Wednesday, February 26, 2014

986. If I Get Your Name Sorta Right, It Should Still Count

For some strange reason, I was not blessed with the DNA coding to remember people’s names correctly.  Fortunately, I can remember that I do know the person, and that we had a long chat about where their daughter is going to college or about how their cat might have to have surgery, but then the part about their actual name?  Not so much. 
Sharon?  I want to call her Karen. 
Winnie?  Let’s make that Wendy. 
Brad?  How about Bob. 
JoAnna?  I’ll change that to Jessica. 
I should get points though, right?  Partial credit?  It means I was paying a tiny bit of attention at some point, but maybe not all the way. 
The Husband (big surprise here) does not quite agree with me. 
“If you know you forgot their name, why don’t you avoid it all together?  Because if you get the name wrong, it’s not like in math class where you get some points for showing your work.  You lose points.  It is better to not say a name at all and then you stay at zero points instead of negative.”
Zero points?  Who wants to stay at zero points?!? I want the possibility to earn points!  
I call the kids in for their opinions. 
“Grande, Little, Mommy wants to ask you something.”
“It’s Tall and Short, Mom.” 

Wednesday, February 12, 2014

984. Floppy Beach Hat

I bought a floppy beach hat today.  It is 22 degrees out.
My purchase is partially wishful thinking that the weather will tropicate overnight. 
But even if it did—what then?  I am not a floppy beach hat girl.  I wish I was.  I so want to be her.  I imagine myself languorously drifting into the local market, embellished with the floppy beach hat. 
People I don’t know would whisper about me behind my back:  “She is wearing a floppy beach hat.  Therefore, her life must be perfect in that casual not-trying-too-hard kind of way.” 
I want people to think I am not trying too hard. 
But I am actually trying really hard. 
I own a black coat with a fake fur collar.  For floppy beach hat girl.  I also have a pair of 5-inch stilettos acquired on trip to New Zealand two decades ago. 
I have worn the shoes exactly once.    
Floppy beach hat girl would wear those shoes to go see the dentist. 
You know she would. 
Floppy beach hat girl is fearless.  She wears what she wants, when she wants.  She doesn’t agonize before leaving the house if she is dressed appropriately and then ultimately put on jeans and a Target t-shirt (again) just so she can look like a suburban soccer mom.  No.  Floppy beach hat girl will wear bracelets made of rubber bands (bestowed upon her by her 7-year-old) with an evening gown to go to her husband’s work party.  She dresses for herself, not caring what others think one way or another. 
I take a cue from floppy beach hat girl.  I put on black corduroy pants, a pink sweater, and a crazy wood necklace shaped like arrows that I bought at a second-hand store in LA.  I lace up chunky leather boots.  I look in the mirror and smile. 
As we are about to leave, my snarky 4th grader groans, “You’re not wearing that, are you, Mom?” 
I zip back to my closet and change.  Jeans and a sweatshirt.  No necklace.       
Floppy beach hat girl will have to wait another day. 

Sunday, February 2, 2014

982. Dating Superman

It’s not like I didn’t know who he was when we met.  He had on the cape, the tights, the giant letter “S” across his chest.  He looked like a very handsome caricature of himself. 
“Hello, I’m Superman,” he said confidently, as he extended his hand. 
“MOV,” I replied.  I felt my cheeks turn red.  It’s not every day you meet a superhero. 
His grip was tight, but not too tight.  He could probably bend steel with those hands if he wanted to. 
Once we started talking, I confirmed that he was single.  I know what you’re thinking:  Lois Lane.  That’s what everyone says now when I tell the story.  But we actually met way before he and Lois were an item. 
Superman and I had a lot in common.  We both liked long walks on the beach, saving puppies, and listening to rain while enjoying a good book and a cup of hot cocoa.  Oh, didn’t I tell you?  We met through a dating service. 
This was back in the days before the Internet and Match Dot Com.  You had to fill out a questionnaire with, like, 50 questions, and poof!  They would set you up with your perfect guy. 
I don’t remember all the questions, but I do remember my answers:  Super!  As in, “If you unexpectedly found yourself with a day off, what would your first thought be?”  Or, “Tell us about your relationship with your next-door neighbor,” and, “What is the one word your best friend would use to describe you?” 
It just seemed natural that they would set me up with him.  I liked Super and he was Super.   
The beginning was great.  He called when he said he would, showed up with flowers, always paid for dinner—that kind of thing.  He was courteous and thoughtful.  I even started to think about introducing him to my family.   
But then something changed.  He was very show-offy.  Say a giant metal safe was falling out a window of a high-rise building just as we happened to be walking under it?  He would reach out and catch it and prevent us from being killed.  Okay, maybe that’s a bad example because I am glad that I didn’t get crushed by a safe.  Oh, here’s one:  if a baby was playing on railroad tracks FIVE STREETS OVER then he would woosh away and save the baby or stop the train or whatever. 
The whole saving people thing got to be annoying.  It interrupted a lot of romantic moments, if you know what I mean. 
He was always “on”—always paying attention to something else, somewhere else, some element of danger lurking that I had no idea about.  And everywhere we went, people had to come up and shake his hand and thank him. 
“Oh, Superman,” they would swoon, “you are the greatest!  Thank you so much for saving my dad from being eaten by that shark,” blah-blah-blah. 
Of course I would stand to the side, smiling and nodding politely (what else was I going to do?) and then the people would turn to me and say how lucky I was to be dating Superman. 
Lucky.  Yeah, right. 
Then, totally out of the blue, he proposed.  Literally out of the blue: he scooped me up, flew me in his arms to a mountain top, and pulled a diamond ring out of a secret pocket in his cape. 
I said yes.  Not because I wanted to say yes, but because I felt pressured.  And the fact that I was on a random mountain top and not sure how I’d get home if I said no. 
He wanted to elope, and I wanted to break up.  He told me to meet him down at City Hall but I was a no-show.  I felt bad, but I couldn’t go through with it.  It’s not like I have to be in the spotlight all the time, but with Superman I knew I would never be in the spotlight.  Ever. 
He knocked on my apartment door with a big bouquet of roses in his hand.    
“MOV, can we start over?” 
My roommate glanced up from watching TV and rolled her eyes. 
“Look, S,” I began, “I love the idea of you.  But the you in the flesh, well … it’s a little hard to take.”   
He set the flowers on the table and left.  I never heard from him again.  Well, until last week, that is.  He sent me a friend request on Facebook.  I immediately checked his relationship status:  Single. 
And according to his profile, he still likes saving puppies.