So, not sure if I mentioned it or anything, but I wrote a book. The other day, I was thinking about all the people that had inspired me to write in the first place, and I kept circling back to this one really famous humor author. She has written about a dozen books, all on the NY Times best seller list. She uses ten dollar bills as coasters.
Anyhow, I was thinking (okay, I was drinking) and I thought, I should maybe email her! Yeah! Great idea! She has never met me, but I will offer to send her my book and maybe it will make her laugh! And then we can be famous author friends! And we can drink lattes together and laugh about how successful we are and how famous!
Then Smart Part of my brain spoke up (this doesn’t happen often, so I did try to listen): “MOV, you have never even met Famous Author You Idolize, she might view it as cyber-stalking so I think it would be best to—”
This was right when that third (okay, fourth) glass of Chardonnay kicked in, so I clicked SEND.
I was really feeling woozy (what with it being Thanksgiving and all, did I mention I harassed Famous Author on Thanksgiving? No? I left that part out, oh well), so I went to bed and took a quick little cat-nap and promptly forgot all about Famous Author and my “Hi I want to be your new best friend you are so great I love you and do you wanna read my new book? I hope I am as funny as you, or maybe as funny as your shoe.” That is not exactly word-for-word verbatim precisely what I wrote, but you get the gist.
She. Wrote. Back. Immediately.
It was totally not the restraining-order-type of email I am used to. It was friendly. See for yourself:
Dear MOV—
Happy Thanksgiving to you, too! Congrats on the book, it feels wonderful to accomplish something of that magnitude, doesn't it! Thank you for being so kind, and I am delighted if I had anything at all to do with your inspiration. If you'd like to send me the book, I'd be happy to get it, but I should tell you one thing right away, and that is that I don't offer any sort of critiques or anything like that. There is only one person who has to be happy with the book, and that's you--your name is on it. I learned a long time ago that if you're going to get rejected or fall flat or out and out fail, it had better be your failure and no one else's. I've had editors change punchlines and no one catches the shit for a bad joke with my name on it but me. If you're really looking to workshop it, although I'm not really a big believer in that, either, there are plenty of online groups and probably a writer's group in your area. But the last thing I will do is give advice. Ever. Because I could be wrong. Humor is very subjective. And you shouldn't lose out on something because I'm a dipshit. But if you like, you can send me the file over email to this address. I'm swamped with my own deadlines right now, and will be for some time, but hopefully I will have some down time soon. So if you want to send your book to someone who won't give you any feedback because it's against her religion, I'm your girl.
Have a great holiday,
Signed, Very Famous Author that you could figure out who it is by looking on my Acknowledgement Page
Ohmygod-ohmygod-ohmygod. I ran to the kitchen to find a paper bag to breathe into before I passed out. Tall walked in.
“What are you doing, Mommy?” His little face looked aghast.
“I can’t breathe. A really famous author wrote me back!”
His eyes lit up like Christmas lights when you first plug them in to test to make sure none are broken.
“Mom! Was it Mark Twain?!”
Mark Twain! Why would he say that?
I shook my head at him and replied, “Yes.”
MOV
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Sunday, November 27, 2011
587. Virgo Vertigo
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")
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")
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
585. Why Thanksgiving Is The Bestest Holiday Ever
I woke up this morning and said, Is today the day—is it Thursday yet? Alas, it was not. It was still dumb ol’ Wednesday, mocking me. Ha! said Wednesday, Fooled you again!
Bizarre dialogues with rude and unwanted filler days like Wednesday aside, I wanted to write a special post about Thanksgiving and why it is the premier holiday on the calendar.
Happy Thanksgiving!
MOV
Bizarre dialogues with rude and unwanted filler days like Wednesday aside, I wanted to write a special post about Thanksgiving and why it is the premier holiday on the calendar.
- New Year’s Day is all about hangovers and resolutions. Thanksgiving is all about dressing, pumpkin pie, and football. Point to: Thanksgiving.
- Valentine’s Day focuses on if you have a love interest. Not Thanksgiving! Thanksgiving focuses on turkey. Point to: Thanksgiving.
- St. Patrick’s Day is all about hanging out with friends, drinking beer, and wearing something green. Thanksgiving does not have a dress code (and I do not look good in green). I do like to hang out with friends and drink for no good reason though. Point to: Tie.
- Easter celebrates Jesus, God, and cute bunnies. Thanksgiving celebrates grateful atheists or grateful religious people. Thanksgiving is non-discriminatory. Point to: Thanksgiving!
- Mother’s Day and Father’s Day highlight the sacrifices parents make, while simultaneously making them work hard on the specific day to put together a brunch or something and entertain the kiddos that are supposedly so grateful for mom and dad. Personally, I would like to have a day off. Conclusion: Mother’s Day sucks. Point to: Thanksgiving.
- July 4th. It’s all about celebrating our independence with illegal fireworks, hamburgers, and cheap wine. Hmm … Point: Tie.
- My Birthday. Not a legal holiday in most countries* (*well, any country), yet fun nonetheless. I get to eat cake and choose what flavor. However, the whole USA does not get the day off, so this results in: Tie.
- Halloween dwells on fake mummies, stale candy, and over-sugared children who won’t go to sleep because they are busy being amped up or throwing up. Point to (clearly): Thanksgiving.
- Christmas reminds us to spend time with our families and simultaneously guilts us into buying them gobs of gifts and then stressing out because we worry if they’ll like them. Thanksgiving also involves time with loved ones, but no presents are required or expected, and plus you get to eat turkey. Point to: Thanksgiving.
Happy Thanksgiving!
MOV
Friday, November 18, 2011
581. Round People and The People Who Love Them
My Idol and I have something in common: I am a HUUUUUUUUGE fan of Fisher Price Little People.
Sadly, I do not have any now. But, when I was growing up, I had dozens! Probably millions!
My sister and I called them “Round People.” I hate to burst My Idol's bubble with our superior and original name, but I didn’t want her to be in the dark. Yes, they could be considered little. But look closer for different identifying characteristics: They are round! (And unlike their evil nemesis and impostor wannabes—Weebils—Round People are too good to wobble. They stand up like God and factory workers in China intended.)
We would play with them for hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and days. So. Much. Fun. Of course, a good chunk of that time was spent bickering over who got which people and which accoutrements (as we all know, sharing is overrated). We came up with a system where we would lay out all the Round People and their round people sofas and beds and campers and patio furniture all neatly in rows (Princessa Virgo in her early days) and then the Choosing would begin. The Choosing could easily gobble up more time than the actual Playing. All hell would break loose if I picked the “good” mommy with the smooth face and Oakley was stuck with the crappy mommy with the chewed-on face and broken hair (Oakley and I did not have a dog who did this chewing. We had a toddler younger brother with very sharp teeth and a penchant for disturbing our playing time.).
Then, the next step in a successful Round People playing session was to name all our people. I am 43 years old. I was born in 1968. I distinctly remember naming my people Olivia and Isabel and Madeleine and Caroline, so I was waaaaaaaay trendy before my time!!! (Of course, the Universe got me back by giving me sons in real life, when I was ultra-prepared to name daughters. Hence, original names like Tall and Short now grace our family tree.)
My mom would sometimes give us these gorgeous gift boxes from Saks Fifth Avenue that maybe originally held a sweater or a pair of flannel Christmas pajamas. These boxes were THE BEST. We could stack them and cantilever them and make our Round People have the best modernist houses ever. Frank Lloyd Round would be proud.
I went on eBay and almost had a heart attack when I saw what Round People cost now.
Not to worry. I know Mom still has everything (including the school, garage, town, gas station, and airport) in her garage. It would break my heart if she gave them away.
MOV
("My Other Vice")
Sadly, I do not have any now. But, when I was growing up, I had dozens! Probably millions!
My sister and I called them “Round People.” I hate to burst My Idol's bubble with our superior and original name, but I didn’t want her to be in the dark. Yes, they could be considered little. But look closer for different identifying characteristics: They are round! (And unlike their evil nemesis and impostor wannabes—Weebils—Round People are too good to wobble. They stand up like God and factory workers in China intended.)
We would play with them for hours and hours and hours and hours and hours and days. So. Much. Fun. Of course, a good chunk of that time was spent bickering over who got which people and which accoutrements (as we all know, sharing is overrated). We came up with a system where we would lay out all the Round People and their round people sofas and beds and campers and patio furniture all neatly in rows (Princessa Virgo in her early days) and then the Choosing would begin. The Choosing could easily gobble up more time than the actual Playing. All hell would break loose if I picked the “good” mommy with the smooth face and Oakley was stuck with the crappy mommy with the chewed-on face and broken hair (Oakley and I did not have a dog who did this chewing. We had a toddler younger brother with very sharp teeth and a penchant for disturbing our playing time.).
Then, the next step in a successful Round People playing session was to name all our people. I am 43 years old. I was born in 1968. I distinctly remember naming my people Olivia and Isabel and Madeleine and Caroline, so I was waaaaaaaay trendy before my time!!! (Of course, the Universe got me back by giving me sons in real life, when I was ultra-prepared to name daughters. Hence, original names like Tall and Short now grace our family tree.)
My mom would sometimes give us these gorgeous gift boxes from Saks Fifth Avenue that maybe originally held a sweater or a pair of flannel Christmas pajamas. These boxes were THE BEST. We could stack them and cantilever them and make our Round People have the best modernist houses ever. Frank Lloyd Round would be proud.
I went on eBay and almost had a heart attack when I saw what Round People cost now.
Not to worry. I know Mom still has everything (including the school, garage, town, gas station, and airport) in her garage. It would break my heart if she gave them away.
MOV
("My Other Vice")
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
578. That Shirt Is Mine
When you have two sons that are close in age, you can get double the use out of the clothes, effectively cutting your clothing bill in half. $88 for a Janie and Jack sailboat sweater? No problem, it ends up being $44 for each child. Overpriced down winter coat, not on sale? Here’s my Amex card, and let’s get the matching gloves. Halloween shark costume made of real shark imported from Hawaii? Done.
So it should come as somewhat of a surprise that Tall is in Short’s clothes instead of the other way around.
Paint the scene: Tall (age 7 ½) has a favorite shirt, a shirt with a surfer on it. This shirt fit him two years ago. Now it is too small. However, he refuses to give it up.
In the meantime, I am feeling guilty about poor Short only getting hand-me-downs. In a moment of weakness, I buy him a brand new Target shirt with a grizzly bear. Short is not with me when I buy the shirt. I grab some random kid and hold it up to him.
“Excuse me?” I hear myself say. “How old are you, can I hold this up to see if it might fit my five-year-old?”
He tells me he is twelve, and I, being the obstinate person that I am, hold it up to him anyway and guestimate.
This is what I end up with when I get home:
When I ask them to switch shirts, they balk.
“This is MY special grizzly bear shirt, Mom! I love it!”
“You bought me this surfer shirt two years ago on my birthday, I’m keeping it!”
The Husband walks in on our wardrobe battle.
“I guess we know what you’ll be blogging about later.”
MOV
So it should come as somewhat of a surprise that Tall is in Short’s clothes instead of the other way around.
Paint the scene: Tall (age 7 ½) has a favorite shirt, a shirt with a surfer on it. This shirt fit him two years ago. Now it is too small. However, he refuses to give it up.
In the meantime, I am feeling guilty about poor Short only getting hand-me-downs. In a moment of weakness, I buy him a brand new Target shirt with a grizzly bear. Short is not with me when I buy the shirt. I grab some random kid and hold it up to him.
He tells me he is twelve, and I, being the obstinate person that I am, hold it up to him anyway and guestimate.
This is what I end up with when I get home:
When I ask them to switch shirts, they balk.
“This is MY special grizzly bear shirt, Mom! I love it!”
“You bought me this surfer shirt two years ago on my birthday, I’m keeping it!”
The Husband walks in on our wardrobe battle.
“I guess we know what you’ll be blogging about later.”
MOV
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
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