Short is sick today. When he woke up with a nasty cough, I told him he was staying home. He asked if that meant unlimited hot chocolate, so the Nice Mommy/ Bad Nutritionist said, “Sure!” Next, I informed him, “We have to call your school to let them know you’re sick.”
He looked me in the eye, a flat expression on his little round face, and said completely deadpan:
“No. Just let them guess.”
(This is why the school secretary loves me.)
MOV
("Meet Our Virus")
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
552. The New Better-Paying Top Secret Job
Okay, I haven’t been totally honest about my New Better-Paying Top Secret Job. It is better-paying then the previous Top Secret Job and better-paying than the high-end kitchen store, as long as I actually do work. The thing is, my new job is an “on-call” position.
When the HR lady initially interviewed me, she assured me that I would get oodles of hours. That might even have been her exact word, “oodles.”
“How many hours, exactly, are you looking for, Captain MOV?” I remember her asking me eagerly.
“Oh, you know, uh, what is a normal work-week these days? Forty? Four hundred? Somewhere in that vicinity.” She hired me for my math ability alone.
Sure enough, my phone rang that very night with an automated message from work. I pressed “1” to accept the job for the next day. My first day went surprisingly well, except for the part where I accidentally broke some very expensive equipment.
I immediately went to the office of my new boss to turn myself in.
“Excuse me? President Boss? Uh, remember me, MOV?”
She stopped what she was doing and glanced up. She nodded, indicating that she did indeed remember me.
I continued. “So sorry to interrupt your, uh, yearly stats meeting with the entire board, but, umm, I accidentally broke the (insert name of super-expensive piece of crucial equipment here).”
She smiled kindly at me, as if I’d just told her that Starbucks was out of caramel and did she want vanilla instead.
She responded, “No biggie. I think it was due to be replaced soon anyway. I’ll just add it to my list. Thanks for letting me know, MOV!”
That was the thing about President Boss. She made you feel like even though you might’ve unintentionally caused some sort of major problem, she was actually somehow grateful to you. I walked out of her office feeling good and wondering what else I could break and how soon.
My phone did not ring the next night, nor the one after. I became slightly suspicious that perhaps one of my new co-workers had said something mean or true about me (“MOV broke some expensive equipment” or “MOV is not very bright and should not be left alone if at all possible”). I began to worry that I had made a grave mistake, accepting this New Better-Paying Top Secret Job, when I could have kept working at the high-end kitchen store for the rest of my life, or at least indefinitely. My superior math-deducing skills told me that zero hours would equal, uh, probably not a very big paycheck.
The next day, I didn’t bother to set the alarm. What’s the point if I am just staying home? Who cares if I take a shower and wash my hair or not? The New Better-Paying Top Secret Job is obviously not calling me. At 7 AM, the phone did ring. I had an assignment!
I arrived to work exactly on time, greasy hair and all. I even had enough time left over to pour myself a cup of fresh coffee from the lunchroom when I arrived.
I ran into President Boss in the hall. “How is everything going for you, Countess MOV?” she inquired enthusiastically.
“Great! Just great!” I made a grand sweeping gesture with my arm, to echo the sentiment of “great.” I spilled my entire cup of hot black coffee on the pristine white carpet.
President Boss looked at the floor, then up at me.
“Are you okay?” she asked without even the slightest trace of sarcasm, as she produced a handful of paper towels from out of nowhere. “You didn’t burn yourself, did you?”
“No, no … I’m fine,” I managed weakly.
And then I heard her say under her breath, “This carpet is so old anyway. I’m going to add it to the list.”
MOV
When the HR lady initially interviewed me, she assured me that I would get oodles of hours. That might even have been her exact word, “oodles.”
“How many hours, exactly, are you looking for, Captain MOV?” I remember her asking me eagerly.
“Oh, you know, uh, what is a normal work-week these days? Forty? Four hundred? Somewhere in that vicinity.” She hired me for my math ability alone.
Sure enough, my phone rang that very night with an automated message from work. I pressed “1” to accept the job for the next day. My first day went surprisingly well, except for the part where I accidentally broke some very expensive equipment.
I immediately went to the office of my new boss to turn myself in.
“Excuse me? President Boss? Uh, remember me, MOV?”
She stopped what she was doing and glanced up. She nodded, indicating that she did indeed remember me.
I continued. “So sorry to interrupt your, uh, yearly stats meeting with the entire board, but, umm, I accidentally broke the (insert name of super-expensive piece of crucial equipment here).”
She smiled kindly at me, as if I’d just told her that Starbucks was out of caramel and did she want vanilla instead.
She responded, “No biggie. I think it was due to be replaced soon anyway. I’ll just add it to my list. Thanks for letting me know, MOV!”
That was the thing about President Boss. She made you feel like even though you might’ve unintentionally caused some sort of major problem, she was actually somehow grateful to you. I walked out of her office feeling good and wondering what else I could break and how soon.
My phone did not ring the next night, nor the one after. I became slightly suspicious that perhaps one of my new co-workers had said something mean or true about me (“MOV broke some expensive equipment” or “MOV is not very bright and should not be left alone if at all possible”). I began to worry that I had made a grave mistake, accepting this New Better-Paying Top Secret Job, when I could have kept working at the high-end kitchen store for the rest of my life, or at least indefinitely. My superior math-deducing skills told me that zero hours would equal, uh, probably not a very big paycheck.
The next day, I didn’t bother to set the alarm. What’s the point if I am just staying home? Who cares if I take a shower and wash my hair or not? The New Better-Paying Top Secret Job is obviously not calling me. At 7 AM, the phone did ring. I had an assignment!
I arrived to work exactly on time, greasy hair and all. I even had enough time left over to pour myself a cup of fresh coffee from the lunchroom when I arrived.
I ran into President Boss in the hall. “How is everything going for you, Countess MOV?” she inquired enthusiastically.
“Great! Just great!” I made a grand sweeping gesture with my arm, to echo the sentiment of “great.” I spilled my entire cup of hot black coffee on the pristine white carpet.
President Boss looked at the floor, then up at me.
“Are you okay?” she asked without even the slightest trace of sarcasm, as she produced a handful of paper towels from out of nowhere. “You didn’t burn yourself, did you?”
“No, no … I’m fine,” I managed weakly.
And then I heard her say under her breath, “This carpet is so old anyway. I’m going to add it to the list.”
MOV
Monday, October 24, 2011
551. Project Someday
So I have been known to watch a reality show or five. Project Runway currently takes the top spot in my TiVo Queue of Urgency. It got me thinking about other potential ideas for new shows.
Project Nunway: A cross (get it?) between Project Runway and a Church salvation-type show. Instead of making new outfits, they would be making over lives.
Project Funway: Like the above, but about drug-addicts (before they hit rock bottom and quit drugs).
Project Gunnway: I know you think this is going to be about firearms and guns—wrong. This would be EXACTLY like Project Runway, but would give Heidi Klum a break and Tim Gunn would host instead.
Project Segway: A documentary about the inventing of the Segway, specifically focusing on how annoying they are to everyone else not on one, and how superior you feel if you are on one.
Project Sunday: A contest to see which moms can accomplish the most on the supposed one day “off” (this would of course be accompanied by husbands lounging around doing nothing but watch football).
Project Punway: This contest would pit comedians against one another in an attempt to see who is the funniest. Winner would get his own sitcom on ABC.
Project Running Away: A documentary about runaway teens, especially if they are well-dressed.
Project Oneway: A show about a mom who refuses to listen to her (constantly interrupting) children, and instead insists that they do what she says.
Project Sunway: A show about a mom (see above) who flees her life of folding laundry and driving carpool to go to Hawaii and selfishly start over, with nothing but an out-of-style black one-piece swimsuit, some cellulite, and an uncharged cell-phone in her possession. (I know someone who might be interested in starring.)
Project Faraway: A documentary about looking for one’s former self, specifically the size 8 version that one knew so well when one was 23, but one has somehow misplaced in a former elusive decade.
Project Highway: A documentary about building roads. This would be targeted to the demographic of three- and four-year-old boys.
Project Giveaway: A show where they give prizes to deserving blog writers who have never won anything. Prizes could include (but are not limited to) a trip to Hawaii, a gift card for Barnes & Noble, or a permanent live-in nanny.
Project Throwaway: The concept here is following a mom around when her kids are at school and watching how she miraculously makes certain annoying beeping toys, favorite Sponge Bob t-shirts, and three-minute “art” projects disappear into the trash, never to be seen again.
Project No Way: A comedy that stars a defiant seven-year-old who basically disagrees with everything his mom says, even when she is right, which is 99.99% of the time.
Project Halfway: A horror show about a home (possibly mine) that never gets cleaned all the way, but instead looks either messy or really messy, causing the owners to simply close the doors to every room so that people will not know the truth. The owners spend a lot of time sitting in the hall because, you know, it’s clean there.
Feel free to write to your favorite TV producer or friend who does marketing for Bravo. You’re welcome.
MOV
("Mother Of Variety")
Project Nunway: A cross (get it?) between Project Runway and a Church salvation-type show. Instead of making new outfits, they would be making over lives.
Project Funway: Like the above, but about drug-addicts (before they hit rock bottom and quit drugs).
Project Gunnway: I know you think this is going to be about firearms and guns—wrong. This would be EXACTLY like Project Runway, but would give Heidi Klum a break and Tim Gunn would host instead.
Project Segway: A documentary about the inventing of the Segway, specifically focusing on how annoying they are to everyone else not on one, and how superior you feel if you are on one.
Project Sunday: A contest to see which moms can accomplish the most on the supposed one day “off” (this would of course be accompanied by husbands lounging around doing nothing but watch football).
Project Punway: This contest would pit comedians against one another in an attempt to see who is the funniest. Winner would get his own sitcom on ABC.
Project Running Away: A documentary about runaway teens, especially if they are well-dressed.
Project Oneway: A show about a mom who refuses to listen to her (constantly interrupting) children, and instead insists that they do what she says.
Project Sunway: A show about a mom (see above) who flees her life of folding laundry and driving carpool to go to Hawaii and selfishly start over, with nothing but an out-of-style black one-piece swimsuit, some cellulite, and an uncharged cell-phone in her possession. (I know someone who might be interested in starring.)
Project Faraway: A documentary about looking for one’s former self, specifically the size 8 version that one knew so well when one was 23, but one has somehow misplaced in a former elusive decade.
Project Highway: A documentary about building roads. This would be targeted to the demographic of three- and four-year-old boys.
Project Giveaway: A show where they give prizes to deserving blog writers who have never won anything. Prizes could include (but are not limited to) a trip to Hawaii, a gift card for Barnes & Noble, or a permanent live-in nanny.
Project Throwaway: The concept here is following a mom around when her kids are at school and watching how she miraculously makes certain annoying beeping toys, favorite Sponge Bob t-shirts, and three-minute “art” projects disappear into the trash, never to be seen again.
Project No Way: A comedy that stars a defiant seven-year-old who basically disagrees with everything his mom says, even when she is right, which is 99.99% of the time.
Project Halfway: A horror show about a home (possibly mine) that never gets cleaned all the way, but instead looks either messy or really messy, causing the owners to simply close the doors to every room so that people will not know the truth. The owners spend a lot of time sitting in the hall because, you know, it’s clean there.
Feel free to write to your favorite TV producer or friend who does marketing for Bravo. You’re welcome.
MOV
("Mother Of Variety")
Saturday, October 22, 2011
550. How I Know He Is My Son
Yesterday, my sons and I played an impromptu game of baseball in our backyard. We hit the ball, we ran, we cried, we slid, we tagged people out, and we had temper-tantrums. About halfway through the 3rd quarter of the final round of the game, I was ahead by approximately four goals (I believe in baseball parlance they’re called “touchdowns”). Tall was sulking, as he tends to do when he is not the best at something (I wonder where he gets that from?), when suddenly, out of nowhere, he lunged for an impossible pop-fly.
As if magnetically led by gravity, magic, and Lotto-winning luck, the ball went right into Tall’s little paw where it remained in his Velcro-like grip.
“Mom!” he screamed. “Mom! I caught it!” His face lit up like a thousand gazillion Christmas trees when you are just testing the lights to see if they work. His skills were a remarkable triumph of catching, and even better, not letting go.
And then I heard him say it …
“Does that mean I score an extra point, Mom? Because I thought I remembered something about a point for catching the ball. Because catching is hard.”
MOV
As if magnetically led by gravity, magic, and Lotto-winning luck, the ball went right into Tall’s little paw where it remained in his Velcro-like grip.
“Mom!” he screamed. “Mom! I caught it!” His face lit up like a thousand gazillion Christmas trees when you are just testing the lights to see if they work. His skills were a remarkable triumph of catching, and even better, not letting go.
And then I heard him say it …
“Does that mean I score an extra point, Mom? Because I thought I remembered something about a point for catching the ball. Because catching is hard.”
MOV
549. Let's Talk About The Weather
Children are little tape recorders. You make one random, off-handed remark about a neighbor, and before you know it, you overhear it being played back to you later that same day (“What does ‘Bipolar’ mean again, Mom?”). For this reason, The Husband and I have had to taper back our gossip a bit.
It's like living with midget Saints. Saint Tall and Saint Short bop around our house, going about their business of playing LEGOs or Pokémon or doing their spelling homework, all the time secretly noting any interesting conversational infraction that has occurred.
Some tip off words and phrases that seem to garner the most unwanted attention: liar, promiscuous, quit his job again, unreliable, flake, obese, drug-addict, repossessed, wasted, jail, irresponsible, cheap, obnoxious, cheated on, extravagant, lazy, or any word of the four-letter variety. For some reason, if one of these words makes it into a chat about a movie star, distant relative, acquaintance, or even fictitious character, the house becomes deadly quiet and a three-foot shadow appears in the doorway.
“I don’t think she's obese, Mommy, she might just be big-boned.”
Gahhhhhhh!
Much monitoring of words goes on in my head, but it is hard to talk about sunshine and puppies and Christmas every day.
When the kids first started being able to mimic us, we took to whispering, spelling words out, or even communicating in Spanish (however, since I am the only one in our household who can speak Spanish 101, The Husband had a difficult time keeping up; we were forced to nix this method). We started writing things down, but who wants to find notes scattered around the house later that read, “bizarro telemarketer” or “mean lady at the bank.”
Instead, The Husband and I lock eyes and say a terse, “We’ll talk about it later,” which we all know is code for “We’ll talk about it never.”
MOV
It's like living with midget Saints. Saint Tall and Saint Short bop around our house, going about their business of playing LEGOs or Pokémon or doing their spelling homework, all the time secretly noting any interesting conversational infraction that has occurred.
Some tip off words and phrases that seem to garner the most unwanted attention: liar, promiscuous, quit his job again, unreliable, flake, obese, drug-addict, repossessed, wasted, jail, irresponsible, cheap, obnoxious, cheated on, extravagant, lazy, or any word of the four-letter variety. For some reason, if one of these words makes it into a chat about a movie star, distant relative, acquaintance, or even fictitious character, the house becomes deadly quiet and a three-foot shadow appears in the doorway.
“I don’t think she's obese, Mommy, she might just be big-boned.”
Gahhhhhhh!
Much monitoring of words goes on in my head, but it is hard to talk about sunshine and puppies and Christmas every day.
When the kids first started being able to mimic us, we took to whispering, spelling words out, or even communicating in Spanish (however, since I am the only one in our household who can speak Spanish 101, The Husband had a difficult time keeping up; we were forced to nix this method). We started writing things down, but who wants to find notes scattered around the house later that read, “bizarro telemarketer” or “mean lady at the bank.”
Instead, The Husband and I lock eyes and say a terse, “We’ll talk about it later,” which we all know is code for “We’ll talk about it never.”
MOV
Monday, October 17, 2011
544. So Which Religion Are You?
“Mom,” began the seven-year-old, innocently enough, “which religion are we again? Republican or Dominican?”
MOV
MOV
Sunday, October 16, 2011
543. My Dyslexic Washing Machine
So my washing machine is a relic of happier times, times when people drove around in gigantic cars with fins and no seatbelts, and watched boxy TV sets in black and white without remote controls. My washing machine (in all its pastel glory, sporting a color that can best be described as “understated cantaloupe”) is what the listing agent who sold us our house affectionately referred to as “original.” I am not picky about washing machines, just as long as they accept soap, produce water, and swirl the clothes around. My vintage washer does all these things.
But.
My washer likes to surprise me. I leave the dials in the same spot approximately 99.9% of the time (cold, delicate), and yet, my washer likes to dictate its own temperature and activity levels according to its mercurial moods.
“Cold?” washer inquires in that antiquey metallic voice. “Uh, no. I prefer hot now.”
I put my hand in to verify the cold, and my skin is scalded off in unattractive, blistery chunks.
The one time I am washing all whites and think, Hmm, maybe a dash of bleach and I will set the cycle on hot today, washer decides, “Let’s try cold this time. Icy. Mmm. That’s refreshing.”
I want to pull all the dials off in a rage, a rage of Temperature Angst, but when I try, washer clenches down its bolts and screws and says, “Ha! I was made more sturdiest than you thought!” (washer has good bolts, but lousy grammar).
Come on, washer, I whine, Can’t you do what I ask for once?
Washer laughs. “Tell you what, MOV, I can do what you ask … exactly as often as your own two children do.”
Point: Washer.
MOV
("Machine Of Vexation")
But.
My washer likes to surprise me. I leave the dials in the same spot approximately 99.9% of the time (cold, delicate), and yet, my washer likes to dictate its own temperature and activity levels according to its mercurial moods.
“Cold?” washer inquires in that antiquey metallic voice. “Uh, no. I prefer hot now.”
I put my hand in to verify the cold, and my skin is scalded off in unattractive, blistery chunks.
The one time I am washing all whites and think, Hmm, maybe a dash of bleach and I will set the cycle on hot today, washer decides, “Let’s try cold this time. Icy. Mmm. That’s refreshing.”
I want to pull all the dials off in a rage, a rage of Temperature Angst, but when I try, washer clenches down its bolts and screws and says, “Ha! I was made more sturdiest than you thought!” (washer has good bolts, but lousy grammar).
Come on, washer, I whine, Can’t you do what I ask for once?
Washer laughs. “Tell you what, MOV, I can do what you ask … exactly as often as your own two children do.”
Point: Washer.
MOV
("Machine Of Vexation")
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