767. Muse Gets Arrested

Honestly, I can’t say I was surprised.  I hadn’t heard from her in days, and when she did make a brief appearance, she was hung-over.    

Still, when my phone rang at 3 AM, I wasn’t quite prepared. 

“MOV, don’t hang up,” she said, as if I would ever hang up on the source of my inspiration, “you are my one phone call.”  I heard sirens in the background.    

Of course I zipped right down to the police station to get her out.  The Husband wasn’t happy about my late-night rendezvous.  “Geesh, MOV, there are other people she could call!”  He refused to go with me.  “What did she do this time, kill someone?”    

Turns out, she had been arrested for resisting arrest. 

“How can you be arrested for resisting arrest?” I asked the policeman at the desk. 

“Well, technically, we pulled her over on suspicion of DUI, but then her blood alcohol level tested clean as water.  But she did seem drunk.  She’s an enigma, that one.”  He shrugged, then went back to scribbling down important police notes. 

“I posted your bail,” I said to Muse as a different policeman unlocked her cell, “you owe me.” 

She guffawed.  “Let me get this straight:  I have inspired every word you’ve ever written, yet I owe you?  Ha!” 

I did not like this bitchy side of her.  The policeman suppressed a smile.  Even messy, Muse titillated men and women alike.  She was like a magnet, a beautiful and defiant magnet.           

I took a deep breath and stated calmly, “Muse, I called an attorney.  You’re paying for that, though, I don’t care how many good ideas you have.  I am running out of patience and money.” 

She sauntered over to a small mirror hung on the side of the office and studied her reflection.  She puckered up her lips provocatively; I thought she might kiss the glass.    

“That’s okay, I think I’m going to stay here.” She winked at me, then went back in her cell. 

**********

765. Muse Gone AWOL

I hadn't seen my muse all weekend.  She had been known to disappear for days at a time, so, really, I wasn't too concerned just yet. 

Monday morning rolled around, and I headed out my front door to get the newspaper.  I was in my pajamas, as it was only 6 AM.  There was Muse on the front porch, waiting for me.  Or hiding from me, I couldn't tell which. 

She said, "Oh, hey, it's you, MOV, what's going on?"  Her make-up was smeared, she looked like she hadn't slept in 48 hours, and she was still wearing the same outfit  I had last seen her in on Friday. 

"What do you mean, 'What's going on'?  I live here,"  I replied tersely.  "I am getting my newspaper.  You look terrible, Muse, you should take a shower and maybe drink a pot of coffee.  Hold on, I'll just throw some jeans on and drive you over to Starbucks." 

"I have some ideash for you, MOVee, some realllllllllly good ideash.  We gotta talk."  She reeked of alcohol. 

"Oh, Muse, not again.  Forget the coffee, why don't you come in and just take a nap?  Hmm?  Come on, just lie down on the couch for a while." 

"New York," she whispered, "You have to write the story about that flight you had there, you know, when Nick Nolte was in first class?  That is a great story." 

"It wasn't Nick Nolte, it was Michael Keaton." 

"Nick Nolte." 

"Michael Keaton."  Now I was beginning to doubt myself.  Well, Muse had never been wrong before, I needed to scribble down the idea before she took off. 

"Hold on, Muse, let me grab a pen and paper, gimme a sec."  I walked in the front door and picked up a pen and grabbed an old envelope off the top of the trash. 

"Ok, I'm back.  What was it now?" 

She was gone.  And so was the idea. 

MOV

764. The Muse

My muse likes to strike while I am driving.  I might be driving to work, or the grocery store, or the post office, and all of sudden, Muse gets chatty.  “Hey, the Raccoon Story!  You never wrote about that yet, did you?” (Muse has a talent for ideas, but alas, no talent for grammar).  I glance at Muse out of the corner of my eye, then ask if she could pretty please hand me that pad of paper and pen Queen Virgo keeps in the glove compartment. 

“Oh, I can’t quite reach it,” says Muse, looking at her fresh manicure and then flipping the sun visor down so she can double-check her lipstick, “but don’t worry, you’ll remember it!” 



Muse does not realize that I have the memory of an elephant who lost a chunk of his brain in an overly aggressive skiing accident. 

I have no memory.  Less than none, I have negative memory.  I remember things that never happened and forget things that might never have happened or happened to someone else when they should not have been happening to me.   



For now, I focus on the yellow traffic light, mentally calculating if I should run it.  I step on the gas.  Then, I take a deep breath and slowly count to ten, take another deep breath, and yell at Muse anyway.  “Give me the %#*@ paper, Muse!  Hand it to me!  Stop fussing with your appearance, no one but me can see you anyway!” 

Muse slams the mirror back up.  “Well, if you are going to talk to me that way, Missy, you have another thing coming!  I hear Mitt Romney needs a muse!  I’ll just zip on up to Boston.  I am outta here!” 

  

And like that, she’s gone.  I am despondent.  I did not have a chance to write down the Typhoon Story (and seriously, this is how she confuses me:  I do not even remember being in a typhoon, so why did she recommend that as a story idea?), and now the idea is lost forever. 

The next day, I am getting out of the shower and there she is.  “I think you should write about that restaurant, you know, the one that had the red mosaic tile in the hostess area?  Remember when you took the kids there?  That is a super-funny story!” 

“Yes, you’re right!  Yes!  Red-tile-restaurant-dinner, red-tile-restaurant-dinner, red-tile-restaurant-dinner,” I begin chanting it like a mantra while I grab a towel. 

“What are you talking about?” shouts The Husband from the next room. 

“Nothing, Sweetie, nothing—I just had this great idea to write about, uh, uh … the restaurant with the red bench outside?  Wait, no.  The store with the blue chandelier?  Wait.  No!” 

Damn, Muse!  Come back! 

That night, I am lying in bed, just about to doze off. 

“Hey, MOV, it’s me!  I have such a great idea about the Space Shuttle!  You need to write this one down though.”  She pokes me in the arm with a sharp pencil.    

I ignore her, roll over, and go to sleep. 

I know I’ll probably see her again somewhere tomorrow, who knows-- maybe even on my drive to work.

MOV 

763. The Perfectionista

Queen Virgo sees people struggle every day to be more organized and get things right. 

She tries hard to educate them, but frankly, she’s tired.  Here are some differences she’s noted: 

The Rest of the World:   Eats over the sink if company will be coming over
Queen Virgo:  Eats over the sink always

World:  Sharpens pencils if/ when they need it
QV:  Sharpens pencils daily

World: Makes mistakes
QV:  Points out other people’s mistakes

World:  Writes illegibly
QV:   Types neatly on the computer, then spellchecks, grammar-checks, proofreads, cross-references, and edits.  Twice. 
     
World:  Forgets grocery list at home
QV:  Forgets grocery list at home, but has back-up laminated grocery list and dry erase marker in the glove compartment

World:  Likes to watch TV
QV:  Likes to imagine better dialogue she could write for so-called “reality” shows

World:  Sees “deadline” as a helpful suggestion, not an absolute
QV:  Sees the word “dead” in deadline (take it for what you will)

World:  Shrugs and walks out of a room if it is too messy 
QV:  Starts shaking, breaking out in cold sweat if a room is too messy; then spends next three hours fixing it (later wonders why she is not invited back to her friends’ houses for dinner)    

World: Wonders how Virgos can stand themselves
QV:   Wonders how anyone can stand to NOT be Virgo  

As you can see, being a Virgo (a.k.a. “Perfectionista”) is hard work.  Queen Virgo is going to take the rest of the day off.  If you need her, you can find her alphabetizing her wine collection.  Again. 

MOV
("Me--Original Virgo")

759. Mad Cooking Skillz

Queen Virgo is used to precision.  When she tells the hairdresser she wants two inches cut off the overall length of her hair, she inevitably produces a ruler out of her own purse to show the hairdresser what two inches really means, so they are both speaking the same language:  the language of Virgo.  So it should come as no surprise that Queen Virgo uses a timer when she boils noodles. 

“What are you doing?!?” I ask The Husband, barely hiding the mild panic in my voice, “You just dumped that macaroni in the pot but forgot to set the timer!”  I reach past him to the window ledge above the kitchen sink so I can grab the timer (digital, natch) and rectify the situation. 
“The timer’s batteries died,” shrugs The Husband, “and besides, timers are for wimps.” 

Wimps who like their noodles cook al dente like God and Rome intended, not all swampy like mud in the backyard after a particularly fierce storm.

“No, no, no,” Queen Virgo cannot abide the situation, “if the timer is broken, I’ll just watch the clock for you.”  I stare at the clock: 5:37 PM.  I glance at the noodle package, and see the instructions indicate eight minutes.  Okay, so 5:37 plus eight is—

“Scoot,” he pushes me out of the kitchen.  “I’m not a child.  I think I know how to make noodles.”

But see?  That’s the problem—he doesn’t.  The Ghost of Negative Experiences Past appears, sitting calmly at the dining room table, and she is making a face, a face like “ick.” 

“Might as well order a pizza, or make yourself a sandwich, or you could have cereal for dinner again,” whispers GoNEP, while flipping through a décor magazine, “we both know how this is going to turn out.” 

Unfortunately, she’s right.  “Sweetie,” I say to The Husband encouragingly, “there must be some batteries in the basement somewhere?  Let’s put new batteries in the timer.”  

He scowls at me, and GoNEP rolls her eyes.  GoNEP taps a magazine page for me to look at.  “Check this out—apple green walls!  Remember when we tried that in Tall’s bedroom in California?  Huge mistake.  The color on the paint chip is never the same as the one in the picture.”     

I nod.  Of course I remember that apple green she’s talking about.  We ended up having to paint his room three times to get the color right.  GoNEP follows me almost everywhere; she and I are pals. 

The Husband calls the boys to dinner, and I tell GoNEP she must leave now, there’s no room for her at our small table. 

Tall lays the silverware and napkins out, and The Husband brings in the pot of macaroni and cheese.  It resembles not so much an Italian gourmet meal as a yellow pool of mush.  I can’t say anything, though, because as much as I love to be right, I hate to cook even more.  I know if I say, “The noodles are horrible,” then The Husband will respond with, “Then you can cook dinner tomorrow night.” 

I walk in the kitchen and get an apple. 

“What are you doing?” inquires The Husband, “Dinner is right here.” 

GoNEP hides next to the refrigerator and coaches me on what to say.  “I’m suddenly craving an apple, Sweetie, I actually had a big lunch.” 

It’s okay:  Queen Virgo could stand to lose a few pounds. 

MOV

757. Swear Words: A Primer

If you find yourself in a situation where you are around elementary-aged children, perhaps in a school environment, you will notice that they might seek you out as an adult authority figure to inform you of various infractions made by their peers.  Typical infractions involve (but are not limited to) hitting, pushing, cutting in line, talking too loud, not doing their work, and swearing. 

Ah, yes, swearing.  But they don’t call it swearing at age eight, they call it “saying a bad word.” 

The first time a child-turned-informant approaches you with such news, you might (understandably) be taken aback.  The conversation may or may not play out like this:    

“Mrs. MOV!  Mrs. MOV!  Jacob/ Joshua/ Jack said a bad word!  He said the F-word!” 

You might feel beads of sweat collecting on your forehead.  You might wonder to yourself exactly what kind of television shows second-graders (second-graders!) are watching nowadays to have ever been exposed to the F-word.    

You might try to act calm.  You are the adult, after all.  You might try not to panic.  You might mentally give yourself a little pep talk and tell yourself to take a deep breath.  “Okay, Emily/ Emma/ Elizabeth, can you please whisper to me the word he said?” 

You might lean down to the height of the tiny girl as she cups her itty-bitty hand over her mouth close to your ear.  Then she might clearly enunciate a word, a word you were not really expecting, a word that you never thought you would be so happy to hear:

“Fart.” 

Oh, okay, of course.    

If you are around children of this age group for more than one day, your “bad word” repertoire might expand.  You might learn an entirely new language, a language you were previously unfamiliar with.  Here are some more words you might learn:  

• The D-word:  Dummy
• The S-word:  Stupid
• The C-word:  Ca-ca
• The H-word:  Homework

You might drive home and tell your husband about the new words you have learned.  And you might share a good laugh, a laugh of temporary relief, because you both know that when these kids are teenagers, the words will stand for something else. 

MOV

752. X-ray Starts With "X"

We didn’t actually start with the x-ray, we finished with it.  “Yes, it’s broken,” verified the doctor, proving that Short was, in fact, not being overly dramatic after all when he was screaming in agony.  “His collarbone is broken.” 

I had been with him.  Short was merrily running down the sidewalk with me following along just five feet behind him, like we do every day of our lives.  He tripped on something (a branch? a bump in the cement?  his own two feet?  nothing?) and then next thing you know, he was crumpled on the ground, gripping his shoulder in pain. 

I'd heard the bone break.  (It's a chilling sound, it haunts me even now—a decisive "snap.")  Time stood still while I prayed that Short's face would not be covered in blood.  There was no blood, not a drop.  I scooped up my wailing child and carried him two blocks home.  We made a frantic call to a neighbor so we could drop off Tall, then The Husband and I drove Short to the ER. 

“Well, hello, MOV, back so soon?” greeted the girl at the check-in desk. 

“Hi, Denise, nice to see you again,” I nodded at her.

A nurse brought us back to a small exam room where we waited for the doctor.  Short lay his head on my lap and whimpered.  After what seemed like four hours but was most likely 20 minutes, he came in. 

“MOV, how’ve you been?  Which kid do you have with you today?”  the doctor asked.  “Oh, and did you remember to bring your frequent patient card with you this time?  You know the 10^th visit is free.”   

I handed him my keychain, where I had wedged the frequent patient card through the loop next to my car key.  “I never leave home without it,” I forced a laugh. 

Short sat up.  “Am I going to get a cast?” he inquired. 

“Let’s just take a look at what we’ve got here.”  Next, a technician took Short into the x-ray room.  A few minutes later, the doctor and I were looking at the x-rays on the light screen.

“See that?  That’s the break.  We’ll put him in a sling and he’ll be good as new in six weeks.” 

Six weeks?  The bone could repair itself in just six weeks?  There was to be no cast, no surgery … just Children’s Tylenol, rest, and a sling.  The doctor gently touched Short's shoulder as he adjusted the small sling across his chest; Short cried out unexpectedly, his loud scream piercing through the hospital chaos.   

It’s a good thing they didn’t x-ray my heart at that moment:  there’s an irreparable fracture from me being helpless while witnessing my child endure such pain. 

MOV