968. War of the Elbows

I was scrunched in my middle seat, saying futile prayers to The Gods of Travel that nobody would sit in the aisle seat.   

The Window Person gets the window, they get all the power, right?  Shade up, shade down.  View, no view.  Blinding sunlight ruining the movie, or complete darkness combined with a burnt-out reading light when you have a brand-new book.  The Window People are a menace. 

And those damn Aisle People.  They jump up and go to the bathroom anytime.  Right after take-off, right before meal service, during the movie, whenever.  They have more power than the Window People.  They practically own the plane. 

This power goes to their heads.  They suddenly think they have rights to both armrests.  Theirs and mine.  Isn’t it enough that they have one armrest on the outside and that they can get up whenever they want?  And if the plane crashes, they are getting out to safety 15 seconds before me?  By laws of adverse possession, they claim the middle armrest.      

The Middle Loser (me) is clearly not a planner.  By the time the Middle Loser got around to buying a ticket, all the good seats were taken.  The Middle Loser deserves to sit folded over like a broken umbrella for five hours. 

I stage a coup.  When Aisle Person gets up to stretch, I pounce.  I adhere my elbow to the armrest like a very strong magnet.   

Now I notice Aisle Person is holding two full glasses of white wine.  He must be an alcoholic.  Drinking while flying, stretching his legs, hogging up armrests.  How did this freak get through security?  He has absolutely no consideration for—

“Excuse me, miss?  I brought you some wine.” 

He hands me a glass. 

“For … me?”

He nods.  “Middle seats suck.  You deserve a free glass of wine.” 

I smile and thank him.  I accidentally lift my elbow for a second when I take a sip.    

Just long enough for him to regain access of the armrest. 

MOV
*****


trifecta writing challenge/ I shortened and edited a piece I wrote a few days ago/ exactly 333 words/ required word is "freak"

964. Open Letter to a Loyal Shirt

Dear Loyal Shirt,

I remember when we first met, at the mall of all places.  You beckoned me over from a metal rack where you were hanging out with your colorful comrades. 

I noticed you right away—your basic black hue, your stunning embroidered neckline, and your flattering boxy cut. 

You were different somehow, longer.  You offered more coverage than is typical, obscuring not just the tumucular region, but even offering a respite from the viewing of the hips.     

I knew I had to have you, and when I found out you were on sale (!), well, that was just the proverbial cherry on the whipped cream of my shopping expedition sundae. 

I got you home and for years you behaved even better than expected.  You had no qualms about accompanying me to work, school functions, even doctors’ appointments.  You could be counted on for holidays, vacations, sporting events, or trips to the grocery store.  You unilaterally embraced every climate; every raindrop or snowflake or ray of blazing sunshine was your pal.  You were flexible and could be paired with virtually anything in my closet:  denim jeans, floral print skirts, cotton khakis, plaid shorts, striped capris, even a formal interview suit.  You made numerous appearances in several family photos.   

You were my silent workhorse, my prized clothing chameleon. 

Until. 

There’s always an “until,” isn’t there? 

You know what I am talking about.  Don't pretend you don't.  The Husband made the grave miscalculation to …

No.  It’s too painful.  I can’t talk about it yet. 

… he made the grave miscalculation to put you in … the washer … and then … the dryer. ON HIGH HEAT. 

Has he never had a wardrobe component like you, Loyal Shirt?  I always dry cleaned you.  In fact, I know for a fact, factually speaking, that The Husband had accompanied you to the dry cleaner (for drop off AND pick up) on several occasions.  I have witnesses!  Gray Skirt and Navy Linen Dress had seen you there.  Red Cashmere Sweater Made In England told me you two stopped and had lunch.  Even Black Work Jacket had cozied up to you in the very same plastic bag. 

So what is one tumble in the dryer between friends, hmm?  After all we have been through together?  Why would you insist on shrinking up like that?  Why?  I always did treat you well, before this one isolated incident, I swear.  And you know it was not my fault anyway!  So why punish me?  Isn’t that like blaming the victim? 

Tell The Husband you are mad, don’t take it out on me when I am getting ready to have a conference with my sons’ principal and need to match you up with Boat Print Skirt.  You know that White Rayon Sweater shows every bit of deodorant or cat fur, how dare you even mention such a substitution. 

What I am saying is:  It’s over.  It is.  I, for one, wish it could be different, we all do.  The kids do (who wants to see their mom with deodorant or cat fur at school conference day?).  I know that deep in my heart of hearts, even The Husband wishes things turned out differently. 

Why?  Because I took his credit card and I am headed to the mall. 

It won’t be easy to replace you, but I’ll try. 

Your Loving Friend,
MOV

958. My Kids Are Bionic

I never wore glasses.  I can usually hear when a bus is driving up behind me.  I am able to outrun elderly people any day of the week.

Sure, I consider myself gifted.      

But my children?  They’re bionic. 

PROOF:  They tell me when my cell phone rings.  We are in the living room.  I left the phone in the car.   

PROOF:  I go to get a step-stool to retrieve something on top of the refrigerator.  When I return, they have already scaled the refrigerator.  Like Spiderman. 

PROOF:  I sniff the milk to see if it has gone bad.  Short yells out, “Throw it away, Mommy!”  He is upstairs. 

PROOF:  I glance at a timeshare thing that just came in the mail.  My 3rd-grader, Tall, snatches it out of my hands and declares, “You don’t want to do this, Mom.  The fine print says 50K down and then an APR of 21%.  That’s highway robbery.”  Fine print?  Where?  That black squiggly design at the bottom of the postcard, is that what he’s referring to? 

It is humbling to be outdone by your peers, but more so your own children.

I used to watch Lindsay Wagner as the Bionic Woman, with various limbs made out of wires, and artificial eyeballs inserted into her head—eyeballs that could see 500 feet away.  I would watch the 6 Million Dollar Man and scoff at the audacity of those producers to give us such unrealistic garbage to watch.  He can run a mile in 2 minutes?  Yeah, right.

But now I know it was not fiction after all.  Someone in Hollywood was just writing about their kids. 

MOV

956. The "B" List

The first time I ever heard the concept of a “B” list was when I was planning my wedding.  My mom told me that we should keep the number of guests to a certain limit, but I was free to maintain a “B” list in case some people RSVP’d no.    

“Wait, what do you mean a ‘B’ list?” 

“You know, if the main people you are inviting can’t come, then you have extra people on a secondary list … people that you like, but not necessarily your first choice.” 

I was really puzzled by this, because in my mind, everyone I wanted to invite was my “A” list—there was no secondary list.  In fact, if pressed, the only people we didn’t really need at the wedding would be the guests my fiancé wanted to invite.  I guess those were the “B” list people. 

Not surprisingly, my fiancé was not real pleased to hear about that. 

“What do you mean, ‘B’ list?” 

Anyway, we somehow worked it all out without an “A” or “B” list after all.  We invited everyone we wanted, and did not worry too much about who could not attend.    

Fast forward 13 years and I find myself again in this conundrum with my own children.  But instead of me deciding who is on the “B” list, I learn that I am the one on the “B” list.  My kids have no desire to spend time with good ol’ mom if there exists someone born between 2001 and 2008 within a half mile radius.

Gone are the days when separation anxiety gripped my toddler like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed down the middle.  Goes are the days when my preschooler Velcro-ed himself to my leg every morning at drop-off.  Gone are the days when my kindergartner ran toward me with open arms after getting off the school bus, like a commercial for a cheesy Lifetime movie about a custody battle. 

I now fall squarely in the category of “people you like, but not necessarily your first choice.” 

The other day, I made the mistake of giving my sons the option of getting out of school early to take me to the airport or they could go to a full day of school and have a playdate with a neighbor friend. 

Guess which one they chose?

I, of course, was devastated.  I confided my situation to The Husband later that evening.    

“Sweetie, I am not longer on the ‘A’ list,” I lamented.    

He smiled and said something he thought might be reassuring, “Oh, MOV, don’t worry … you never were.” 

MOV

952. Z Is for Zoo with Zero Zebras

When my younger son, Short, was about three years old, he became obsessed with zebras.  He adored stuffed animal zebras, books about zebras, sticker of zebras … basically anything that had a picture of a zebra on it, he wanted.  How thrilled were we when we received an invitation in the mail to the local zoo for a free trial membership. 

It was summer, so I did not even have to pull my older son, Tall, out of school for the outing.  Both children were excited to see lions, tigers, and zebras—oh my! 

The day started out uneventfully:  a cheetah, a gorilla, a few snakes.  We progressed on to the elephants and then the giraffes.  I was saving the big highlight for right after lunch—the threat of no zebras would guarantee our mealtime would remain calm and orderly. 

Sure enough, something upset Short at lunch (the fact that his apple juice was lukewarm, if you must know) and he began to have a meltdown verging dangerously close to full-blown tantrum.  I took his favorite stuffed animal Zebra (nickname: “Zeebie”) out of his stroller and gave Short a stern lecture: 

“See this?  Zebra?  You love zebras, right?  We came to see zebras.  If you have gooooooood behavior, we can see the zebras.  If you don’t, then … no.  We will go home.” 

His dour expression changed instantly, and the crying and whining stopped.  He morphed into the Stepford child I had always dreamed of having:  quiet, obedient, and profoundly sorry for causing a problem. 

“I sorry, Mommy.”  (Sniff) “I want to see zebras.  I be good now.” 

He nodded his little head apologetically, forced a smile, and with that, I knew I had won. 

“Good, Short.  You made the right decision.  Because you are having good behavior, we will go see the zebras now.” 

I was going to keep this trick up my sleeve for future use as well.  We could come to the zoo every single week for the rest of eternity if it meant good behavior at mealtimes.  Heck, we could move in with the zebras.  I was ready to go to the zoo membership office right then and there, credit card in hand, to buy a lifetime membership for our entire family.  Why had other parents not thought of the Zebra Method of good parenting?  I was secretly considering patenting it. 

We threw away our lunch trash and excitedly headed over to the zebra pens.  There was some sort of wall or barricade with signs directing us through a detour.  As we approached, Tall started to read the sign out loud, clearly enunciating every syllable: 

“We apologize for the inconvenience, but the Zebra Habitat is temporarily closed for repairs and remodeling.  We will reopen in—” 

I could not react fast enough.  I was internally debating putting my hands over Tall’s mouth (and really, what kind of school teaches a 5 ½ year-old to read big words with that kind of accuracy?!) or putting my hands over Short’s ears.  My slow response caused me to do neither. 

“Milkshakes!” I screamed.  “Who wants milkshakes from the Milkshake Hut we just passed?  Ooh, I bet they have chocolate!”  Distract, distract, distract.    

“Zebras!” squawked Short, refusing to be distracted.  “I want to see zebras NOW!” 

I felt horrible.  Through my own stupidity, I had talked up the zebras.  I had used the zebras as a threat, and then, conversely, as a reward.  Now the damn zebras were beating me at my own game, a crazy game that I never really wanted to play in the first place.  How was I supposed to tell Short he could not see the zebras even after he had good behavior at lunch?  He would never trust me again.    

I did the only thing I could think of:  took Short to see the Mongolian wild horses that I knew from the zoo map were a mere two minute walk down the path.  The wild horses were not black and white striped, nor even black and white spotted; they were … brown.  Plain, boring, medium brown.  The color of dirt.    

“Look, Sweetie, look!  Zebras!  Brown zebras!”  I pointed at the Mongolian wild horses and began to jump up and down, like I was on crack.    

Just because Short was a three-years-old toddler did not mean he was dumb.  He shook his head emphatically no and said, “Mommy, those are horses.” 

Tall looked at me like I was insane.  He took a deep breath and began,

“Mom, the sign says—”

I grabbed Tall, pulled him close to me, and whispered in his ear:  “I will buy you a new Lego set if you go along with whatever I say next.” 

Tall’s eyes got wide; his mom had clearly lost any traces of sanity here at the zoo. 

I cleared my throat.  “Boys, the sign says, ‘Przewalski’s horses, or Dzungarian horses, are a rare and endangered subspecies of wild horse native to central Asia, specifically Mongolia.  Sometimes referred to as ‘International Plain Brown Zebras.’  International Plain Brown Zebras!  You are so lucky you get to see these!  They are so unbelievably rare!  WOW!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Tall reading the sign quietly to himself again.  It took every shred of self-restraint that he possessed to not contradict me, but he has always been the son who can focus on the bigger gain (new Lego set) and give up the instant gratification (calling mommy out).  He stayed silent. 

In this moment, I was praising Short’s preschool teachers for rejecting all my previous helpful suggestions of flashcards and daily quizzing to get him reading early.  In fact, I was almost wishing we had watched more TV all those mornings when we were drawing or reading instead. 

Short looked at me.  He looked at Tall.  He looked at the horses.  And then he burst into applause. 

“Inner-naznal Plain Brown Zebras!  Yay!  They almost look like horses!” 

“Yes, Sweetie, they are from the same family, you are so smart!  Yes, but they are not!  They are actually a special type of zebra!” 

By this time, I was attracting a small crowd of interested zoo-goers who were not familiar with the myriad variations in the zebra species.  Specifically, a few zoo employees. 

I was not about to stick around and wait to be corrected by these khaki-uniformed zealots, so I ushered my children quickly to the car.  I was worried that Tall might say something deleterious when we got there, but he didn’t. 

And that explains why, whenever we pass a farm and happen to see a certain type of exotic creature, Short inevitably squeals,

“Oh, look, Mommy!  Inner-naznal Plain Brown Zebras!” 

MOV

951. Y Is for Youth and How to Keep It

Our society is obsessed with youth.  I remember being young (say, 20 or so), and feeling like no one would take me seriously.  Any HR person at any job I applied for eyed me suspiciously—Do you have any experience?—and I recall looking forward with eager anticipation to the day when my face and seriousness-taking factor would match. 

Oh, they match all right.  Everyone takes me seriously now. 

I go to the mall and those teeny-bopper kiosk girls shove eye cream samples at me as I walk by.  I go to the doctor and he suggests I switch to a high-fiber cereal and start working out immediately.  I go to Short’s soccer game and I overhear his coach ask him if that gray-haired lady (me) is his grandmother. 

But there is one place where I always look good, always look young, no matter what:  standing next to my brother. 

You see, he is 6’5” and built like a football player.  A very large football player with a nickname like “Tank.”  That means when I stand next to him in pictures I look like Petite Ballerina Barbie in comparison.  And since he is so tall, if we happen to take photos outside, I of course end up in the shade of him (like he is a giant tree or something) which tends to diminish those troublesome little lines that have found their way around my eyes and forehead.  I appear shadowy, and as we all know, shadowy = young. 

Most recently I went to England to visit my brother.  He is stationed there in the military.  We took a day trip to Stonehenge and of course took a few photos.  In the car I stared at my iPhone photos in awe:  I look 25!  Maybe even 20!  I don’t need to eat more fiber or use eye cream or fix my highlights—I just need to stand next to my brother all the time! 

Don't tell The Husband and my kids, but effective immediately, we are all moving to England.  And I won’t be packing any eye cream. 

MOV

949. W Is for Washing Machine Funeral

It was premature to even plan the funeral until my dear friend had actually died, but I knew she was getting close.  She had already lived a solid decade longer than anyone could have predicted, even with her present “condition,” which had symptoms of loud banging and clanking, along with excessive speeds at awkward intervals.  I had looked it up online and found out she had “Spinning Disorder” which was not curable.  Her life span would be less than one month at this point, and that was a generous estimate.    

The Husband was clearly on her side, and would have none of it when I brought up the subject of her imminent demise and (more happily) her replacement. 

“How can you even talk about Washing Machine like that?  I thought you loved Washing Machine,” he started, making me question my intimacy level with not only Washing Machine, but also with The Husband.  “I think we can get another few years out of her, and besides, I think she can hear us talking about her.” 

Now this was quite the reversal.  I was usually the one who ascribed personality traits and sometimes even names to inanimate objects, not The Husband.  Normally, he was pragmatic. 

“Sweetie,” I countered, “let’s be realistic.  Washing Machine was here when we bought the house almost four years ago, and she had already served her 20-year tour of duty for the previous owner.  Twenty-four in ‘appliance years’ is like 110 in people years.  She is beyond elderly, she’s ... ancient.”

The Husband adopted a peculiar look, a look of horror, mixed with disgust, with a dash of determination thrown in.  I had seen this same look before, right after my car engine died three years ago and had to be replaced.  The Husband was exhibiting classic signs of denial. 

“MOV, Washing Machine is not dead yet, and I refuse to acknowledge the possibility.” 

“Look, Sweetie, we just got our tax refund—$700!  And that is exactly what a decent quality washer costs.  Let’s go to Sears, scope out a few, and make a decision.”

The Husband shook his head forlornly.    

“No.  No.  I refuse.” 

He disappeared to the basement, and came back a few minutes later as if nothing had happened. 

“We’re going to Sears,” he said, getting his jacket. 

I tried to suppress my smug attitude and a devious smile, but I knew I had won. 

“MOV, Washing Machine is fine,” he clarified.  “Now Dryer won’t start.” 

MOV