158. Euphemisms

What To Say When You Don’t Want To Offend Anyone:

• pushy = “has initiative”
• smells bad = “fragrant”
• not talented = “working on developing his potential”
• clumsy = “physical in surprising ways”
• messy = "collector with varied interests displayed in a non-structured style"
• eavesdropper = “always in the know”
• nosy = “extremely interested in others”
• late = "not confined by traditional time restraints"
• tacky dresser = “brave wardrobe choices”
• gossipy = “creative story-teller”
• thief = "unclear on proper boundaries of possession"
• bratty = “energetic”
• watches too much TV, couch potato = "unwinds through meditation, or sometimes with media outlets"
• emails too much = "likes to stay connected"
• wastes time = "sometimes a tad bit unfocused"
• fat = "appreciates delicious food, somewhat of a gourmet"
• horrible driver = "risk-taker"
• won't leave the house = "risk-averse" 
• lazy = “tired”
• mentally unstable, possibly dangerous = "confused"
• interrupts constantly = “wants to be involved in the conversation”
• loser = “second place winner”
• no = “sure, let me get back to you”
• I don't have time for that = "What a great opportunity for someone else!"
• ugly = “plain, but in a good way”
• ugly= “wholesome, all natural”
• unattractive = “earthy”
• tastes bland = “I’m sure some people like it, my palate is just not very developed”
• poison = see above
• disgusting = ditto
• rip off, waste of money = “cost-prohibitive”
• piece of junk = "mass-produced"
• hung-over = “touch of the flu”
• hung-over = “stomach bug”
• obnoxious = “really social, almost what I would consider too social”
• loud = “bothering my ear-drums a little bit”
• old = “not really that old”
• old = “what do you consider old?”
• yucky interior of a house, including 1970’s avocado-green shag carpeting = “slightly dated décor”
• ready to gut entire house = “might need some minor updates”
• mean, not helpful = “seems busy”
• downright ignores you = "distracted"
• bitchy = "not that friendly"
• hate her, can’t be in the same room with her = “I don’t know her that well”
• opinionated = “likes to blog”

MOV
("Melee Of Verbiage")

157. Other People's Stuff

If it belongs to me, or used to belong to me, or someone gave it to me at some point, I can part with it. That’s not hard at all. The trick is: deciding what to do with other people’s things. Other People’s Stuff is what poses a problem. Would the Other People rebel if I got rid of their Stuff? I was about to find out.

The other day, we got a phone call from the local chapter of S.A.J. (Services Against Junk). I happened to be the unlucky one who answered the phone. The conversation went something like this:

SAJ: Is this Miss MOV?
Me: (panicking, after recognizing the SAJ name on the caller ID) Uh, how did you get this number?
SAJ: That’s irrelevant. This is Stacey Wiggums from the Crazy Town Services Against Junk. Are you familiar with our agency?
Me:

SAJ: I can tell by your long uncomfortable silence that you are. Well, then you probably have heard our mission statement before? “Treat the Junk Like a Skunk, Get it Out Before We Shout!” Catchy, isn’t it?
Me: But, I don’t understand. I don’t have any junk. I'm a Virgo.  My house is pristine and spotless. You obviously have me confused with someone else. This is all a big mistake.
SAJ: Ah, Miss MOV, that’s where you’re wrong. We’ve had some complaints filed against you lately.
Me: (outraged) Complaints? Against me? By whom?
SAJ: We are unable to reveal our sources, but let’s just say, between you and me, I’d be a little bit more careful who you invite to your next wine and cheese party.
Me: Was it Linda? I saw her open my closet, to “put away” a coat, that’s what she said she was doing. Or Vic? He seems nice, but maybe he was one of those tattle-tale kind of kids in grade school. Or Nanette? She “accidentally” walked in the garage, saying she was looking for the guest bathroom—ha! I’ll bet it wa....
SAJ: M’am! It doesn’t matter! What matters here right now is that the truck is on its way over.
Me: (panicky) Truck? What truck?
SAJ: The Services Against Junk truck. I need you to go get all your junk as soon as we get off the phone and take it out front.
Me: (in denial) I don’t know what you’re talking about. I'm telling you, I don’t have any junk. I need everything that's here.
SAJ: Those large Lego pieces that don’t go to anything? The broken vase that you “might” glue back together? The old videos, on Beta for goshsakes? The two dozen or so extension cords? The weird metal clip thing that you can’t remember what it goes to?
Me: But, but, but ... those aren’t even mine. Those belong to my husband or my kids. Why should I be punished for their stuff?
SAJ: (exasperated) Look, ma’am, do I need to get my supervisor on the phone? You know what the problem is. You have about an hour and a half to deal with it. The truck has been dispatched.

As soon as I got off the phone, I cried. Then, I did what Stacey told me to do. I started gathering up the specific items she had named, plus the broken crayons, the itchy socks, the lamp that needed re-wiring, the books with pages ripped out (thanks, Short), the chair that was missing a leg, the toy elephant with the stuffing coming out, the suitcase with the broken pull-up handle, the endless supply of home décor magazines, the left-over dried-out paint from two houses ago ... I placed the items in boxes and bags and put them on the front porch.

Ninety minutes after I'd hung up the phone with Stacey, the truck pulled up. Three guys in dark green jumpsuits walked towards the house. “We’re with Services Against Junk,” said one. He had an accent. Services came out like “sir—veeces.”  I nodded. What else could I do?

The Husband, known primarily for his skill at coming-home-right-when-I-bake-cookies, chose this moment to return from work. But instead of fresh-baked cookies, he was coming home to his junk being tossed forever, right along side the excess junk formerly belonging to Tall and Short. 

“MOV?” he said, as he walked up the front stairs, “did you bake cookies? and who are the guys in green jumpsuits?”

“Let’s go for a quick walk,” I replied hastily, grabbing my keys before the Jumpsuit Guys could throw those away as well, “and I’ll explain everything.”

MOV
(“My Optimistic Void”)

154. 3 AM

Things You Can Get Done From 3 AM--7 AM: 

1. You can finish reading that book you started several weeks ago (book not that great, shouldn't have bothered)
2. You can get caught up on TiVo'd shows and watch about 17 episodes of "House Hunters" back-to-back-to-back (including International episodes!)
3. You can delete any TiVo'd shows that you don't really plan to ever watch, specifically show that The Husband and Tall might have taped (sorry, guys--the TiVo memory was getting low) 
4. You can polish off half a container of champagne-flavored gummy candies that you bought last shift at the high-end kitchen store (realize after the fact that was not the best idea ever)
5. You can read any emails that might have come in mostly from Old Navy and Amazon, and you can spend 45 minutes deleting old emails that you saved for no apparent reason (emails with titles like "I can drive tonight" dated 6-24-08, or "Game cancelled" dated 9-12-09)
6. You can pet cat on your lap for a long time, because she obviously is not a victim of insomnia 
7. You can look through about 436 old catalogs and magazines (hello? Purge-O-Rama time!)
8. Can make about a million lists:  lists of places you want to travel to, list of Christmas presents you might buy for people, lists of favorite restaurants  

Things You Cannot Do From 3 AM-- 7 AM (because it will cause too much noise and wake up poor unsuspecting sleepers of household, namely everyone but you):

1. You cannot work-out with fun energetic new work-out video set to pop music
2. You cannot work-out on expensive exercise bike in basement because the wheels go around in a noisy way
3. You cannot vacuum even though living room really needs it
4. Ditto dishes
5. Can't make brownies or cupcakes (mixer is too loud)
6. Can't do any cleaning
7. Can't talk on phone (uh, who else is awake?  have friends in Australia?)

Overall, general conclusion is that the best activity to accomplish at 3 AM is, in fact, sleeping. 

MOV
("Mom Overtired? Very")

151. School Mornings

Scrambling around like
Crazy
Hoping we remembered the
Odd bit of homework (most likely
Overlooked in the
Last-minute dash out the front door).

My
Only
Regret?
Not getting organized the night before.
I tell myself that this
Night will be different-- I'll
Get everything prepared ahead.  Instead, I
Sit and watch a new episode of Top Chef.

MOV
("Mornings Of Valor")

147. I'm Here To Complain About My Free Sample

So I work part-time in a high-end kitchen store (is it possibly the kitchen store you are imagining in your mind right now?  yes).  My days there are usually uneventful, but I must confess, it's a hell of a lot more interesting when the professional entertainers arrive:   

"Excuse me, Miss?  I'd like to complain about my free sample.  What's the problem? well, the cake is dry and there's too little of it.  I'd like another piece."

"Can I talk to a manager?  I feel sick after eating that sample.  I think it must have nuts in it and you didn't warn me about that and I have allergies.  Oh, the large sign that says, 'Contains Nuts' right next to the samples?  Well, how could I be expected to read that while I'm eating?" 

"I need to return this $2000 espresso machine.  Yeah, I've owned it, oh, I guess about seven years and one day it just stopped working!  Here's my original receipt I saved.  Can I have a brand new upgraded espresso machine now for free?"

"Is your gift-wrapping service free?  yes?  Great, will you please gift-wrap these items."  Five minutes later: "Huh.  That looks ugly.  I don't care for that wrapping paper you used.  What other choices are there?" 

"Where are the free samples?  You're not doing them today?  WHY NOT?  WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?"

"Huh, I saw that same pan at Target for, like, $40 less.  It's a different material?  So?  Yours is still too pricey."

"I bought this at the Outlet for like 50% off.  I don't like it anymore.  Can I return it here even though the receipt says 'All Sales Final'?" 

"Do you sell clocks?"

"So you sell bath towels?"

"Do you sell wicker baskets to store magazines in?"

"Do you sell ice-cream?  I don't mean ice-cream mix.  I mean already frozen ice-cream.  Why not?" 

"Is there alcohol in this margarita sample?  why not?" 

"Can I return this pepper grinder I stole?"

"I'd like to buy this delicious topping I bought here last year.  Uh, I can't remember the exact name, but I think it had the word 'Sauce' in the title."

"I went to make a pumpkin cheesecake and I bought all the special ingredients and had them all mixed and then when I went to pour it in your special cheesecake pan, the pan had a tiny scratch on it and I had to throw EVERYTHING away!  It's all your fault and I want my money back PLUS the money for the ingredients.  No, I don't have my receipt." 

"Do you carry your 'Santa-Blend Holiday Cocoa' all year or just in December?" 

"Do you carry the latest book by that really famous cookbook author who is on the cooking channel?  Uh, I can't remember her name.  She's older, and usually wears a red apron.  Oh, wait, maybe it's a guy."

"I am not happy with your free cooking class because you didn't serve enough to make me full.  I still have to go buy lunch somewhere now." 

"I just ate one of those pink cupcakes you have in your front window display, but they taste stale!"

"The girl put it on hold for me, I called about four weeks ago.  You only have a three-day hold policy?  What do you mean you put it back on the sales floor and sold it now?" 

"My husband dropped this new porcelain platter we got for a wedding present and it broke.  I don't have a gift receipt, but I need to exchange it for a new one that is not broken.  For free." 

"I'd like to look up my best friend's wedding registry." Five minutes later:  "Ugh, she sure registered for a lot of stupid stuff!  She'll never use these things.  Wow, is she dumber than I thought.  I guess I'll just buy her what I like."

"This knife broke when I was using it to pry our kitchen window open when it was stuck.  I'd like to exchange it because it is obviously defective."

"I should be in your system."  (They are paying in cash.)

"I shop here all the time." (You have never seen them in the three years you've worked here.)

"Have you seen my child?"

"Have you seen my purse?"

"Have you seen my cell phone?"

"Have you seen my keys?"

"Have you seen my shopping bags?"

"I can't find my car in the parking lot, can you help me?" 

"Have you seen my husband?"

"Have you seen my Starbucks cup?"

"Are you open on Thanksgiving?  why not?"

Corporate, if you're listening:  Thank you for sending in the entertainers!  They give us something to laugh about every day. 

MOV
("Marvelling Over Variety")

144. Costume Change

Well, it’s almost time for that glorious October ritual:  time to panic about Halloween costumes. Luckily, Short is pretty easy-going and will eagerly wear his older brother’s cast-offs. This year, Short will be donning pirate attire, complete with eye patch and fake hook hand.  He has been trying the ensemble on all summer, in hopes of perfecting his pirate scowl and sound effects ("Arrrrr, matey!"). 

Now, Tall.......Tall’s another subject. As the firstborn, he's always reveled in the de facto role of Wearer Of Great Costumes. We have spared no expense to make that kid look like a viable first place contender for any costume competition in the tri-state area.

For his first foray into the multiple choice world of costumes for babies, he was a darling little bumble bee.  Our photo album is full of documentation of his yellow-and-black striped cuteness.  (He posed cooperatively for the first twenty or so shots, and the next ones are of him in a quasi-sedated chocolate coma).

The following year, as an opinionated one-and-a-half-year-old with distinct ideas about fashion and his role in it, he chose a fire-fighter costume. That costume was a flash of divine inspiration, and he fell so deeply in love with it that he refused to change out of it to sleep on Halloween night, or the five consecutive nights after that. I must admit, he made an adorable little fire-fighter.

The problem arose the next Halloween. The previous year, the fire-fighter outfit had been a bit too big for him.  Undaunted, we rolled up the pant legs so he could walk and rolled up the sleeves so he could reach out for candy.  By the time the next October 31st rolled around, he could easily still fit in it. This bossy two-and-a-half-year-old told me that he wanted to be a fire-fighter for Halloween.

“Really?” I asked in earnest, “The same thing again? Let me show you the photos, that is exactly what you were last year.”

He smiled fondly at the photos and then looked up at me. “Mommy, I look good in the picture. I look so han-sum! I be a great fireman ‘nother time too!” Honestly, how can a mom say no to that?

The Husband was holding the lion-attired baby when I walked down the stairs with fire-fighter Tall. He immediately gave me A Look. To Tall he said, “Wow! You look ready to put out a fire! Let’s go trick-or-treating!” Then to me, under his breath, “Isn’t that what he was last year?” I shrugged and gave him the universal Mom-Code mental telepathy message of, "Don't make this a big deal, no one is crying, let's leave it at that."      

Now Tall was three-and-a-half. The well-used and well-loved fire-fighter costume had inhabited the dress-up box along with a football helmet and an alien mask. Tall and I had a brief discussion about his Halloween options. It went something like this:

Me: Tall, let’s take Short to the mall and we can go to the costume store and you can pick out a fun costume for Halloween!
Tall: No. I be a fireman, like forever.

He would not budge. So, for the third year in a row, I scrunched him into the fire-fighter costume, which at this point was bursting at the seams. He looked approvingly at his exposed ankles in the mirror, entranced with his greatness. “I look so fireman!” he said proudly. He begged me to take more pictures.  (These are the same photos that I anticipate years later he will look at and say, “Wow, my mom sure was cheap! I had to wear the same Halloween costume three years running!")

I took my miniature fire-fighter and his brother the hot-dog (a true hot “dog”—it was a dog costume from Target that exactly fit my one-year-old) out into the cool night to collect candy from generous neighbors. I was looking forward to the tradition of friends admiring my children’s costumes and admittedly also the newer tradition of me devouring all their candy later (hello, Kit-Kat!).

We knocked on our next-door neighbor’s door. The kindly older gentleman appeared brandishing a giant basket filled with mini-Snickers bars. He took one look at Tall, turned to me and whispered, “I thought he already was that costume last year?” I nodded quickly and grabbed two Snickers bars.

The next year, Tall was devastated by a terrible turn of events. Let me explain.  We were anticipating that his preschool would put on its annual Halloween Parade (although so as not to offend anyone in a climate of overly-politically-correctness, they referred to it as “Let’s Pretend Dress-Up Time”). Two days before the celebration, he went to our box of costumes and pulled out the (by now) tattered remnants of the fire-fighter outfit. He hugged it and smiled. Then he started to put the jacket on. His face registered a look of shock and dismay when he could not get his skinny arm into the very tight sleeve.

“Mom!” he cried out, “Come quick! Something’s wrong, I think my costume shrunk in the laundry!”

This was My Moment.  Hoping he'd forget all about the fire-fighter idea, I pulled out a wonderful costume that I'd been saving for just this occasion: a very realistic Buzz Lightyear, complete with pop-up wings. Tall dropped the fire-fighter costume on the floor like a pair of dirty pajamas.

“Buzz Lightyear!” he beamed.

Last year, at age five, he made a dashing pirate, a costume I had to really rally for. I introduced the idea, then let him chew on it a while until it became his own (have you seen the movie "Inception"?  think along those lines). A few days before Halloween, he woke up one morning and informed me, “Mom, I think I’ll be a pirate this time!”

I took him to a costume store the other day to get a general idea of what was out there. I know it is still "technically" September, but that is equivalent to 3 seconds away from the despair that is non-existent costume choices in Retail Land.  Great retro Gumby costume—oh, they only have size 12.  Perfect Spiderman costume—oh, they only have toddler sizes.  I'm forever fearful of being dubbed the Loser Mom Who Waited Too Long and then my child ends up shoving his giant pillow case in strangers' faces while wearing a non-descript black turtleneck, bandana, and messy black face-paint.  ("What are YOU supposed to be?" "I'm a burglar.")

Tall is now six and still has very distinct ideas about what he will and won’t wear (see blog 142: What They Wear). He went right to the vampire and skeleton costumes, and then transformers (I am loathe to admit I don’t know exactly what a transformer is, but I don’t want my son to be one). I tried pushing him toward the cute surgeon costume. No dice. The cowboy? Uh-uh. A fun dragon was quickly deemed “too baby”. Sigh.

I wish I could sew; I remember my mom made us darling costumes. Once I was a black cat and then years later my younger sister followed in my feline footsteps.  I also recall gypsy costumes, witches, and a giant Oreo cookie at some point. 

Last year, the neighbor kids that impressed me the most were a little boy dressed as a giant Lego and a teen-age girl costumed as a large container of McDonald’s French fries. Kudos to those parents (see blog 143: Homework For Mom).

Tall doesn’t know it yet, but this year he will be sporting an astronaut’s flight suit. I bought the last one they had in his size back in July.

MOV
(“Mother Of Vampires?”)

143. Homework For Mom

So Tall walks in from school practically levitating. “Mommmmm! Guesswhatguesswhatguesswhat! You’ll never guess!” he shrieks.

“What?” I say, wondering if I should call the News Team or at least grab a pack of band-aids.

“I’ve got homework!” His grin is neon.

Why would any child exhibit these (demented) signs of happiness about the dreaded homework? One word: novelty. Tall is in first grade at Crazy Town Elementary, and this is his very first encounter with this mysterious thing called homework, formerly the bastion of Big Kids or at least gap-toothed second-graders.

“Here, I’ll show you. This is so cool. Okay, so my teacher gave us this worksheet on something called Ecomonics,” he begins, slowly, like Mommy might be too stupid to understand the concept of Ecomonics.

“Economics,” I correct.

“Mom! This is MY homework! Anyway, I need to do a chart and explain the different prices for pizzas for the Ecomonics hand-out.” He glances up, then continues, “Then, we have to practice writing all these words for our spelling test and then, we have to work on some math evasions,”

“Equations?”

“You’re doing it again! Stop it,” he hisses. “All right, next, we have to figure out how camels store all that water and then my teacher wants me to read two chapters of this book,” he pauses to hold up an unabridged-dictionary-sized tome.

I have started to zone out to a place far far away, a place called I Can’t Believe I Have To Do All This Homework. This, as we all know, is not Tall’s homework. No. This is Mommy’s homework. Oh, sure, he will ultimately do all the homework, but I will be required to sit patiently by, like some kind of unpaid tutor, helping whenever needed.

Okay, that sounds bad. I want to be a good parent, I want to help with homework, it’s just that, Really? First grade? Can’t they maybe finish anything they were working on at school during regular business hours?

I don't send them my unfolded laundry or last night's dirty dinner dishes and ask if they can just "finish it up" for me.  I expect the same courtesy. 

Three days ago was the worst: Tall removed a special paper from his StarWars backpack with a slight flourish. “Look, Mom! Something YOU get to do!” And sure enough, it was a sweet little project the teacher had dreamt up for the parents. Below is the note that was attached:

“Dear Parents/ Care-Givers,

I know that you want to be involved in every step of the education process.  Please take this opportunity to design and color in this special ‘Handprint of Encouragement’ for your child. Be as creative as possible! Write supportive comments on the hand, like 'I love you!' and 'You can do it!'
*Please do not feel any pressure to make this a masterpiece—just draw from the heart.  :)

Sincerely,
Tall’s Very Nice Teacher With A Master’s Degree In Teaching (and a minor in Fine Arts)

PS—this is due tomorrow, or today, whichever.”

I read the note and immediately started looking for a small paper bag in which to hyperventilate (or throw up, whichever). “Handprint of Encouragement”? Is this something new? The only “Handprint of Encouragement” I remember as a small child was the “Handprint of Spanking”.  That was some pretty effective encouragement.

I decided to play along. I wanted to be supportive and, ahem, encouraging. I looked at the blank piece of paper with the computer-generated outline of a hand. What-should-I-draw-what-should-I-draw-what-should-I-draw. Hmmmmm. And more importantly, what should I write?

A horrible Thought entered my brain. I tried to push it out (“Exit’s over there, jack-ass!” I sneered). Too late. The Thought said,

THE TEACHERS WILL JUDGE YOU. Yeah, okay, I can deal with that. They already judge me on what my son wears to school and the lunch I pack him: is MOV a good parent or a lackadaisical one? So they see my little drawing, who cares?

The Thought’s evil cousin, Thought-On-Steroids, chimed in:

THEY WILL HANG THIS IN THE CLASSROOM AND THE KIDS WILL JUDGE YOU AND THE PRINCIPAL WILL JUDGE YOU. Oh, I did not really consider that. Well, uh, I’m up for the challenge! I studied Architecture, for goshsakes. My major was English Literature. I should be able to eke out something.

Out of nowhere, in spun Thought-On-Steroids-Infinity just to cap things off:

THE OTHER PARENTS WILL SEE YOUR PATHETIC HANDPRINT ARTWORK ON BACK TO SCHOOL NIGHT AND THEY WILL LAUGH ABOUT YOU BEHIND YOUR BACK, AND POSSIBLY TO YOUR FACE. Ooops. I guess I better Xerox this hand and do a rough draft version.

Twenty Xeroxes and two large glasses of Chardonnay later, I had come up with a stellar and appropriate design. Wine labels! How cool would that be! I could cut out the words on the labels and apply them to Tall: well-balanced, crisp, grown in America.  Luckily, The Husband walked in at just about this time. He asked what I was doing and I told him. Now he wanted in on the act.

“Why don’t you just take some of the duplicate family photos we have laying around and make sort of an artsy collage or something?” This from a man who majored in Ecomonics and knew his way around a math Evasion.

“I have it under control,” I glared. “This is MY project.”

“I thought it was Tall’s project?” he countered innocently.

I shoved the information sheet in his face, pointing at the word “Parent”.

“I’ve got it. You just do dinner and baths. I need to work on this so the other parents are impressed with my brilliance and creativity or at the very least, so they don’t laugh at me.”

“You are obsessed,” The Husband rolled his eyes, “they’ll laugh about that.”

Three hours floated away. I was very proud of my photo collage surrounded by neatly written words of encouragement.

The next day, I put it in Tall’s folder. Before he walked out the door, he removed it to inspect its greatness.

“Oh,” he murmured.

“What? is that a good ‘oh’ or a bad ‘oh’? what does ‘oh’ mean?” I queried.

“Why are all the people, you know, 'chopped up'?” he asked, perplexed.

“They’re not 'chopped up', it’s a collage, that’s how you do a collage.”

He shrugged. After all my worry, I don’t think he really cared that much.

When he got off the school bus later that day, the interrogation began: “Did your teacher like it? what did she say?”

“Like what? What are you talking about? Hey, I got 100% on my spelling test! And the teacher says I am one of the very best readers. I got an A on my drawing of a bridge and oh, I forgot my library book, so the librarian wouldn’t let me check…”

“THE COLLAGE,” I interrupted, like a deranged Art Student Who Pulled An All-Nighter. “What did your teacher say about the collage?”

“Oh, that. Yeah, I gave it to her. I told her you made it. She and the assistant teacher were talking about it for a little while, and talking about you, too.  I guess you did an okay job.”

I smiled inside.  She and the assistant teacher were talking about it?  That was a good sign!  “Anything else?  Or is that it?"  I pressed.

“Yep, that’s it. Oh, and Mom? what does that mean when someone says ‘zero design skills’?”

MOV
(“My Ossified Visage”)