978. The Set-Up

“Mommy, will you always remember me?”

“Of course!”

“Tomorrow?” 

“Yes!” I enthuse.

“Next week?” he persists.

I nod. 

“Knock-knock,” he grins.

“Who’s there?” I dutifully respond.

Aghast, he shrieks, “You don’t remember me!”


MOV
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Trifecta challenge:  make us laugh in just 33 words

977. Wintry Mix

We live in a part of the country that gets hit by big storms this time of year.  I expect that.  Not embrace, so much, just expect and tolerate. 

What I did not expect, and have some difficulty tolerating (or even understanding) is this new thing the meteorologists like to call, “wintry mix.”  The cute blond weather girl bobs her head up and down, cheerfully explaining that we must have our ice scrapers at the ready because she anticipates a “wintry mix” on Saturday.  She smiles as if someone has just told her she won a new car.  Smile, smile, enthusiastic nod, wintry mix.    

I’m not even sure I am spelling it correctly.  Is it “wintry” or “wintery” or “wintree”?  It’s hard to spell something when you don’t know what the heck it is.   

I do what I always do when I want information but am too lazy to type it into Google:  I ask The Husband.

“What’s this ‘wintry mix’ all about?” 

“What do you mean?”  He stops reading his book and gives me a look as if I had asked why oranges are orange. 

“Well, what is it?” 

“MOV, you know.  Snow, ice, freezing rain.  Wintry mix.”  He shrugs.  His shrug says Oranges are orange, don’t ask me again. 

“Then why don’t they say ‘snow, ice, freezing rain’?” I inquire thoughtfully.  “That would make more sense.” 

“Well, they don’t know which one it’s going to be.  See, at certain altitudes, if the cold air is intercepted by precipitation, then it could be hail, depending on the temperature.  But if warm air is trapped under the clouds, it might only be rain.  Snow happens when the temperature stays below 32 degrees, but it is hard to predict because if they are even off one or two degrees, it could change.”

I was scrunching up my face, trying to listen, but honestly he had lost me at “altitudes.”  Sure, I was a flight attendant for 10 years, but the only altitude I had to remember was 35,000 feet.

Once again, I was being punished because I was from California.  No one in California in their right mind would say, “summery mix,” as in:  a mix of sunshine, ocean breeze, and chirpy bird noises.  Summery mix is implied by the mere fact that the zip code starts with a 9 and a 2.  (A 9 followed by an 8 is Seattle.  I wonder if they have “rainy mix” there.)

I look out the window, confused.  It is pure, fluffy snow.  I want to call it “snow,” but I know better.  Wintry mix, to me, sounds like it should be some elaborate cocktail involving vodka, Sambuca, and liquid nitrogen. 

I walk in the kitchen and am vaguely disappointed that we never purchased any liquid nitrogen, like they always have in the pantry on my favorite TV show, Top Chef.  Straight vodka would have to suffice. 

Wintry mix, indeed.   

MOV

976. That Plucky Writer

I have written three books.  Really, they have written themselves, I just sort of vomited up all the words. 

I take the books off the shelf now and marvel at them, thinking, I did this!  This thing in my hands did not exist before me! 

I imagine it’s exactly like the person who built the Duomo felt.  Well, people.  It was probably a lot of people.  And they most likely died during that time, since it took 140 years to complete.

So, to clarify, I don’t feel dead. 

What I meant, was, it’s a big accomplishment.  Not to brag, though.  I don't have a t-shirt with “I’m an Author!” printed on the front.  (Although, to my darling husband if you are reading this:  potential Christmas present?) 

It’s not like I’m rich and famous or anything.  I don’t have a cleaning lady, and Oprah still won’t return my calls.  But, FYI, I would take rich over famous any day of the week.  Think about it:  if you are famous, you are hounded relentlessly.  If you are rich but no one knows who you are, you can just go about your business, buying jets or 2^nd houses in Belize (or 25^th houses in Belize) and no one cares. 

Writing does not make you rich.  I found that out.  What it does make you is neurotic.  I carry a little notebook around and pluck it out of my pocket to jot down quick notes.  Actually, since I bought my new iPhone, I dictate to SIRI.  SIRI sometimes misspells things or misinterprets things, and I am left to decipher later:  What the hell does “Thistle turns green” mean??  Why was that important? 

SIRI is helpful with directions, though.  I use her as my GPS.  She never says in a snotty tone, “Recalibrating,” when I miss my turn.  She calmly gives me a new route. 

And then I say, “Read me my last note, SIRI,” and she says, “You are bitch and famous, or you will be moon.”    
          

MOV
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trifecta writing challenge/ 333 words/ required word is "pluck"

**Shameless self-promotion:  You can buy the books I wrote here, and here, and here, and they make great Christmas or Hanukkah presents!!

975. I Wonder Where My Wonder Went

I’m not dead.  I am, however, buried alive in boxes. 

Packing is a mindless task—a robot could do it.  Put stuff in, pad well, tape closed.  Repeat.  While my hands wrestle the cardboard, my brain hijacks a plane to childhood. 

My childhood full of wonder.  I wonder what it will be like to grow up?  I wonder what it will be like to drive a car?  I wonder what it would be like to go to Paris?  I wonder what it would be like to stay up late?  I wonder what it would be like to get married/ have kids/ buy a house/ fill in the blanks ___________? 

There is no more wonder, because all those things have happened. 

I am Bill Murray in Groudhog Day:  get up, make breakfast, kids to school, do laundry, run errands, pick the kids up, drive them to sports, eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed.  Same as yesterday.  Same as tomorrow, and tomorrow’s tomorrow. 

There is no room for wonder while filling up the empty gas tank or buying paper towels at Target. 

And yet …

My life’s brimming with possibilities:  we’re moving into an apartment because we’re renovating.  We are making this tiny house into our dream home.  The possibilities are about room designs, furniture, tile choices. 

Yet, still no wonder.  I had those decisions mapped out the day we bought the house.  Wonder disappears when it is replaced by MUST.  I must have an island, I must have a walk-in-closet, I must have floor-to-ceiling windows.  Wonder sneaks in and MUST chases it away.  MUST detests this naïf companion.

 I rush around to fill these boxes, fill them with china, clothes, photo albums.  My children absorb this frenzied energy.   

We take a break.  We have a new origami book:  Short studies it, wants to attempt a paper frog.  He folds the green square carefully.  He whispers,   

“Mommy, origami is not a fast thing.  Origami is a calm and peaceful thing.”


 

My wonder has returned.  

MOV
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trifecta writing challenge/ required word: "companion"/ exactly 333 words

974. Here's What Happened to Me Today

I hired a personal trainer.  Before you think I’m some wealthy heiress, know this:  I suffered from a debilitating back injury over the summer.  After ER trips, X-rays, drugs, doctor’s visits, physical therapy, massage, and a renewed desire for a drink called a “zombie” (a nauseating-sounding blend of rum, brandy, pineapple juice, and orange juice—don’t judge), I figured I had earned a few sessions of personal training. 

Personal training would not only cure my back pain, I rationalized, it would inevitably turn me into Claudia Schiffer.  Or Heidi Klum.  Or Gwyneth.    

Maybe. 

Anyway, things went great with my trainer until he announced that he expected me to be working out on some of our “off” days.  (Note to self: I always thought “off” meant “off”?)   Since I can only afford the trainer twice/week, that meant he expected me to work out at least three of the remaining days. 

Deflated, I asked him if it would be okay if I swam on one of those days. 

“Sure! I think that would be a great idea!” he enthused. 

The next morning at 5am sharp, I was in the pool swimming laps.  I had new goggles, a new swimcap, and a new attitude.  I was a female Michael Phelps. 

When I got out of the pool, I decided to chat with the lifeguard for a few minutes.  Since he would be the one saving my life if my future self happened to hit her head against the cement pool wall, I thought it would be good to at least know his name. 

It was a difficult Russian name and I immediately forgot it.  I changed the subject and asked him if he liked swimming.  (Gimme a break, it was early.  I couldn’t think of anything else to chat about.) 

He promptly replied, “I can’t swim.” 

Yikes!  The lifeguard can’t swim?! 

Realizing his error in language, he corrected himself:  “I am not allowed to swim while on duty.” 

At least I got my heart rate up.   

MOV
*****
trifecta writing challenge/ exactly 333 words/ key word is "zombie"

973. How It Feels to Beat a 9-Year-Old at Checkers

It feels great.  I’ll be honest:  if feels really great.  Especially when that particular 9-year-old happens to be my junior Einstein son, Tall. 

Everything this child touches turns to gold.  He is smart, funny, athletic, and has tons of friends.  He is also one of these people that instinctively understands how to play a game he has been introduced to mere moments before. 

I made the mistake of allowing him to sign up for his school chess club several weeks ago.  Ever since that time, all I hear is, “Mom, let’s play a quick game of chess!” 

And it is a quick game, since I find myself in check mate in a matter of 10 minutes, sometimes less. 

But he was not going to win at checkers.  No.  Checkers was mine. 

I taught him the basics and of course he beat me.  Twice.  But then something kicked in, some sort of primal need for redemption, and that was it.  He was half my size and one quarter of my age.  I could take him. 

My guys got across the board in record time.  “King me!” I cried out, with an inappropriate amount of glee. 

Next thing you know, I had Tall’s two remaining pieces backed into a corner.  I tried not to laugh a wicked little laugh, but I couldn’t help it.  I had not won a game against this child since that time he had the flu when he was three and he was just not up for Monopoly that day. 

Tall saw that he had no way out.  He abruptly stood up and intentionally upended the board, with all the pieces splattering across the table and the floor.   

I guess he gets his good sportsmanship from me. 

MOV

971. Me and All My Badges

As a mom of a 4^th grade son and a 2^nd grade son, it may come as somewhat of a surprise that I found myself at my very first Boy Scout meeting last night. 

As we all know, Boy Scouts instill wonderful values in your child, values like hard work, respect, discipline, and good citizenship.  Clearly, I would be happy to have any Boy Scout around to open a door, help me walk across the street, or provide necessary first aid if I was ever bitten by a bear.  Boy Scouts perform a crucial role in society. 

However, last night I got the impression that everyone else had started scouting at an earlier age (say, in the womb), and that I was once again late to the party.  There were 5 and 6-year-olds covered in merit badges, decorated to the point that you could no longer see the khaki uniform shirt underneath.  Nevermind that.  Put that all aside for a moment, and let’s concentrate on this new fun concept I was introduced to:  Badges. 

Everything your child does has the potential to earn him a badge.  Your boy plays Little League?  He simultaneously earned the Baseball Badge.  He accompanied you kicking and screaming to a few museums last summer?  Those represent Cultural Badges.  How about the time the two of you fed the neighbor’s cat for a week?  That would be the Community Service Badge.  Do you see where I am going with this?  Everything gets a badge. 

I feel compelled to design a few badges of my own.  How about all those times I asked Tall to make his bed and he ignored me?  Non-Compliant Badge.  And Short whining incessantly about doing his homework the last two weeks?  That would be the Vocal Complaining Badge.  Both of my kids forever leaving their dirty clothes in a giant pile and not remembering to take them to the laundry room?  The Forgetful Badge. 

I, of course, have inadvertently earned a few badges of my own.  There is the Dish Washer Extraordinaire Badge.  The Errand Queen Badge.  The Chauffer of My Own Children to All Their Activities Badge. 

What about the fact that I have memorized the exact aisle location of everything I need to buy at Target?  That would be the Target Memorizer Badge.  It is a bigger badge and more prestigious than the others, and in the shape of a red and white bull's eye.  It takes years of practice and training to earn that one. 

The Husband has earned a few badges as well.  Most notably, the highly coveted Good Listener Badge.  This badge (sadly) has been revoked a few times over the years.  He also has his Knows Everything About Football Badge (the stitching on the badge is an image of a football on a TV screen).  Obviously, this badge is what caused the Good Listener badge be revoked most recently.  He also has his Forgot to Feed the Cat Badge (symbolized by a scrawny cat meowing) and his I Promise I’ll Take Your Car to the Shop Badge (along with a broken car). 

See?  We can all earn our badges. 

There is a new badge I am currently training for:  Shoe Buyer.  The symbol is a sexy stiletto.  Oops, I need to get to Nordstrom now to practice.  Gotta run.     

MOV