793. Muse: The Movie

I walked into my living room and there she was. 

“Muse, get off the fireplace please,” I said with absolutely no inflection in my voice whatsoever.  “The Husband is still cleaning your shoe marks off the mantle from last time.” 

“MOV, I have news.”  She said news like one might say skin cancer, which, given her penchant for sunny locales and 32-ounce baby oil, would not really surprise me. 

“Do you have skin cancer, Muse?  If you caught it early, it’s totally treatable—”

“No.  Worse.” 

Long dramatic pause, so typical for Muse. 

“MOV, they’re not making my movie.” 

I had known Muse my entire life.  She was nothing if not inspirational.  If she wanted to be in a movie, or write a movie, or have anything to do with a movie, it would be a smashing success.  Any producer would be crazy to not make her movie. 

“So the producer I met with is crazy,” she began.  “He told me they already did a Muse movie a few years back with Sharon Stone and Andie MacDowell.”  Muse made a face like she just stepped in dog poop.  Dog poop from a Great Dane.  A Great Dane on steroids.   

“Oh, Muse, I’m sorry.  I know your movie would’ve been much better.” 

“Are you still talking about that?” asked Muse, distracted.  “I’m over it.  I have new adventures to plan.” 

Muse gave new meaning to the term ADD.  “Good for you, Muse!  Like what?” 

“Well, I popped in on Oakley the other day, and—”

“My sister?  My sister Oakley?  Why were you at her house?” 

“I was trying to tell you, quit interrupting.”  (I did not like this side of her:  bossy.  Unfortunately, it pretty much was her only side.)  “Like I was saying, Oakley and I are going to bike across country together.” 

I found this difficult to imagine:  Muse being athletic.  Once, Muse and I went shopping together for running shoes. 

Needless to say, she has not competed in any marathons lately.    

“Muse, are you sure this is a good idea?” 

“MOV!  Your sister is a pro bicyclist.  It’s what she does.  What could possibly go wrong?” 

(to be continued …)  

MOV

792. Adventures in Online Shopping

I am not much of an Internet clothing shopper.  I am more of an Internet clothing lurker.  Sure, I go to the Eddie Bauer, J.Crew, or Anthropologie sites, but ultimately I cannot pull the trigger. 

It has nothing to do with the safety of the site’s credit card processing center.  I will buy books on Amazon.  I will buy handmade greeting cards on etsy.  But a pair of jeans or a swimsuit that I cannot try on first?  Never. 

I am one of those body type sizes that is not easy to fit.  My body type is one that should possibly purchase a 12, but is somehow secretly convinced that the 8’s were made just for her.  When I walk into Nordstrom, I am slightly insulted that the 8’s don’t realize that they are my size.  The 8’s roll their eyes at me and whisper to their smaller sisters (the 6’s) about how I am delusional.  Ultimately, the 14’s take pity on me and promise they will be loose and comfy. 

Sitting in front of my computer and staring at the screen, some cute tops from Garnet Hill beckon.  They come in an array of colors, specific colors that I know look good on me.  The tops say, “Hey, MOV, we are basic.  We are flattering.  And we are on sale!” 

Now, if I was in the actual store and came across a cute top I like (which, sadly, is rare—both parts of the equation are rare:  the shopping and the finding things I like), I would most certainly buy three or four in different colors.  Black top, red top, white top, done! 

I let my finger hover over the mouse.  Do I want to put it in my virtual shopping basket?  Oh, look, free shipping!  I finally commit. 

The package arrives two days later (with normal ground shipping, not the insanely priced SuperQuick delivery); it is as if Garnet Hill had the tops already wrapped in tissue paper and sealed in their special mailing envelope just waiting for me to place the order (“She’ll do it,” Green Top whispers to Blue Top, “just you wait.  She’s impulsive!”). 

With a smugness normally reserved for volunteers in the African desert (“I am a good person to help poor people in Africa” = “I am smart to save money by buying in bulk and on sale”), I rip open the package.  There are my tops.  The ones that looked so cute on the 22-year-old college student model. 

I take them out of their protective plastic and spread them out on the sofa, like we are on an awkward blind date through an Internet matchmaking service, and I might offer them some ice-water or a glass of wine.  They look exactly like they did in the picture.

I take one to the bedroom and try it on.  And then I cry.  They are not tears of happiness, but tears of disappointment and despair.  I am yet another woman the Internet has lied to, another victim of high expectations and a non-Claudia Schiffer body. 

It’s not that the top does not fit.  It does.  It is the right size (umm, Large, thanks for asking) and fits fine.  It is just unflattering.  It just hangs on me, or rather droops. 

I wait ‘til The Husband gets home to confront him with his wife’s poor judgment in Internet clothing forays. 

“What do you think of this top?” I demand as he walks in the door balancing three bags of groceries. 

“It’s fine.  Where’d you get it?  A garage sale?” 

The shirt is unfazed.  The shirt seems indifferent to the critique. 

“No!  Not a garage sale!  I ordered it online!”

“Why?” 

“Because I needed a new shirt!” 

“If you don’t like it, send it back.” 

I don’t tell him that it’s not that easy.  Oh, sure, I could fill out the paperwork and go to the post office and mail the shirts back in their special return envelope.  Except for the fact that they were Final Sale, and Garnet Hill does not accept returns on Final Sale.   

I keep the shirts.  

I plan to sell them soon, maybe online or at a garage sale.

MOV           

789. A Who's Who of Virgo-ness

I talk a lot about being Virgo.   

If you are not a Virgo (and I simultaneously pity you and envy you), then let me give you a quick run-down of what it means to be Virgo. 


Virgos are born between August 23 –September 22.  Virgos are known for being

• neat
• orderly
• clean 
• quiet  
• observant 
• obsessive 
• detail-oriented 
• focused 
• critical
• judgmental
• picky
• negative 
• cold
• blunt 

They like things done their way (that would be:  the right way), and are happy to point out when things are not correct and how they can be improved.  Virgos are hypercritical, but they honestly believe they are helping others with their “constructive” criticism.  How can anyone improve if they are not aware of their faults?  Exactly.  Virgo will take the time to make people aware of their own faults. 


Because she is a giver like that.  


Here are some famous Virgos I found online (I put together the collage myself rather than settle for something substandard, because I am, well, Virgo):  

   


(Kelly, the fabulosa blogger from Southern Fried Children, is also Virgo.  FYI.) 


Virgos are very time-conscious.  They like to be punctual, and they like everyone else to be punctual, too. 


If you are running late, you'd better make up something about a helicopter medivac-ing an injured motorist off the freeway right in front of you. 

That is pretty much the only excuse that a Virgo might not challenge.     

I made you a handy-dandy reference chart of some Virgos and non-Virgos so you can tell the difference.  I will add more from time to time as I think of them. 

You are welcome.

MOV   

787. Muse Calls

“Oh, MOV, you aren’t going to believe this, but—”

“You were fired.” 

“Yes!  How did you know?” 

“I suspected.  But what’s the reason?  Lack of pilot’s license?  Criminal record?  Grand Theft Auto?  DUI?” 

“No, no, none of those things.  And I do have my pilot’s license.  I used to fly for Independence Air, didn’t I tell you that?” 

Muse was full of surprises.  “No, no, I never knew that, actually.”  I was impressed, but I didn’t want her to know I was.  Her ego was big enough to fit in a small plane, or a big plane. 

“I think I’m going to take them to court.  It was unconstitutional of them to fire me.” 


“Delta is allowed to fire you for a having a jail record.” 

“That’s not it, MOV.  I lost my job because of Facebook.” 

“What?  Are you kidding me?  What happened?” 

“They called me into the office after a flight and asked me to take some things off my Facebook page.  I refused.” 


“Like what?  What things?” 

“Well, just a few pictures of me partying, and maybe the chandelier photo where I may or may not be wearing undergarments.” 

“You were swinging from a chandelier naked?  What are you, Britney Spears?”   

“No, no, nothing like that.  It’s just, well, the photographer told me we were going to do a few artistic shots, so I wanted to be accommodating …”


“Artistic?  Artistic?  Oh, Muse, that’s the oldest line in the book!  But, okay, who cares about that, what did the Delta people say when you told them you’d take the questionable photos off your page?” 

“No, you don’t understand—I didn’t say that.  I said I was leaving them up, and if it mattered that much, they could fire me.” 

“They called your bluff.” 

“I wasn’t bluffing.” 

“So you would rather not have a job, a good job with good benefits, so you can have your Facebook page?” 

“No, it was the principle of it.  But anyway, I got rid of my Facebook.  Too time consuming.” 

“Muse, back up.  You stood by your principles that you deserved to keep your Facebook page, and then you got fired, and then you quit Facebook anyway?” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?” 

“I told you, it’s a time suck.  I had too many friends to keep track of.  And everyone was all, Hey Muse, hey, be my friend! And I’m all, Hey I don’t even know who you are! And then it turns out I met them at some party or they’re friends with some of my friends, or whatever.  Ugh.  I’d had enough.”

“Wait—how many friends exactly did you have?”

“Oh, I dunno, like 17, 368?  Something like that.  Oh, no, did I say 17,000?  Gah, I’m so dyslexic.  I mean 71,000.  That’s kind of average, though, right?” 

(I wasn’t on Facebook, but most people I knew did not have friends into the four or five figures.) 

“Muse, I think most normal people might have between 100 and 300 friends.  700 would be really high.” 

“Oh, well, good, they can have some of mine!  I don’t need them anymore!” 


I couldn’t think of anything to say.  I just waited for her to fill in the silence, it would happen soon enough. 

“So guess what, my phone is ringing like crazy!  I had to change my number!” 

“What now?” 


“Were you not listening?  Everyone is freaking out that I am off Facebook.  They’re all, Hey Muse, are you dead?  What happened?  Did I make you quit Facebook?  Everyone takes things so personally.” 


“Is it liberating, not being on it?” 

“It is.  I don’t miss it.  Except …”

“What?  What do you miss?” 

She sighed.  “Well, every once in a while, Prince William would post on my wall.  That was nice.” 

“But, Muse, he’s married!” 

“This is before they were engaged.  Remember, he and Kate were broken up for a while?  Broken up, back together, on a break, blah blah.  He kept changing his status.  We hooked up a couple of times.” 

The thought of Muse almost becoming Princess Muse was too much to bear. 

“You?  William?” 

“Mmmmm.  Yes.  And polo is not his only skill set, if you know what I mean.”  Muse giggled, then stopped abruptly. 

“I gotta go, MOV.  It was great talking to you.” 

“Wait—where are you going?” 

“I have a lunch date with my lawyer in half an hour.  He’s going to try to get my job back for me.  And right after that, I have a meeting with a movie producer.  I’m going to pitch my story.” 

“Oh, Muse.  Good luck with that.” 

“I don’t need luck, MOV.  I am luck.” 

MOV

785. Guess

“You’ll never guess who was on my flight today,” began The Husband provocatively. 

“Uh, I dunno, where’d you go again—Atlanta?” 

“Yeah, my meeting was in Atlanta.” 

I tried to think of famous people from Atlanta, famous people The Husband would know and I would know, but people that weren’t so famous that they would already have their own private jet and not fly commercial anymore. 

“Ted Turner?  Julia Roberts?  Dakota Fanning?” 

“Dakota who?  No.  It is someone you know.  Someone you know personally.  Guess again.” 

Honestly, I was too old for these games. 

“Come on, Sweetie, just tell me.  I give up!”  Had he not married me?  Did he not know about my Instant Gratification Gene, he’d lived with it for over ten years. 

“No.  You hafta guess.”  He grinned, airline pretzel crumbs still stuck in the side of one of his top teeth. 

“My sister?  John from the bus-stop?  My boss from the high-end kitchen store?” 

“Wow, those were really good guesses.  No.  It’s someone you see a lot, but then don’t see for a while.” 

“My dentist?” 

“No.” 

“Really, this is a dumb game.  Just tell me!” 

“All right, but you are gonna be mad you didn’t keep guessing.  Are you suuuuuuure you wanna know?” 

“YES!” 

“Okay, I saw … Muse.” 

“Was she in first class?” 

“No!  She was working the flight!” 

“Wait—what?” 

“You heard me.  She was on the flight crew!” 

“Muse is a flight attendant for Delta?” 

“Flight attendant?  No.  She was the co-pilot.” 

“She was the pilot?  Are you insane?  How could she be the pilot!?  She has a prison recored!"  

“MOV, I’m telling you, she flew the plane.” 

“It was probably someone who looked a lot like her.” 

“No, MOV, it was her.  She came out of the cockpit and chatted with me for a while.  She said to say hello to you, check if you need some writing inspiration, and ask if you want a buddy pass.” 

Does Muse not know me?  Of course I wanted a buddy pass!  I began calculating where I should fly to and who I could get to watch my kids while I was gone for a week or two. 

“I told her you are mad at her and don’t want her buddy passes.” 

“WHAT?  Why would you do that?” 

“MOV, you told me yesterday that you were still mad at her for stealing your car and then going to work for the airlines.  I only told her the truth.”  He shrugged, and then picked at the pretzel remnant in his teeth. 

“That’s not true.  I mean, I was mad, but not mad-mad, you know?  That was ages ago.  We worked all that out.” 

“You just told me that on the phone when I was at my hotel in Atlanta last night.  It was 11 PM.” 

That’s what I get for marrying a cost analyst:  precision. 

“Well, anyway, I don’t really understand how she got to be a pilot?  She’s so flaky, does she even have her flying license?” 

“I guess she must.  She had her special badge and everything.” 

“Do you look closely at the badge?  Was it fake?” 

“MOV, do I have to spell it out for you?  She.  Was.  Flying.  The.  Plane.” 

“And you didn’t fear for your life?” 

“She said to tell you she’d call.” 

“When?  When will she call?” 

(to be continued .............… I promise!)

MOV

784. Muse Shows Up For A Job Interview

“What are you doing?” I hiss at Muse, “You look ridiculous!” 

“I read your blog, and that was totally funny, the whole flight attendant/ interview thing, so I thought I would get a job as a flight attendant, too!”  She smiled wide, her perfect teeth glistening like giant Arctic Polar bear fangs, only prettier.  And pointier. 

“Muse, if you had bothered to read the entire post, it was a flashback.  I didn’t go to that job interview yesterday, I went to it when I was, like, 23.  Get a grip.” 

“Who cares?  I think it would be a fun job.  I know they would hire me.  You said something in your blog about ‘looking the part’ so I thought I would wear this cute little dress.  Do I look like a Sky Goddess?” 

“They don’t call them that anymore.  You need to learn the current politically correct lingo.  They call them stewardesses.  Wait, no, I mean flight attendants.” 

“Whatever.  Do you think I might meet some cute pilot?” 

Oh, God, here we go.  How to tell Muse that most pilots are total geeks? 

“Muse, I have something to tell—”

“I would looooooovvvvvvvve to meet some hot, geeky pilot!  Rarh!  I just love their dorky haircuts!  Yes.” 


Muse grinned wickedly. 

“Muse, no.  I don’t think the hostile skies are the right place for you.” 

“Hostile?  I thought they were supposed to be friendly?” 

“Muse, seriously.  They do a background check.  You have a jail record, remember?” 

“Oh, that?  You’re still hung up on that?  No one cares about jail anymore, MOV, jail is so passé.  We are all about second chances.”  She nodded solemnly. 

“Yeah, uh, no.  No one is gonna hire you.  Especially in that get-up.  What is this—1962?” 

Just then, her iPhone rang.  The ring tone was Devo’s “Whip It.”  I can’t say that I was surprised. 

“Hello, Muse here.”

“Mrh   jruhqiuwzd  aosdhoq3trhiqeui  asdoirhjqotrhuiqoh.” 

“Yes, uh, huh, go on …” 

“kjerhiu3 bhdizre wqiweuti3uijsdgjkeqhrt …”

“Okay, sure, what does that mean?” 

“Pkeajbhfriuqeksdj agieqriu3e akjgtnie eetohnwei.”  

“Got it.  Right.  Thanks!” 

“Muse, who was that?” 

“Delta Airlines!  I have a new job!” 

(to be continued ... )

MOV    
(“Muse’s Original Victim”)

783. My Interview With USAir

I never told you this story. 

When I was fresh out of college, I worked a string of dead-end jobs.  Knowing I loved to travel, my father helpfully suggested that a job with the airlines would provide international flight benefits, something my current job at a local gym most certainly did not.  When I saw an ad for USAir flight attendant interviews a month later, I showed up for the cattle call. 

Being the Virgo that I am, I got there 10 minutes early. 


There was no need to ask the front desk girl where the interviews were being held, as the line of airline hopefuls literally snaked around the building.  I almost cried.  There was no way I was getting in. 

I looked down at the ad in my hand and noticed it said interviews were being held Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday.  Today was only Monday.  I could come back tomorrow and be the first in line. 

The next morning, I put on the same navy interview suit, the same strand of pearls, the same navy pumps.  My résumé was in my leather attaché.  I was ready. 

I was two hours early this time.  Not only was no one there yet, the morning newspapers had not even been delivered to the lobby.  I asked the front desk girl where I should line up.  She was prepared.  After yesterday’s massive turn-out (they’d had to turn people away), they implemented a numbering system.  She handed me a sign-in sheet and a ticket number:  1. 

I wanted to kiss the ticket:  I knew it was the ticket to my future. 

I bought a latte at the Starbucks in the hotel lobby, and then I sat down on a bench outside the conference room and waited.  

I did not have to wait long.  Apparently, other people from the previous day had had the identical experience I had, so they arrived within minutes of me.  In half an hour, the line was again out the door.  I stood there smiling, chatting with other wannabe flight attendants, and generally sizing up the competition.  Her suit is red, bold choice, but too much of a risk.  She has her hair in a French braid, looks sharp.  He is wearing Converse high-tops with his suit—interview suicide.    

As the clock crept closer to 8 AM, a uniformed man walked through the line calling out, “If you don’t have language skills, you can go home right now!  And I don’t mean seventh grade Spanish, folks!  If you are not native speaker fluent, get out of line and go home!” 

Several people got out of line and headed toward the door.  I started second-guessing myself.  I considered myself to be good in Spanish, but native speaker?  That was a stretch.  But I had already given up two days to be here.  What were the chances that they would have language interviews on the very first day?  And what if your second language was Korean or Russian or Swahili?  I doubted the airline would have the right language testing for all the possibilities on the very first day.  I could wing it for now and maybe hire a tutor before I got to the next interview. 

It was now 8:30.  I really had to use the bathroom before the interviews started at 9 AM.  Since they had given us numbers, and since I had struck up a conversation with the people behind me in line, I felt confident that I could go to the restroom and come right back.  “Will you hold my place?” I asked a girl named Kristina.  “Sure, no problemo.”  Damn, she was already showing off her native speaker fluency skills. 

There was no one else in the ladies room.  I think other people were afraid to leave the line.

As I walked out of the stall and to the sink to wash my hands, I noticed a blond woman in a dark suit fixing her lipstick.  Her hair was down.  From everything I had heard, I knew the airlines preferred for women to have their hair back, and indeed, mine was swept up in a tight chignon.  Not only that, but she had a huge run in the back of her stockings. 

Did she know, did she not know, how could she not know?  I didn’t mean to, but I found myself staring in the mirror at the woman’s reflection. 

Should I say something?  I happened to have a few rubber-bands in my purse, she could put her hair up in a quick ponytail—there was still time.  And maybe the hotel gift shop stocked panty hose, although they might not actually be open before 10 AM.  I agonized about what to do.  She was after all, my competition. 

She caught me looking at her.  She turned around to face me, and said pleasantly, “Hello.” 

I was embarrassed that I had been staring at her.  Then I saw her number crumpled on the sink counter:  1004.  No wonder she decided to use the bathroom right now, there was no danger of her losing her place in line.  She was dead last.  There was absolutely no way she was even getting in there today.  I began to feel very smug about the number 1 ticket in my suit pocket. 

“How’s it going?” I mumbled to her.  Then I turned and left. 

Kristina had saved my place in line.  “Did I miss anything?” I asked her. 

“Well, Language Guy came around again.  More people left.” 

Finally, at 9 AM on the dot, they called in the first group, numbers 1-50.  Imagine my surprise when Miss No-Ponytail-Run-In-Stockings from the bathroom was already standing in the conference room.  I had seen her number on the counter.  I knew there was no way she was supposed to be here.  She had obviously tipped some underpaid busboy to let her in a back door.  I was outraged that a cheater like her who wore run stockings and her hair down could worm her way into the interview, instead of getting here early and waiting like everyone else.  I really wanted to say something to the person in charge.  In the end, though, I decided to keep my mouth shut.  It was an internal struggle for me, because I kept asking myself:  Would USAir even want someone like her representing them?

Apparently so.  “Welcome,” said Miss No-Ponytail-Run-In-Stockings to our group.  “My name in Angela, and I am a recruiter for USAir.”  There were two other recruiters with her.  I don’t remember their names.    

I could feel my face turn every shade of crimson.  That must not have been her number on the counter after all.  I was slowly realizing that it most likely belonged to one of those non-fluent language speakers who left early. 

Angela told us to give a two-minute speech about why we wanted to be flight attendants.  I was, naturally, first.  I could feel her eyes boring through me.  The other two recruiters sat like wax statues while I spoke, but Angela scribbled something in her notebook.  I was sure it read:  Makes inappropriate eye contact.  Does not help others.  Not a good candidate.

Do I need to tell you that I did not get the job? 

MOV

(Aside:  I was hired by Continental a few months later.  I eventually made my career as a flight attendant with United, and I wore my hair down sometimes and was know to have a run in my stockings once or twice.)