work for himself to do, to stay challenged! I smile wide, impressed with his genius abilities.
“ … because otherwise you might eat it all. This way I can keep track.”
Did I mention he was smart?
MOV
“Now we will sort them,” says Tall, making his Virgo mama proud while simultaneously causing his father to wonder if we need to have our older son tested for OCD tendencies.
The shorter child, still in his shark attire, readily agrees. Within minutes, the candy is lined up picture perfect, most closely resembling an ad for television special on Lifetime called American Consumerism: The Warning Signs.
The shark begins to dig into his stash, while his mother hyperventilates about melty M&M’s ruining the expensive shark outfit.
The basketball player disappears into the other room, then comes back a few moments later with his homework assignment. He takes out a pen and begins to inventory his candy.
I am horrified. What kind of mean teacher takes the opportunity of Halloween to have the children chart and graph their trove of candy? How long is this stupid assignment going to take? Couldn’t the kids have even one day off from homework to just enjoy being kids and devour cavity-inducing candy on a meaningless holiday?
I resign myself to the fact that I will have to help Tall with his project.
“Okay, Sweetie!” I cheer, trying to impersonate an upbeat person. “Should I get a ruler? What exactly do we need to do here?”
“What are you talking about, Mom?” he asks while unwrapping a lone Bit O’ Honey.
“Your homework,” I nod toward the piece of paper he has filled in so neatly.
“That? That’s not for school. That’s for me. I need to have an accurate record.”
My mind sings. My son is so smart! So organized! So talented! He’s creating new work for himself to do, to stay challenged! I smile wide, impressed with his genius abilities.
“ … because otherwise you might eat it all. This way I can keep track.”
Did I mention he was smart?
MOV
Saturday, October 15, 2011
541. Modify The Right Word
So Tall and I are reading Ezra Jack Keats’ childhood classic, “The Snowy Day,” a book we have read a million gazillion times, if not more. Tall has morphed from the child who liked picture books to the one engrossed in real chapter books. Normally, he rebuffs my offers to read cute books like this one, but for some unknown reason, he is indulging me.
We get to the part where Peter has come back inside after playing in the snow:
“Peter tells his mother all about his adventures while she helps him take off his dirty socks.”
(turn the page)
“And then he thought about them and thought about them and thought about them. He could not stop thinking about them.”
This is when Tall laughs for about 20 minutes straight. His rich giggle reverberates and consumes his small room. He is well-aware that the author is referring to the adventures, but he jokingly interprets it as Peter thinking about the dirty socks.
“Why would Peter want to spend so much time thinking about his dirty socks? Bwa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haha hahahaha!”
Tall climbs into his bed and pulls up the covers.
“Too bad the author didn’t have my teacher. She would never let him write like that,” says Tall matter-of-factly. “She would read his essay, pull him aside, and then—ZIP!—right into the trash!”
MOV
We get to the part where Peter has come back inside after playing in the snow:
“Peter tells his mother all about his adventures while she helps him take off his dirty socks.”
(turn the page)
“And then he thought about them and thought about them and thought about them. He could not stop thinking about them.”
This is when Tall laughs for about 20 minutes straight. His rich giggle reverberates and consumes his small room. He is well-aware that the author is referring to the adventures, but he jokingly interprets it as Peter thinking about the dirty socks.
“Why would Peter want to spend so much time thinking about his dirty socks? Bwa ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha haha hahahaha!”
Tall climbs into his bed and pulls up the covers.
“Too bad the author didn’t have my teacher. She would never let him write like that,” says Tall matter-of-factly. “She would read his essay, pull him aside, and then—ZIP!—right into the trash!”
MOV
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
531. Emergency Outfit
As usual, you didn’t read the fine print on the bushel of papers that came home with you younger child the first day of kindergarten. There was, apparently, some Important List buried in the papers, and the Important List (which might have accidentally been recycled or worse, cavalierly thrown in the trash) detailed all the things that he needed to bring with him, things like school supplies, party money, hand sanitizer, snacks.
And an emergency outfit.
You completely missed the section about the emergency outfit.
The Angel Teacher, who herself is Minnie Mouse incarnate (in the most flattering way—all huggy and smiley and encouraging and everything you would want your child’s kindergarten teacher to be) sends you a helpful reminder note:
“Dr. MOV” (apparently your child has shared the tidbit that he believes you are, in fact, a doctor because you wear scrubs to work every day) “Your child still needs his emergency outfit. Please send it tomorrow if possible.” Three smiley faces follow, each in watermelon-red teacher ink.
Even though you had somehow blocked out the crucialness and requiredness of the emergency outfit, this was not actually your first exposure to it. Of course your older son had been through kindergarten and first grade and needed to provide the emergency outfit for those classes. And, truth be told, even preschool had requested the emergency outfit.
Here is what happens with the emergency outfit: As a newish mommy, you realize this is your golden opportunity to not only shine but put on the strobe light and sparkling disco ball and show the teacher what a style maven you are in regards to choosing clothing for your child. You might select (if you put the necessary thought into it, and why wouldn’t you?!) apparel from a trendy store like Gap Kids or Janie and Jack. Pants would be linen. Shirt would be ironed. Sweater would be embroidered with sailboats or vintage cars or both. Socks and undies (with appropriate self-esteem-building super-heroes) would be new. Shoes would be preppy. Your selected emergency outfit could pretty much qualify as a very expensive Christmas gift for your nephew or your best friend’s son. The outfit is 2% practicality, and 153% impress-the-teacher.
This is precisely the right emergency outfit if the emergency falls on, say, picture day.
However.
The cuter the outfit, the more likely it will never see the (primary colors and weather stickers) light of day. That child of yours who spills grape juice on everything within a five-mile-radius on the weekends? Pristine at school. The kid who gets a bloody nose in his sleep every other day at home? Not a drop of blood on him, ever, at school. The one who takes a dark green Sharpie permanent marker and writes backwards numbers like some kind of gang symbols on his jeans for fun? Sternly parrots the teacher’s words “At school, we do not allow drawing on clothes.”
The emergency outfit mocks you in June when it is handed back, still hermetically sealed in its oversized Ziplock bag. When you take the outfit out and fluff it up, you actually hear it guffaw and say, “This is three sizes too small now! Ha!” Additionally, the sweater cackles and shrieks with glee, “And even though I still have my original tags, guess what—moth holes!”
You picture the emergency outfit sitting in a dark cupboard with 24 of its best emergency-outfit friends, staring longingly at the Play-Doh and wishing for a finger-painting mishap or at the very least, a glitter explosion.
And then like a police light flashing in your brain when you are driving, an idea comes to you: You decide that YOU need an emergency outfit. Your outfit would be tailored khaki pants and a freshly dry-cleaned black cashmere sweater over a new white shirt from Nordstrom. Socks would be cotton and shoes would be shined. You briefly toy with assembling an outfit like this and keeping it in your car if you ever had a strange situation arise where you were far away from home and couldn’t get to a much-needed change of clothes for whatever mysterious reason.
Yes, the idea of the emergency outfit lodges in your brain, like the parking ticket you forgot to pay six months ago, but that is still on your bookshelf by the printer in your study. The idea patiently sits there, waiting for you to notice it and remember it and do something about it.
You know, however, (sadly you know) that if you ever DID put together such an outfit in your car, the one time you would go to use it, you would hear it say,
“This is three sizes too small now! Ha!”
MOV
And an emergency outfit.
You completely missed the section about the emergency outfit.
The Angel Teacher, who herself is Minnie Mouse incarnate (in the most flattering way—all huggy and smiley and encouraging and everything you would want your child’s kindergarten teacher to be) sends you a helpful reminder note:
“Dr. MOV” (apparently your child has shared the tidbit that he believes you are, in fact, a doctor because you wear scrubs to work every day) “Your child still needs his emergency outfit. Please send it tomorrow if possible.” Three smiley faces follow, each in watermelon-red teacher ink.
Even though you had somehow blocked out the crucialness and requiredness of the emergency outfit, this was not actually your first exposure to it. Of course your older son had been through kindergarten and first grade and needed to provide the emergency outfit for those classes. And, truth be told, even preschool had requested the emergency outfit.
Here is what happens with the emergency outfit: As a newish mommy, you realize this is your golden opportunity to not only shine but put on the strobe light and sparkling disco ball and show the teacher what a style maven you are in regards to choosing clothing for your child. You might select (if you put the necessary thought into it, and why wouldn’t you?!) apparel from a trendy store like Gap Kids or Janie and Jack. Pants would be linen. Shirt would be ironed. Sweater would be embroidered with sailboats or vintage cars or both. Socks and undies (with appropriate self-esteem-building super-heroes) would be new. Shoes would be preppy. Your selected emergency outfit could pretty much qualify as a very expensive Christmas gift for your nephew or your best friend’s son. The outfit is 2% practicality, and 153% impress-the-teacher.
This is precisely the right emergency outfit if the emergency falls on, say, picture day.
However.
The cuter the outfit, the more likely it will never see the (primary colors and weather stickers) light of day. That child of yours who spills grape juice on everything within a five-mile-radius on the weekends? Pristine at school. The kid who gets a bloody nose in his sleep every other day at home? Not a drop of blood on him, ever, at school. The one who takes a dark green Sharpie permanent marker and writes backwards numbers like some kind of gang symbols on his jeans for fun? Sternly parrots the teacher’s words “At school, we do not allow drawing on clothes.”
The emergency outfit mocks you in June when it is handed back, still hermetically sealed in its oversized Ziplock bag. When you take the outfit out and fluff it up, you actually hear it guffaw and say, “This is three sizes too small now! Ha!” Additionally, the sweater cackles and shrieks with glee, “And even though I still have my original tags, guess what—moth holes!”
You picture the emergency outfit sitting in a dark cupboard with 24 of its best emergency-outfit friends, staring longingly at the Play-Doh and wishing for a finger-painting mishap or at the very least, a glitter explosion.
And then like a police light flashing in your brain when you are driving, an idea comes to you: You decide that YOU need an emergency outfit. Your outfit would be tailored khaki pants and a freshly dry-cleaned black cashmere sweater over a new white shirt from Nordstrom. Socks would be cotton and shoes would be shined. You briefly toy with assembling an outfit like this and keeping it in your car if you ever had a strange situation arise where you were far away from home and couldn’t get to a much-needed change of clothes for whatever mysterious reason.
Yes, the idea of the emergency outfit lodges in your brain, like the parking ticket you forgot to pay six months ago, but that is still on your bookshelf by the printer in your study. The idea patiently sits there, waiting for you to notice it and remember it and do something about it.
You know, however, (sadly you know) that if you ever DID put together such an outfit in your car, the one time you would go to use it, you would hear it say,
“This is three sizes too small now! Ha!”
MOV
Monday, October 3, 2011
529. Top-Secret New Job
I am getting ready for work. My scrubs are crisp from the dryer, my hair is pulled back in a slick ponytail, and I am wearing a neutral but flattering lipstick. The boys are ready for school, we are gathering up backpacks and lunchboxes and keys and umbrellas. We are walking out the door. As if seeing me for the very first time since I started working day-shifts at my new job several weeks ago, Short notices my uniform, looks me up and down, and says,
“So … you’re a doctor now?”
I laugh out loud, not meaning to but not being able to help myself.
Still laughing, I correct him: “No, no, Short, I am not a doctor.”
He smiles and shakes his head as if to make the wrong answer fall away. “Sorry, Mommy … I know you're not really a doctor. Uh, a dentist then?”
I guffaw. My brain quickly does somersaults and back-handsprings around the requirements of secretly obtaining my M.D. (in general practice or dentistry) in the past few years while staying home as a full-time mom and raising my two sons. Several years of night school, several thousand dollars, several more IQ points than I currently possess, and then of course passing those pesky licensing exams. In the innocence of childhood, apparently you can be whatever profession you want just by proclaiming it to be true.
“Short, sweetheart, I am not a doctor nor a dentist.”
I briefly fill him in on what it is exactly that I do at my Top-Secret New Job. Predictably, his eyes glaze over. Wearing scrubs does not equate (to him) to the job that I do. I finish up with something easy and relate-able:
“ … and then sometimes I have to call insurance companies and resolve issues regarding payment.”
He found something he can grasp on to. “Oh! You talk on the phone!” And then, reassuringly parroting all those special mommy-moments of the past seven years when I have cooed encouraging comments to him or his brother, “Mommy, that is a perfect job for you because you’re really good at talking on the phone!”
MOV
“So … you’re a doctor now?”
I laugh out loud, not meaning to but not being able to help myself.
Still laughing, I correct him: “No, no, Short, I am not a doctor.”
He smiles and shakes his head as if to make the wrong answer fall away. “Sorry, Mommy … I know you're not really a doctor. Uh, a dentist then?”
I guffaw. My brain quickly does somersaults and back-handsprings around the requirements of secretly obtaining my M.D. (in general practice or dentistry) in the past few years while staying home as a full-time mom and raising my two sons. Several years of night school, several thousand dollars, several more IQ points than I currently possess, and then of course passing those pesky licensing exams. In the innocence of childhood, apparently you can be whatever profession you want just by proclaiming it to be true.
“Short, sweetheart, I am not a doctor nor a dentist.”
I briefly fill him in on what it is exactly that I do at my Top-Secret New Job. Predictably, his eyes glaze over. Wearing scrubs does not equate (to him) to the job that I do. I finish up with something easy and relate-able:
“ … and then sometimes I have to call insurance companies and resolve issues regarding payment.”
He found something he can grasp on to. “Oh! You talk on the phone!” And then, reassuringly parroting all those special mommy-moments of the past seven years when I have cooed encouraging comments to him or his brother, “Mommy, that is a perfect job for you because you’re really good at talking on the phone!”
MOV
Thursday, September 29, 2011
526. The High-End Kitchen Store Has Ruined My Life
I had only worked at the high-end kitchen store for about a month when The Boss said three words that struck lightning bolts of fear in my brain: “Paychecks were lost.” No, not really. She said, “Front and face.”
I had no idea what front and face meant, except that maybe I was supposed to face toward the front of the store (but then wouldn’t that be “face the front”?). I stood as close to the front entry door as possible, practically breathing on the glass. I made sure I was facing out toward the mall.
“What are you doing, MOV?” inquired The Boss impatiently. “I thought I told you to front and face.”
“I thought I was?” I replied.
“What are you talking about? You’re just standing there. I need you to pull all the food perimeter products to the front of the shelves and make sure all their labels are facing forward.”
Oh—front and face!
Queen Virgo was happy for the task, which was seemingly designed just for her. Front and face became my new favorite past-time. If the store was not busy and other salespeople were offering to re-stock the shopping bags or Windex the glass display cabinets, there I was jumping up and down: “And I can front and face! Let me front and face!”
The Husband was not so pleased with my new little habit at home. “Sweetie,” I’d say encouragingly, “I really appreciate you doing all the grocery shopping this week, and, well, every week come to think of it. But you know what I would appreciate even more? If you could front and face the product out on the shelves, label side toward the viewer.”
“Product?” he mocked. “Did you just say ‘product’? And ‘viewer’? Because last I checked, this is not a store. This is where we live.”
My newfound hyper-vigilance transcended kitchen borders and needed to be applied to the bathroom cabinets as well. “Honey,” I’d begin helpfully, “remember we had that little chat about front and face? We need to put the shaving cream and deodorant facing out on the shelf. It’s more consumer-friendly that way.” I’d give a smile, cementing the validity of my essential critique.
“Have you been drinking? I already own the deodorant. I’m not worried about it being consumer-friendly on the shelf. What is your deal?”
It went on like this throughout every shelf in the bathrooms, kitchen and refrigerator, as well as almost every room in the house (including the basement storage closets and the garage) for the next several months. The Husband even seemed annoyed when I kindly mentioned his sunglasses and pens in the glove compartment of his truck could stand to be arranged so the brand names faced out.
“Sweetie,” I’d purr, “front and face is designed for maximum visibility and organization. It really is the only way to go. I don’t get why you are so resistant to it.”
“MOV, enough! Geesh. If that is how your boss wants you to do stuff at work, fine. Last I checked, we don’t live in the high-end kitchen store.” He glared at me, his face a cocktail of pity and contempt. “If you wanna live at the high-end kitchen store, I’ll help you pack a suitcase.”
Ah, but he’d pack it wrong. All the labels would be facing down.
MOV
(“Mania Of Virgo”)
I had no idea what front and face meant, except that maybe I was supposed to face toward the front of the store (but then wouldn’t that be “face the front”?). I stood as close to the front entry door as possible, practically breathing on the glass. I made sure I was facing out toward the mall.
“What are you doing, MOV?” inquired The Boss impatiently. “I thought I told you to front and face.”
“I thought I was?” I replied.
“What are you talking about? You’re just standing there. I need you to pull all the food perimeter products to the front of the shelves and make sure all their labels are facing forward.”
Oh—front and face!
Queen Virgo was happy for the task, which was seemingly designed just for her. Front and face became my new favorite past-time. If the store was not busy and other salespeople were offering to re-stock the shopping bags or Windex the glass display cabinets, there I was jumping up and down: “And I can front and face! Let me front and face!”
The Husband was not so pleased with my new little habit at home. “Sweetie,” I’d say encouragingly, “I really appreciate you doing all the grocery shopping this week, and, well, every week come to think of it. But you know what I would appreciate even more? If you could front and face the product out on the shelves, label side toward the viewer.”
“Product?” he mocked. “Did you just say ‘product’? And ‘viewer’? Because last I checked, this is not a store. This is where we live.”
My newfound hyper-vigilance transcended kitchen borders and needed to be applied to the bathroom cabinets as well. “Honey,” I’d begin helpfully, “remember we had that little chat about front and face? We need to put the shaving cream and deodorant facing out on the shelf. It’s more consumer-friendly that way.” I’d give a smile, cementing the validity of my essential critique.
“Have you been drinking? I already own the deodorant. I’m not worried about it being consumer-friendly on the shelf. What is your deal?”
It went on like this throughout every shelf in the bathrooms, kitchen and refrigerator, as well as almost every room in the house (including the basement storage closets and the garage) for the next several months. The Husband even seemed annoyed when I kindly mentioned his sunglasses and pens in the glove compartment of his truck could stand to be arranged so the brand names faced out.
“Sweetie,” I’d purr, “front and face is designed for maximum visibility and organization. It really is the only way to go. I don’t get why you are so resistant to it.”
“MOV, enough! Geesh. If that is how your boss wants you to do stuff at work, fine. Last I checked, we don’t live in the high-end kitchen store.” He glared at me, his face a cocktail of pity and contempt. “If you wanna live at the high-end kitchen store, I’ll help you pack a suitcase.”
Ah, but he’d pack it wrong. All the labels would be facing down.
MOV
(“Mania Of Virgo”)
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
525. Welcome to 4th Grade!
My younger son Short turned five in July. He goes to the local public school with other five-year-olds and is in what is traditionally referred to as “kindergarten.” This is, however, not what he announces to neighbors, friends, classmates, grandparents, complete strangers, and anyone else who will listen when we are out and about.
“I am in 4th grade!” he offers proudly and frequently. “Four! Four! Fourth grade! Grade four!”
After the hundredth or so time this happens, I decide to it is time to put an abrupt halt to his hallucinatory behavior.
“Short. You are in kindergarten. You are not in 4th grade.”
“I know! I know you are right! I already know that! That’s what I said! Listen, Mommy, what I said was, I’m in 4th grade!”
It feels like I am bickering with my accountant about whether my new black skirt from Nordstrom that I wear to work is really a tax write-off. Fine. I have no idea where this tenacious number four is coming from, but you win, Short. It isn’t even worth arguing about anymore.
My older son Tall gets infuriated when Short becomes possessed with The Power of Four, as we have started calling it around our house.
“Short! Did you hear what Mom said? You. Are. Not. In. 4th. Grade. Get it through your kindergarten head! I myself am in 2nd grade, and I'm older than you! I'm seven! Understand?!? You can't even read, for goshsakes. All you know is how to spell your name and how to count to ten. Anyone can do that. How is it possible that you are two years younger than me, but think you are in 4th grade? Huh? Can you explain that?”
Short shrugs. “I only know what my teacher says. She told me four. Grade four. Sorry if you're wrong, Tall, but I'm right.” Another shrug. Then, for emphasis, he holds up four chubby fingers on his right hand. And, in case Tall still didn't comprehend reality, repeats loudly, “FOUR! 4th grade!”
Tall scowls. Short smiles, then walks out of the room. Winner.
I had my mandatory parent/ teacher conference the other day (of course I was wearing the Nordstrom skirt), and the teacher was telling me all about what a great student Short is and what a delight he is to have in her class. I forgot all about the obsession with four. Instead, I floated out of the classroom, high on myself and my obvious superior parenting skills. Once in the hall, I realized I had left my keys on the teacher’s conference table. I turned around to go back in and retrieve them. That’s when I saw it, the classroom number:
MOV
“I am in 4th grade!” he offers proudly and frequently. “Four! Four! Fourth grade! Grade four!”
After the hundredth or so time this happens, I decide to it is time to put an abrupt halt to his hallucinatory behavior.
“Short. You are in kindergarten. You are not in 4th grade.”
“I know! I know you are right! I already know that! That’s what I said! Listen, Mommy, what I said was, I’m in 4th grade!”
It feels like I am bickering with my accountant about whether my new black skirt from Nordstrom that I wear to work is really a tax write-off. Fine. I have no idea where this tenacious number four is coming from, but you win, Short. It isn’t even worth arguing about anymore.
My older son Tall gets infuriated when Short becomes possessed with The Power of Four, as we have started calling it around our house.
“Short! Did you hear what Mom said? You. Are. Not. In. 4th. Grade. Get it through your kindergarten head! I myself am in 2nd grade, and I'm older than you! I'm seven! Understand?!? You can't even read, for goshsakes. All you know is how to spell your name and how to count to ten. Anyone can do that. How is it possible that you are two years younger than me, but think you are in 4th grade? Huh? Can you explain that?”
Short shrugs. “I only know what my teacher says. She told me four. Grade four. Sorry if you're wrong, Tall, but I'm right.” Another shrug. Then, for emphasis, he holds up four chubby fingers on his right hand. And, in case Tall still didn't comprehend reality, repeats loudly, “FOUR! 4th grade!”
Tall scowls. Short smiles, then walks out of the room. Winner.
I had my mandatory parent/ teacher conference the other day (of course I was wearing the Nordstrom skirt), and the teacher was telling me all about what a great student Short is and what a delight he is to have in her class. I forgot all about the obsession with four. Instead, I floated out of the classroom, high on myself and my obvious superior parenting skills. Once in the hall, I realized I had left my keys on the teacher’s conference table. I turned around to go back in and retrieve them. That’s when I saw it, the classroom number:
Saturday, September 24, 2011
521. My Coffee Maker Joined The Army
I make gourmet cappuccinos every morning with my fabulous automatic espresso machine purchased for full price way before I ever worked at the high-end kitchen store. For reasons unknown to me, The Husband makes coffee on the weekends with his coffee machine bought on double clearance and an expired coupon at Target. I never really stopped to notice, but apparently The Husband’s coffee machine has a built-in clock. In typical Virgo fashion, I wear a highly-accurate Swiss watch (okay, two if you must know), so I never really worry about getting my time from an appliance designed to heat water and pump it over coffee grounds.
So it came as somewhat of a surprise to me when I walked in the dark kitchen one night and noticed that the coffee maker clock glowed “20:18.”
Now, having worked for the airlines for a good chunk of my adult life, I am well-acquainted with what those in the know call “military time.” 20:18 means 8:18 PM. To avoid confusion, the crew schedulers always gave us our assignments in military time, as in, “MOV, you will be working ID #9633 which is a three-day trip, layovers in Miami and Chicago, and you need to be at the airport at oh-five-thirty for check in.” If it was a red-eye flight, the scheduler might say, “ID #277, a two-day, laying over in Boston, check in is twenty-one-oh-five.” A flight attendant could never miss a trip by saying, “Oh, I thought you meant PM! Oops, you meant AM! So sorry!”
Last I checked, the coffee machine is not going to Miami.
Why the military time, coffee maker? We don’t even make coffee at night because, well, it tends to keep us up. Tell you what, CM (can I call you CM? I feel like we might be on a friendly basis by now), you don’t even need to show the time after 11 AM! That’s right! You can have the rest of the day off. The only hours that matter in Caffeine Land are 4AM—11AM. So stop blinking 16:00 at me! You are confusing me, and I left that part of my brain (the military time translating section) back on the tarmac at LAX.
I mention this interesting tidbit to The Husband, that his bargain coffee maker has this newly discovered talent of announcing military time.
“Huh, that’s cool,” says The Husband, barely looking up from his ESPN.
When I ask him to convert it back to normal people time, he just gives me a blank stare. “I don’t really know how to do that,” he says finally, apparently channeling me and my Amishness.
I do the only thing I can: I ask Tall.
“Tall,” I say, my voice full of caramel gooeyness, “do you think you could help Mommy program the coffee maker? You know, since you are good at electronical things?”
“Huh, I guess,” says my seven-year-old, barely looking up from taking apart our old computer and rebuilding a new motherboard for fun. “What seems to be the problem?”
After I explain the situation and walk out of the room, I hear him furiously pressing random buttons on the coffee maker for the next 30 seconds or so.
“All set, Mom!” he calls out.
He walks past me and gives me a goofy grin and a wink. Since when does he wink?
I look at the coffee maker’s clock. No more military time. It reads:
;) ;)
MOV
So it came as somewhat of a surprise to me when I walked in the dark kitchen one night and noticed that the coffee maker clock glowed “20:18.”
Now, having worked for the airlines for a good chunk of my adult life, I am well-acquainted with what those in the know call “military time.” 20:18 means 8:18 PM. To avoid confusion, the crew schedulers always gave us our assignments in military time, as in, “MOV, you will be working ID #9633 which is a three-day trip, layovers in Miami and Chicago, and you need to be at the airport at oh-five-thirty for check in.” If it was a red-eye flight, the scheduler might say, “ID #277, a two-day, laying over in Boston, check in is twenty-one-oh-five.” A flight attendant could never miss a trip by saying, “Oh, I thought you meant PM! Oops, you meant AM! So sorry!”
Last I checked, the coffee machine is not going to Miami.
Why the military time, coffee maker? We don’t even make coffee at night because, well, it tends to keep us up. Tell you what, CM (can I call you CM? I feel like we might be on a friendly basis by now), you don’t even need to show the time after 11 AM! That’s right! You can have the rest of the day off. The only hours that matter in Caffeine Land are 4AM—11AM. So stop blinking 16:00 at me! You are confusing me, and I left that part of my brain (the military time translating section) back on the tarmac at LAX.
I mention this interesting tidbit to The Husband, that his bargain coffee maker has this newly discovered talent of announcing military time.
“Huh, that’s cool,” says The Husband, barely looking up from his ESPN.
When I ask him to convert it back to normal people time, he just gives me a blank stare. “I don’t really know how to do that,” he says finally, apparently channeling me and my Amishness.
I do the only thing I can: I ask Tall.
“Tall,” I say, my voice full of caramel gooeyness, “do you think you could help Mommy program the coffee maker? You know, since you are good at electronical things?”
“Huh, I guess,” says my seven-year-old, barely looking up from taking apart our old computer and rebuilding a new motherboard for fun. “What seems to be the problem?”
After I explain the situation and walk out of the room, I hear him furiously pressing random buttons on the coffee maker for the next 30 seconds or so.
“All set, Mom!” he calls out.
He walks past me and gives me a goofy grin and a wink. Since when does he wink?
I look at the coffee maker’s clock. No more military time. It reads:
;) ;)
MOV
Thursday, September 22, 2011
519. Bad Dream
Tall came home from school with his daily bushel of Random Important Papers. His homework sheet said that he had to put a small paper bag together with five things that were important to him. He would be giving an informal presentation in front of the class about why each thing held significance. The sheet gave acceptable examples, such as “A ballet shoe if you like to dance” or “A favorite stuffed animal” or even “A drawing you made of yourself and your grandpa playing baseball.” Tall and I sat down and brainstormed ideas for his special “All About Me” bag. He had tons of great ideas, and I knew that whatever he ended up choosing would be perfect.
As usual, I went to bed around 11 PM. The next thing I knew, the clock read 8:10 AM (the school bus comes at 8:15) and he had somehow not done the bag yet. We frantically ran all around the house, basement, laundry room, garage, patio, backyard, and even our neighbor’s backyard (?) desperately looking for appropriate things to put in the “Me, Procrastinator Version” bag.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Tall shouted in my direction. “Just chill, Mom, I have all five things!”
A wave of relief washed over me (maybe it was more like a jolt of relief, as it was to be short-lived). As a quick precautionary measure (or reflexive parenting, not sure which), I double-checked what was in the bag. Five gruesome things stared up at me sardonically:
“MOV, it’s 7:05, I let you sleep an extra five minutes, but you’d better get up now. The kids are already dressed and I fed them breakfast. Tall wants to show you his school project, and he wants to know if it’s okay for him to take his soccer medal and that turtle he painted at the ceramic place. I told him to ask you, because the turtle might break. What do you think?”
I bolted out of bed to look at his bag. No remote control or batteries. No junk food/ candy. No horrible mystery video game that did not exist in real life. No dollar bills.
There was the soccer medal. The orange and yellow turtle. A LEGO airplane he had designed himself and built from spare LEGO pieces. Surprisingly, a Sacajawea coin cozied up to the turtle.
“Tall? Sweetie? Money is not the most important thing and our values are not hollow, so why are you taking this coin to school?” I could feel my voice rising.
“Well, I thought it would be cool to show everyone ‘cause the Tooth Fairy brought it to me.”
“Oh, oh, yeah. All right. That’s nice.” I smiled weakly. I reached in the bag and pulled out a rolled up piece of paper. I warily unrolled it, bracing for the materialistic Christmas list. Instead, I saw a detailed drawing of four smiling people and a large misshapen black and white horse, all holding hands (or hooves).
“This is not what I was expecting,” I mumbled to myself. “What’s this?”
Tall beamed at me, proud of his art. “That’s our family including the cat ... do you like it?”
I did. A lot.
MOV
As usual, I went to bed around 11 PM. The next thing I knew, the clock read 8:10 AM (the school bus comes at 8:15) and he had somehow not done the bag yet. We frantically ran all around the house, basement, laundry room, garage, patio, backyard, and even our neighbor’s backyard (?) desperately looking for appropriate things to put in the “Me, Procrastinator Version” bag.
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” Tall shouted in my direction. “Just chill, Mom, I have all five things!”
A wave of relief washed over me (maybe it was more like a jolt of relief, as it was to be short-lived). As a quick precautionary measure (or reflexive parenting, not sure which), I double-checked what was in the bag. Five gruesome things stared up at me sardonically:
- The remote control to the TV (“I like to watch TV whenever I can, sometimes more”) and two back-up AAA batteries (“We go through a lot of batteries, what with all the violent cartoons and movies we watch and the excessive channel-surfing”)
- A half-eaten bag of M&M’s (“I thought my teacher and the School Nutritionist might like to know what we really eat for breakfast every day”)
- A handheld computer game called “Crazy Drivers With Big Guns and Lots of Noise, Level 8” that I had never seen before (“You let me buy this with my birthday money last year, remember, Mom?”)
- Three crumpled dollar bills (“This is to illustrate to my peers that money and what I can buy is the most important thing, and that my values are completely hollow”)
- A sheet of paper that at first glance looked like an innocent Christmas list. Thousands of things were written in minuscule writing on the multi-page list, with the heading: “Stuff I Want To Buy Or Other People Should Buy Me Immediately If Not Sooner.”
“MOV, it’s 7:05, I let you sleep an extra five minutes, but you’d better get up now. The kids are already dressed and I fed them breakfast. Tall wants to show you his school project, and he wants to know if it’s okay for him to take his soccer medal and that turtle he painted at the ceramic place. I told him to ask you, because the turtle might break. What do you think?”
I bolted out of bed to look at his bag. No remote control or batteries. No junk food/ candy. No horrible mystery video game that did not exist in real life. No dollar bills.
There was the soccer medal. The orange and yellow turtle. A LEGO airplane he had designed himself and built from spare LEGO pieces. Surprisingly, a Sacajawea coin cozied up to the turtle.
“Tall? Sweetie? Money is not the most important thing and our values are not hollow, so why are you taking this coin to school?” I could feel my voice rising.
“Well, I thought it would be cool to show everyone ‘cause the Tooth Fairy brought it to me.”
“Oh, oh, yeah. All right. That’s nice.” I smiled weakly. I reached in the bag and pulled out a rolled up piece of paper. I warily unrolled it, bracing for the materialistic Christmas list. Instead, I saw a detailed drawing of four smiling people and a large misshapen black and white horse, all holding hands (or hooves).
“This is not what I was expecting,” I mumbled to myself. “What’s this?”
Tall beamed at me, proud of his art. “That’s our family including the cat ... do you like it?”
I did. A lot.
MOV
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
511. Opposite-ing
Do you know what opposite-ing is? Of course you do. If you have a husband or a small child, then you are well acquainted with opposite-ing. It is the phenomenon where you do something, something good like, say, set the old heavy wool blanket by the front door so you will remember to put it back in your car later where it belongs, and then your beloved husband comes along and does something bad (hence, the term opposite-ing) to “help” you and he takes the blanket (that he knows resides permanently in your car) all the way down to the linen closet in the basement and puts it on the shelf where it most certainly does not belong. You, however, in your naiveté (even though you have been married over 10 years and should surely know your husband and all his quirks by this point), think that he might have been proactive and put it back in the car for you. Well, actually, you don’t even think about it, because: out of sight, out of mind.
Until you are looking for some kitchen dish towels in the closet a week later, and there is the blanket, saluting you. Hi, you! calls out blanket, and you think, Huh? I distinctly remember putting the blanket by the front door, how in the world did the blanket get all the way down here where it does not belong?
Then you have your answer: opposite-ing.
Children are great opposite-ers. You make your bed, they come along and pull every sheet, pillow, blanket, dust ruffle off to make a “fort.” (Be assured that opposite-ing is not just reserved for things like blankets, these are only two small examples in less than a 24-hour time period.) You vacuum the living room, and one of your children immediately remembers his live plant the teacher gave him and he must show you this instant and—whoops!—just like that, he spills all the dirt in the small pot all over your (formerly) freshly-vacuumed carpet. Opposite-ing at its finest.
You put all the children’s shoes away in the closet where they belong. Ten seconds later, your home resembles a shoe factory that has vomited all over your living room. Seems the kids got all the shoes back out because they “couldn’t find them” when they are stored in the closet. Opposite-ing in pairs.
You bring the stack of clean but wrinkled laundry upstairs to fold and you set it on the bed and when you take a quick phone call, the pile is gone. Where did it go? Your husband took it downstairs and put it in the hamper. So it can be washed. Pure, clean, opposite-ing.
You set a stick of butter on the counter first thing in the morning because you are going to make cookies later and you need the butter to soften up for your special recipe. Your husband comes along and, unbeknownst to you, puts the butter back in the fridge to be “helpful.” You find this out when you have preheated the oven and gotten out your mixer and laid out the rest of your ingredients and are now ready to mix, and the butter has somehow disappeared. Raw opposite-ing.
You set the library books that are due today right next to the front door as a visual reminder so you will take them back to the library before a three-figure sum is owed (again), and your husband comes along and—POOF!—the books have vanished! You assume (because you are not just naïve, but stupid) that your husband took the books back to the library himself. That is, until that very night when you go to read a bed-time story to your children and you reach on the shelf for a book and you see (to your horror) several library books nestled in among the books you do, in fact, own. You recognize the books, the library books, because they clearly stand out as “different,” namely because they have Dewey Decimal call numbers on them and are covered in special library-plastic that you have no idea where to buy or if it is even sold to consumers. You are well aware that you do not own any books covered in this special heavy-duty-millions-of-people-can-touch-this-book-and-it-won’t-be-ruined plastic. You call out to your husband and say something along the lines of Why are these books that were by the front door on OUR bookshelf now? To which he responds (helpfully), I put them away for you! I was being helpful!
Opposite-ing in its pulp-fiction form, my friends.
I could think of myriad more examples, I know I could, but I have to zip out right now. To the library. Before they close.
MOV
Until you are looking for some kitchen dish towels in the closet a week later, and there is the blanket, saluting you. Hi, you! calls out blanket, and you think, Huh? I distinctly remember putting the blanket by the front door, how in the world did the blanket get all the way down here where it does not belong?
Then you have your answer: opposite-ing.
Children are great opposite-ers. You make your bed, they come along and pull every sheet, pillow, blanket, dust ruffle off to make a “fort.” (Be assured that opposite-ing is not just reserved for things like blankets, these are only two small examples in less than a 24-hour time period.) You vacuum the living room, and one of your children immediately remembers his live plant the teacher gave him and he must show you this instant and—whoops!—just like that, he spills all the dirt in the small pot all over your (formerly) freshly-vacuumed carpet. Opposite-ing at its finest.
You put all the children’s shoes away in the closet where they belong. Ten seconds later, your home resembles a shoe factory that has vomited all over your living room. Seems the kids got all the shoes back out because they “couldn’t find them” when they are stored in the closet. Opposite-ing in pairs.
You bring the stack of clean but wrinkled laundry upstairs to fold and you set it on the bed and when you take a quick phone call, the pile is gone. Where did it go? Your husband took it downstairs and put it in the hamper. So it can be washed. Pure, clean, opposite-ing.
You set a stick of butter on the counter first thing in the morning because you are going to make cookies later and you need the butter to soften up for your special recipe. Your husband comes along and, unbeknownst to you, puts the butter back in the fridge to be “helpful.” You find this out when you have preheated the oven and gotten out your mixer and laid out the rest of your ingredients and are now ready to mix, and the butter has somehow disappeared. Raw opposite-ing.
You set the library books that are due today right next to the front door as a visual reminder so you will take them back to the library before a three-figure sum is owed (again), and your husband comes along and—POOF!—the books have vanished! You assume (because you are not just naïve, but stupid) that your husband took the books back to the library himself. That is, until that very night when you go to read a bed-time story to your children and you reach on the shelf for a book and you see (to your horror) several library books nestled in among the books you do, in fact, own. You recognize the books, the library books, because they clearly stand out as “different,” namely because they have Dewey Decimal call numbers on them and are covered in special library-plastic that you have no idea where to buy or if it is even sold to consumers. You are well aware that you do not own any books covered in this special heavy-duty-millions-of-people-can-touch-this-book-and-it-won’t-be-ruined plastic. You call out to your husband and say something along the lines of Why are these books that were by the front door on OUR bookshelf now? To which he responds (helpfully), I put them away for you! I was being helpful!
Opposite-ing in its pulp-fiction form, my friends.
I could think of myriad more examples, I know I could, but I have to zip out right now. To the library. Before they close.
MOV
Thursday, September 8, 2011
505. The Kitchen Store Doctor Is IN
People love me. They love me sober, they love me drunk, they love me at work, they love me at parties, they love me at the super-market … the point is: They just love me. So it should come as no surprise that random customers at the high-end kitchen store love to confess to me their entire life history, complete with embarrassing moments and crazy, unbelievable stories. This happens a lot. Daily.
Yesterday, I was at work and the phone rang. “Thank you for calling the fabulous high-end kitchen store, this is MOVee, how may I help you?” I sang into the receiver.
The woman on the phone wanted information on the French porcelain dinnerware we carry, specifically if it was microwave safe (it was) or dishwasher safe (it was). She continued to barrage me with questions, and I continued to answer helpfully. The next thing you know, she proceeds to tell me how her sister just died, and the sister happened to give her all these fancy dishes mere weeks before her impending death (from Leukemia). Yikes! We are new BFF because she has confided this important secret to me.
Whoops—we accidentally get disconnected. Bye-bye random person whose name I do not even know!
Same day. A customer comes in and is looking at some expensive pans from Italy. She goes on and on about how beautiful they are, but the cost is prohibitive. Next thing you know, she confuses my nod-nod-nodding as a sign to tell me things that she should probably tell a therapist. Here goes: She was diagnosed with a rare brain disease and given six months to live. This was four years ago. She wants to celebrate her alive-ness by buying all the special pans.
This happens to me every day. EVERY DAY.
People are compelled to tell me things, private things, because I must have that demeanor that says, “I can keep a secret! I don’t write a blog or anything, ha ha, why do you ask?”
When I was a flight attendant, passengers would corner me in the galley and tell me how they just quit their job/ were planning to get divorced/ hate their mother-in-law/ can’t get pregnant (choose one). Additionally, other flight attendants confessed their fondest hopes and their darkest secrets to me on the jumpseat (this particular phenomenon, in airline parlance, is known as “jumpseat therapy”). I must have one of those faces with a giant “T.M.” printed on my forehead (“Tell Me”).
The other day, I was going through some junk mail, when I spotted an ad for grad school. Masters in Psychology. Hmmm. Maybe I should get paid for what I do.
MOV
Yesterday, I was at work and the phone rang. “Thank you for calling the fabulous high-end kitchen store, this is MOVee, how may I help you?” I sang into the receiver.
The woman on the phone wanted information on the French porcelain dinnerware we carry, specifically if it was microwave safe (it was) or dishwasher safe (it was). She continued to barrage me with questions, and I continued to answer helpfully. The next thing you know, she proceeds to tell me how her sister just died, and the sister happened to give her all these fancy dishes mere weeks before her impending death (from Leukemia). Yikes! We are new BFF because she has confided this important secret to me.
Whoops—we accidentally get disconnected. Bye-bye random person whose name I do not even know!
Same day. A customer comes in and is looking at some expensive pans from Italy. She goes on and on about how beautiful they are, but the cost is prohibitive. Next thing you know, she confuses my nod-nod-nodding as a sign to tell me things that she should probably tell a therapist. Here goes: She was diagnosed with a rare brain disease and given six months to live. This was four years ago. She wants to celebrate her alive-ness by buying all the special pans.
This happens to me every day. EVERY DAY.
People are compelled to tell me things, private things, because I must have that demeanor that says, “I can keep a secret! I don’t write a blog or anything, ha ha, why do you ask?”
When I was a flight attendant, passengers would corner me in the galley and tell me how they just quit their job/ were planning to get divorced/ hate their mother-in-law/ can’t get pregnant (choose one). Additionally, other flight attendants confessed their fondest hopes and their darkest secrets to me on the jumpseat (this particular phenomenon, in airline parlance, is known as “jumpseat therapy”). I must have one of those faces with a giant “T.M.” printed on my forehead (“Tell Me”).
The other day, I was going through some junk mail, when I spotted an ad for grad school. Masters in Psychology. Hmmm. Maybe I should get paid for what I do.
MOV
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
498. Holy Guacamole!
School starts in exactly seven days, and, as usual in our household, we are woefully unprepared. Oh, sure, the school supplies have been purchased, and the teachers’ names have been revealed, but we are still not ready. I’m talking about, of course, our sleep schedule.
Anyone with an elementary school-aged child knows that the bus swings by at 8:15 AM, and school starts promptly at 8:45 AM. This is very, very bad if you have slacked off and allowed your children to stay up until, oh, say midnight on a regular basis, and sleep in until a nice, summery hour, like maybe 10 AM.
Very bad indeed.
To counteract this badness in my family, I have implemented a new program, which I call simply, “Go To Bed Now!” or “Bed Now!” for short. This is how it works:
At about 7:15 PM, just as we are sitting down to dinner, I say to the kids, “Bed time in five minutes!” to which they laugh hysterically and respond, “But we have not even eaten yet!”
Half an hour later, when the dinner dishes have been cleared, and the hands of the clock creep toward eight, I once again announce (with slightly more authority this time), “Go to bed! Bed time!”
My children ignore me. I pour myself another glass of wine.
The Husband and I plop down in front of House Hunters International, and dream of buying a house in Spain or Australia or Antarctica, or anywhere else where we can maybe be alone and not have to deal with children’s bed times.
At 9:30 PM, we go into their room to find them still in day-time clothes, with un-brushed teeth, playing with LEGOs. I firmly tell them they must go to bed this very instant. I stand there with my hands on my hips, in what can only be described as a semi-menacing mommy-pose.
They scurry into bed, and The Husband and I declare project “Sleep Soon!” (see? we can’t even remember the name of our new program) a success.
Ten minutes later, the kids pop up, begging for water or Pokémon cards or a million dollars or some such. We hear them popping up every 15 minutes or so for the next two hours. We consider it a great improvement that they have passed out waaaaaaaay before midnight this time, probably more like 11:45 PM.
On the flip side of my freshly implemented plan is the wake-up routine. At 7 AM on the dot, I barge into their room, and flip the lights onto full bright.
“Time to get up! Up-up-up!” I say, like a deranged rooster on crack.
“Nooooooooo!” squeals Tall, “You are ruining our last vestiges of summer!”
“Up! We have to practice! Practice getting up!” I walk over to their windows, and open the bamboo shades, revealing blinding sunlight.
“Stop! Why do you despise us so?” says Short, placing a pillow over his eyes, “What did we ever do to you?”
I make a mental note to not let them watch the Disney channel anymore, as this is obviously where they are picking up their surly attitude and new vocabulary words.
“All right, fine,” I say to the two lifeless mannequins posing as my children, “You can have 10 more minutes, then that’s it!” I say it with emphasis and vigor to underscore the importance of them waking up on time. They need time to use the bathroom, brush their teeth, finish their homework, eat breakfast, get dressed, tell me what they want packed in their lunchboxes, walk to the bus-stop, and any other things that I am forgetting right now. That takes approximately one hour and 15 minutes, minimum.
I walk upstairs to my study, coffee in hand. I mentally calculate, okay, they might not need that much time, maybe one hour is plenty. I will go back down and check on them in five minutes. I sit down at my computer and work on my blog.
Next thing you know, it is 10:15 AM. Yikes! They are still asleep! Wow, I got a lot done though. Hmmm, maybe we’ll try our new system again next week. No dress rehearsals for this family.
MOV
(“My October Vision?”)
Anyone with an elementary school-aged child knows that the bus swings by at 8:15 AM, and school starts promptly at 8:45 AM. This is very, very bad if you have slacked off and allowed your children to stay up until, oh, say midnight on a regular basis, and sleep in until a nice, summery hour, like maybe 10 AM.
Very bad indeed.
To counteract this badness in my family, I have implemented a new program, which I call simply, “Go To Bed Now!” or “Bed Now!” for short. This is how it works:
At about 7:15 PM, just as we are sitting down to dinner, I say to the kids, “Bed time in five minutes!” to which they laugh hysterically and respond, “But we have not even eaten yet!”
Half an hour later, when the dinner dishes have been cleared, and the hands of the clock creep toward eight, I once again announce (with slightly more authority this time), “Go to bed! Bed time!”
My children ignore me. I pour myself another glass of wine.
The Husband and I plop down in front of House Hunters International, and dream of buying a house in Spain or Australia or Antarctica, or anywhere else where we can maybe be alone and not have to deal with children’s bed times.
At 9:30 PM, we go into their room to find them still in day-time clothes, with un-brushed teeth, playing with LEGOs. I firmly tell them they must go to bed this very instant. I stand there with my hands on my hips, in what can only be described as a semi-menacing mommy-pose.
They scurry into bed, and The Husband and I declare project “Sleep Soon!” (see? we can’t even remember the name of our new program) a success.
Ten minutes later, the kids pop up, begging for water or Pokémon cards or a million dollars or some such. We hear them popping up every 15 minutes or so for the next two hours. We consider it a great improvement that they have passed out waaaaaaaay before midnight this time, probably more like 11:45 PM.
On the flip side of my freshly implemented plan is the wake-up routine. At 7 AM on the dot, I barge into their room, and flip the lights onto full bright.
“Time to get up! Up-up-up!” I say, like a deranged rooster on crack.
“Nooooooooo!” squeals Tall, “You are ruining our last vestiges of summer!”
“Up! We have to practice! Practice getting up!” I walk over to their windows, and open the bamboo shades, revealing blinding sunlight.
“Stop! Why do you despise us so?” says Short, placing a pillow over his eyes, “What did we ever do to you?”
I make a mental note to not let them watch the Disney channel anymore, as this is obviously where they are picking up their surly attitude and new vocabulary words.
“All right, fine,” I say to the two lifeless mannequins posing as my children, “You can have 10 more minutes, then that’s it!” I say it with emphasis and vigor to underscore the importance of them waking up on time. They need time to use the bathroom, brush their teeth, finish their homework, eat breakfast, get dressed, tell me what they want packed in their lunchboxes, walk to the bus-stop, and any other things that I am forgetting right now. That takes approximately one hour and 15 minutes, minimum.
I walk upstairs to my study, coffee in hand. I mentally calculate, okay, they might not need that much time, maybe one hour is plenty. I will go back down and check on them in five minutes. I sit down at my computer and work on my blog.
Next thing you know, it is 10:15 AM. Yikes! They are still asleep! Wow, I got a lot done though. Hmmm, maybe we’ll try our new system again next week. No dress rehearsals for this family.
MOV
(“My October Vision?”)
Sunday, August 14, 2011
487. How to Write
I walked into the first day of the Writing 101 seminar, taught by Professor Broysen. He waited patiently for us to take our seats, and then he started writing something on the chalkboard.
At the top, he scribbled “TOOLS FOR WRITING.” This was good. I was going to get a lot out of this class, I could already tell.
When I had been a bank teller, the tool I used every single day was money. The bank supplied this. When I was a hostess at the seafood restaurant, the main tools I used were the reservation book and the phone. Again, provided by my employer. When I worked at the department store doing gift-wrapping, guess what my tools were? That’s right: wrapping paper and scissors, courtesy of the management.
I craned my neck to see what he had written so far. He was a large man, and his broad shoulders blocked the board. I tried to guess what it could be: pen? paper? typewriter? pencil? dictionary?
He finally stepped to the side. He had written
A.................................. W
..................C ...................F .......................Z
......R..................... B .............X ..........N........ V
Q ..............J ...............O .............L
..D ..................H ......M ..................Y
S............... I................ E.......... G
.............................K ........................P
U..................... T
As far as I could tell, these were just letters, not even real true words. I looked around to gauge others’ reactions. They appeared as shocked as I was. I raised my hand.
“Yes, you in the red shirt,” he pointed at me.
“Professor, uh, my dad just wrote quite a large tuition check, and on behalf of him, uh, I am expecting more material to work with. Maybe some actual words like palaver, or redundant, or angst? These letters, well … did you get them on sale or something? They don’t even have anything attached to them.”
A murmur went through the group. I could tell everyone agreed with me.
“What is your name?” Professor Broysen asked me.
“MOV,” I replied.
“MOV, my point is that under our current parameters at this university, and, to be frank, budget cuts, we are only able to offer you the basics. Twenty-six of them, to be exact.”
I started to cry. I didn’t want to, but I could feel hot tears of despair on my cheeks.
Someone else spoke. “Professor, what do you expect us to do with these letters?” He said these letters like you might say nuclear waste.
“Well, that is the beauty of these letters: their versatility. You can make any words from them. And, as you might already know, words are the building blocks of books.”
I hated it when teachers did this. Went from the introductory thing—ZOOM—to the advanced part. Letters … books!
Arms shot up around the room.
“Professor!”
“Excuse me!”
“Sir!”
“I have something to say!”
Then someone blurted out what we all wanted to ask: What about sentences? and paragraphs? stories? chapters? Huh? What about those?
“You will figure it out,” he winked, “This is college, people. Take these tools, these alphabet letters, and create something great.”
I walked out, depressed. I went straight to the Administrative Office.
“Excuse me?” I said to the secretary. “I would like to petition to change my major. To accounting.”
I hear they give out numbers.
MOV
At the top, he scribbled “TOOLS FOR WRITING.” This was good. I was going to get a lot out of this class, I could already tell.
When I had been a bank teller, the tool I used every single day was money. The bank supplied this. When I was a hostess at the seafood restaurant, the main tools I used were the reservation book and the phone. Again, provided by my employer. When I worked at the department store doing gift-wrapping, guess what my tools were? That’s right: wrapping paper and scissors, courtesy of the management.
I craned my neck to see what he had written so far. He was a large man, and his broad shoulders blocked the board. I tried to guess what it could be: pen? paper? typewriter? pencil? dictionary?
He finally stepped to the side. He had written
A.................................. W
..................C ...................F .......................Z
......R..................... B .............X ..........N........ V
Q ..............J ...............O .............L
..D ..................H ......M ..................Y
S............... I................ E.......... G
.............................K ........................P
U..................... T
As far as I could tell, these were just letters, not even real true words. I looked around to gauge others’ reactions. They appeared as shocked as I was. I raised my hand.
“Yes, you in the red shirt,” he pointed at me.
“Professor, uh, my dad just wrote quite a large tuition check, and on behalf of him, uh, I am expecting more material to work with. Maybe some actual words like palaver, or redundant, or angst? These letters, well … did you get them on sale or something? They don’t even have anything attached to them.”
A murmur went through the group. I could tell everyone agreed with me.
“What is your name?” Professor Broysen asked me.
“MOV,” I replied.
“MOV, my point is that under our current parameters at this university, and, to be frank, budget cuts, we are only able to offer you the basics. Twenty-six of them, to be exact.”
I started to cry. I didn’t want to, but I could feel hot tears of despair on my cheeks.
Someone else spoke. “Professor, what do you expect us to do with these letters?” He said these letters like you might say nuclear waste.
“Well, that is the beauty of these letters: their versatility. You can make any words from them. And, as you might already know, words are the building blocks of books.”
I hated it when teachers did this. Went from the introductory thing—ZOOM—to the advanced part. Letters … books!
Arms shot up around the room.
“Professor!”
“Excuse me!”
“Sir!”
“I have something to say!”
Then someone blurted out what we all wanted to ask: What about sentences? and paragraphs? stories? chapters? Huh? What about those?
“You will figure it out,” he winked, “This is college, people. Take these tools, these alphabet letters, and create something great.”
I walked out, depressed. I went straight to the Administrative Office.
“Excuse me?” I said to the secretary. “I would like to petition to change my major. To accounting.”
I hear they give out numbers.
MOV
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