So I never told you this story before. I’m living in San Diego with my then-boyfriend Paul (this is about a million years ago, I think I must be 25). We live in a tiny apartment by the beach. We’re both working in hotels (different hotels though) and he’s a banquet captain—so he basically works a lot of parties.
This party is different though. This is a wedding, the wedding of Andre Agassi’s brother.
(This is waaaaay before Steffi Graf; this is when Andre’s still married to Brooke Shields.)
According to Paul, Andre Agassi’s mom is a bit of a control-freak when it comes to planning the wedding. Paul: “She is very demanding, but in a nice demanding way.”
The mom is walking through the banquet room with Paul and the catering manager and going into an elaborate description of how she wants everything decorated. Since the wedding will be taking place early December, she wants about a gazillion Christmas trees everywhere. Live trees. Decorated trees. Flocked trees. (You know—that fake puffy white snow somehow glued to the branches?)
The hotel ends up getting 25 of the most gorgeous Empire-State-Building-tall trees you have ever seen in your life. Someone drives to Greenland to retrieve them all. The trees cost $3000 each. You can barely walk through and see the ocean view outside because of this dense forest of Christmastravaganza.
The wedding goes off without a hitch. Brooke Shields is exceedingly nice (I ask Paul what she drinks: strawberry daiquiris. I make a mental note to order a strawberry daquiri in the near future.). The general manager is very proactive in asking the mom what she wants done with all those trees (I think he’s hoping she'll let the hotel just keep them for their own holiday decorating purposes and save a considerable chunk of the December budget).
But, no. The mom says (and, luckily, there are witnesses), “It is my fondest wish to let each banquet or kitchen employee have a tree.” There are 25 trees, and 50 employees.
It is decided (after the wedding) that there will be a lottery to determine which employees will get the coveted trees. Everyone is so excited, you’d think they're giving away new cars.
You know what happens next: Paul wins a tree. Our apartment can barely hold a couch and a table, let alone a tree of Nutcracker Ballet proportions (see “tiny apartment,” above).
Conveniently, my mom and her 20 foot ceilings live close by. In a gesture of generosity and common sense, Paul gives her the tree.
It is a strange kind of nostalgia, when an event happens and as it is happening, you say to yourself, This is the best it will ever be. That is how putting that tree up is. We all look at the glamorous Andre Agassi’s brother’s wedding tree and give a big collective sigh. We will never ever have a tree this beautiful again. (And I'm not even a fan of flocked white trees, as I deem them “cheap” and “tacky.” Not this tree. This tree is “perfect” and “classy.”)
We all take turns posing for too many pictures in front of the iconic tree. It is a wonderful and magical Christmas, with this extravagant souvenir of Wimbledon and Hollywood taking residence in the center of the room near the window.
We leave it up ‘til April.
MOV
(“Magical Optimum Vision”)
Monday, March 7, 2011
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
345. What I Learned Today
“In Texas they don’t have beds so they sleep on horses. That’s what they do.”
Courtesy of my son, Short. When pressed, “We learned that in school.”
MOV
Courtesy of my son, Short. When pressed, “We learned that in school.”
MOV
344. To Do
Unlike normal people’s “To Do” list, mine does not shrink nor boast heavy charcoal lines striping through mundane tasks. No. My list grows, like a weed that you thought might be a plant but have now confirmed (after a quick Google search on a “no computer” day) is, in fact, a weed after all. A weed that needs absolutely no water, no food, no sunshine, nothing—yet, this weed (my “To Do” list) grows and grows and grows and towers over the “real” plants, the ones you paid good money to have a landscaper put in.
Okay, enough with the out-of-control weed metaphor. You get the idea.
As soon as I write down an item, I think of four more “related” items that should be added to the list. The main problem with my list is: it is not really even my list. It is the list of Tall and Short and The Husband and Kitty (“make vet appointment—yearly check-up”). Back when I was young and single and unencumbered by children and Adult Responsibilities (hello, Mortgage!), I could write a quick list and (miracle!) get a couple things, maybe even most (maybe even all) accomplished in a relatively finite amount of time (for example: one day).
Now, I am lucky if I can do even one thing on the list, let alone all 500 of them. It has gotten so depressing to look at “The List” that now I find myself writing things on it that I have just done solely for the thrill of being able to cross something off (“drink coffee” found its way onto yesterday’s list).
Sometimes, right when I wake up in the morning, I will go into the study and optimistically take out the list just to see if perhaps something got accomplished in the middle of the night while I was sleeping (nope—“buy new batteries for kitchen smoke detector” still remains on the list, undone).
Lately, I have been on this kick to clean out all my closets and drawers. Again, this is not just MOV’s personal list, this list is done by me but involves doing the work of four family members and a cat. So, that means it is not only my closet. My list says
Well, at least I wrote today’s blog (oops, I’ll have to go back and add it to the list so I can cross it off).
MOV
Okay, enough with the out-of-control weed metaphor. You get the idea.
As soon as I write down an item, I think of four more “related” items that should be added to the list. The main problem with my list is: it is not really even my list. It is the list of Tall and Short and The Husband and Kitty (“make vet appointment—yearly check-up”). Back when I was young and single and unencumbered by children and Adult Responsibilities (hello, Mortgage!), I could write a quick list and (miracle!) get a couple things, maybe even most (maybe even all) accomplished in a relatively finite amount of time (for example: one day).
Now, I am lucky if I can do even one thing on the list, let alone all 500 of them. It has gotten so depressing to look at “The List” that now I find myself writing things on it that I have just done solely for the thrill of being able to cross something off (“drink coffee” found its way onto yesterday’s list).
Sometimes, right when I wake up in the morning, I will go into the study and optimistically take out the list just to see if perhaps something got accomplished in the middle of the night while I was sleeping (nope—“buy new batteries for kitchen smoke detector” still remains on the list, undone).
Lately, I have been on this kick to clean out all my closets and drawers. Again, this is not just MOV’s personal list, this list is done by me but involves doing the work of four family members and a cat. So, that means it is not only my closet. My list says
- Front coat closet (and each member of the family owns no fewer than 62 coats)
- Entry hall table (amazing how much you can cram into five little drawers and forget that it was ever there until you need to file your taxes)
- Linen closet
- My closet
- My dresser
- Tall and Short’s closet (luckily, a shared space)
- Laundry room (yes, it seems like a blessing to have an entire room devoted to laundry … until that room fills up with miscellaneous junk that you don’t know what to do with)
- Closet in study
- Closet in kids’ playroom (full of expensive toys they never play with but you can’t bear to part with and are holding onto for no good reason)
- Pantry shelves in kitchen
- Guest room closet (if something didn't fit in the laundry room, then it has traveled across the hall to this location)
- Storage closet (already too full to fit excess stuff from laundry room or guest room)
- And the grande dame of storage closets: the garage (which has not housed an actual vehicle in over a year, but instead is home to more useful items like free rowing machines and abandoned pianos)
Well, at least I wrote today’s blog (oops, I’ll have to go back and add it to the list so I can cross it off).
MOV
342. Anatomy Lesson
Short came home from preschool today very excited. He was brandishing a simplistic Xeroxed picture of the human body, complete with heart and basic view of the circulatory system. “Mommy! Mommy! Guess what?” he inquired breathlessly. “Today we learned all about the human bean body and our heart. And the teacher even had a Mexiscope like the doctor, and she let us listen to our heart bumping.”
Well, it doesn’t get much better than that. What child doesn’t want to hear his heart bumping? (And who knew these stethoscopes were currently made in Mexico?)
“So the teacher told us all about the red blood and the blue blood,” Short continues. “The blue blood is, uh, water, and the red blood is …”
Tall thinks this would be a fabulous time to impart his special brand of knowledge. “Hot lava!” he squeals.
Short nods in instant recognition. “Yes.”
Oh, my. Call the med schools right now this second and get these two on the waiting list. They are obviously future cardiologist material.
MOV
(“Mother Of Volcanoes”)
Well, it doesn’t get much better than that. What child doesn’t want to hear his heart bumping? (And who knew these stethoscopes were currently made in Mexico?)
“So the teacher told us all about the red blood and the blue blood,” Short continues. “The blue blood is, uh, water, and the red blood is …”
Tall thinks this would be a fabulous time to impart his special brand of knowledge. “Hot lava!” he squeals.
Short nods in instant recognition. “Yes.”
Oh, my. Call the med schools right now this second and get these two on the waiting list. They are obviously future cardiologist material.
MOV
(“Mother Of Volcanoes”)
Sunday, February 20, 2011
338. What's In A Name?
So when Tall was a baby, I read something somewhere that said if you are talking about your child in what could be perceived as a negative way (paint scene: “Tall was screaming at Target and all the other shoppers were staring at me,”), then you should talk in code so as not to hurt the child’s feelings. Seems reasonable enough. I mean, anytime you hear your name, your ears automatically perk up a little bit because you realize that people are talking about you, and you want to listen intently to find out exactly what they are saying.
That is a lot of pressure on a parent, this whole I-might-be-giving-my-kid-a-complex thing. I told The Husband about this well-researched theory (I think I read it in a magazine at the doctor’s office, so it must’ve been true), and he reluctantly agreed that I might be right. (I think his exact words were, “Huh.”) From that moment on, if we weren’t discussing the merits of teaching Tall baby sign language or his obvious overachiever ability at football (he threw his stuffed panda all the way across his crib!), then we were referring to him by his special top-secret code name.
Fred.
As in, Fred kicked dirt at another child at the playground today or Fred got into the hidden stash of lollipops and ate five of them when I wasn’t looking.
This worked well for almost three years. Tall was what his pediatrician considered a “late talker”—he could eke out a word or two (think lollipop or dirt), but that was about it. Certainly never phrases or full sentences. Then, one rainy evening, The Husband and I realized that although “Fred” might not say much, he was astutely observing and processing everything. I’d just finished telling The Husband what Fred had done while he was at work all day (uh, that would be ripping up all Mommy’s favorite magazines), when Tall walked in the kitchen and declared
“My name is not Fred! You people need to stop calling me that! And my baby brother is not Klaus, either! His name is Short! Get it together, I am embarrassed to even call you my parents!”
That day was a brutal awakening for us, the feeble-minded mother and father. We have a new code name for parents now: Dummies.
MOV
("Morton? Oliver? Vladimir?")
That is a lot of pressure on a parent, this whole I-might-be-giving-my-kid-a-complex thing. I told The Husband about this well-researched theory (I think I read it in a magazine at the doctor’s office, so it must’ve been true), and he reluctantly agreed that I might be right. (I think his exact words were, “Huh.”) From that moment on, if we weren’t discussing the merits of teaching Tall baby sign language or his obvious overachiever ability at football (he threw his stuffed panda all the way across his crib!), then we were referring to him by his special top-secret code name.
Fred.
As in, Fred kicked dirt at another child at the playground today or Fred got into the hidden stash of lollipops and ate five of them when I wasn’t looking.
This worked well for almost three years. Tall was what his pediatrician considered a “late talker”—he could eke out a word or two (think lollipop or dirt), but that was about it. Certainly never phrases or full sentences. Then, one rainy evening, The Husband and I realized that although “Fred” might not say much, he was astutely observing and processing everything. I’d just finished telling The Husband what Fred had done while he was at work all day (uh, that would be ripping up all Mommy’s favorite magazines), when Tall walked in the kitchen and declared
“My name is not Fred! You people need to stop calling me that! And my baby brother is not Klaus, either! His name is Short! Get it together, I am embarrassed to even call you my parents!”
That day was a brutal awakening for us, the feeble-minded mother and father. We have a new code name for parents now: Dummies.
MOV
("Morton? Oliver? Vladimir?")
337. Field Trip
So Short has a field trip to the Neat Museum in The Big City, and his teacher asked for chaperone volunteers. I jump at the chance to be around Short and all his four-year-old friends (plus I’ve never been to the Neat Museum, and someone else will drive and figure out parking).
The day starts off well. I get to the school early, and check in at the office. The receptionist gives me my special official chaperone name tag, and I walk down the long hall feeling important and needed. I search for my son’s classroom. Everything is so tiny at this school! The bulletin boards come up to my waist; the water fountains are practically on the floor (for a minute I am wondering if they are intended for large dogs instead of short people).
The teacher greets me warmly at the door, and I notice there are about five other parent volunteers already standing around adjusting their special official chaperone name tags. I’m immediately relieved to not be the sole volunteer, as preschool-age children are notorious for their advanced escape/ hiding skills.
We load everyone onto the bus. We settle in for the long drive, and Short snuggles up to me exactly like all those ads showing moms making peanut butter sandwiches or folding laundry. While I chat merrily with two other mothers, the bus bumps along through rush-hour traffic to The Big City.
Right before we arrive at the Neat Museum, the teacher gets out of her seat, and walks through the aisle of the bus giving the parents lists of who is responsible for which children. I mentally calculate how many children I will be assigned, and for a moment I consider asking the teacher not to give me more than four children to watch. I think four might be my absolute limit.
I decide against relaying this little tidbit (for fear of branding myself incompetent), and instead start wondering who the trouble-maker kids are. Short has told me before that he’s not really friends with Tony-the-biter, so I’m praying that Tony will not be in my group. I notice that the teacher’s assistant is sitting with Tony, and reading him a book about museums, so probably Tony will be in his own petite group of two.
The teacher gets to my row. I nod at her, and I look at her pretty sunshine face expectantly. “Oh, and you,” she says, flustered for a moment. She turns and walks away without giving me an assignment.
Wait—what? What just happened here? Was she reading my mind about Tony, and now she has to shuffle things around so that he won’t be in my group after all? Or is Short considered the trouble-maker of the class, and other parents have told the teacher they don’t want their child to be with him? (In his defense, he’s usually a great kid. Sure, he gets excited, and wants to run a bit, but what little boy doesn’t?)
“Uh, excuse me?” I say lamely to the teacher, “Uh, who do you want me to be responsible for?”
She looks at me kindly, benevolently even (I have seen this look before: when I tried out for the singing group in high school and the singing teacher mentioned how important it was to have a “Props Support Team” to help set up the stage for the singers, and maybe that would be a good job for me), and she says
“You can just be responsible for Short.” She might as well have added, “if you think you can handle watching your own child for 45 minutes.”
Next, she leans toward someone’s great-grandmother (who is wearing oversized glasses that make her look like a smart bug), and tells her to watch Isabella, Noah, and Andrew.
My first inclination is to be offended, miffed, and defensive. These are my go-to emotions. I want to get up and shout for all the other parents and kids and even the bus driver to hear, “Hey Teacher! Not only do I have a four-year-old, but I also have a seven-year-old! That’s right—I am responsible for not one child but TWO on an everyday basis! I feed them and bathe them and drive them to soccer practice and help them with their homework, and most days go okay!”
But this is not what I do. Instead, I lean into Short, squeeze his little hand, and say, “Looks like it’s just you and me, kid. Again.”
MOV
(“Miffed Or Vindicated?”)
The day starts off well. I get to the school early, and check in at the office. The receptionist gives me my special official chaperone name tag, and I walk down the long hall feeling important and needed. I search for my son’s classroom. Everything is so tiny at this school! The bulletin boards come up to my waist; the water fountains are practically on the floor (for a minute I am wondering if they are intended for large dogs instead of short people).
The teacher greets me warmly at the door, and I notice there are about five other parent volunteers already standing around adjusting their special official chaperone name tags. I’m immediately relieved to not be the sole volunteer, as preschool-age children are notorious for their advanced escape/ hiding skills.
We load everyone onto the bus. We settle in for the long drive, and Short snuggles up to me exactly like all those ads showing moms making peanut butter sandwiches or folding laundry. While I chat merrily with two other mothers, the bus bumps along through rush-hour traffic to The Big City.
Right before we arrive at the Neat Museum, the teacher gets out of her seat, and walks through the aisle of the bus giving the parents lists of who is responsible for which children. I mentally calculate how many children I will be assigned, and for a moment I consider asking the teacher not to give me more than four children to watch. I think four might be my absolute limit.
I decide against relaying this little tidbit (for fear of branding myself incompetent), and instead start wondering who the trouble-maker kids are. Short has told me before that he’s not really friends with Tony-the-biter, so I’m praying that Tony will not be in my group. I notice that the teacher’s assistant is sitting with Tony, and reading him a book about museums, so probably Tony will be in his own petite group of two.
The teacher gets to my row. I nod at her, and I look at her pretty sunshine face expectantly. “Oh, and you,” she says, flustered for a moment. She turns and walks away without giving me an assignment.
Wait—what? What just happened here? Was she reading my mind about Tony, and now she has to shuffle things around so that he won’t be in my group after all? Or is Short considered the trouble-maker of the class, and other parents have told the teacher they don’t want their child to be with him? (In his defense, he’s usually a great kid. Sure, he gets excited, and wants to run a bit, but what little boy doesn’t?)
“Uh, excuse me?” I say lamely to the teacher, “Uh, who do you want me to be responsible for?”
She looks at me kindly, benevolently even (I have seen this look before: when I tried out for the singing group in high school and the singing teacher mentioned how important it was to have a “Props Support Team” to help set up the stage for the singers, and maybe that would be a good job for me), and she says
“You can just be responsible for Short.” She might as well have added, “if you think you can handle watching your own child for 45 minutes.”
Next, she leans toward someone’s great-grandmother (who is wearing oversized glasses that make her look like a smart bug), and tells her to watch Isabella, Noah, and Andrew.
My first inclination is to be offended, miffed, and defensive. These are my go-to emotions. I want to get up and shout for all the other parents and kids and even the bus driver to hear, “Hey Teacher! Not only do I have a four-year-old, but I also have a seven-year-old! That’s right—I am responsible for not one child but TWO on an everyday basis! I feed them and bathe them and drive them to soccer practice and help them with their homework, and most days go okay!”
But this is not what I do. Instead, I lean into Short, squeeze his little hand, and say, “Looks like it’s just you and me, kid. Again.”
MOV
(“Miffed Or Vindicated?”)
Friday, February 18, 2011
336. Self-Imposed Computer Exile
I have discovered an inviting land (you have probably been there, too), and that land is called: If I Get On My Computer I Will Waste Five Hours. Why why why do I continue to go to this corrupt place? A place where innocently “checking your email” or “updating the blog” can suck irreplaceable hours away from your life (when you could be doing Important Things, things like making dinner for your family or filing your tax return or catching up on TiVo’d episodes of House Hunters).
I have decided to take rash action against this Time Thief: as of right now, today, this instant, I resolve to only be on the computer every other day. You read that right: I’m cutting my computer time in half (if I could just cut my chocolate intake this cavalierly).
This new endeavor is sure to take willpower, willpower that I am confident I possess deep down (should I Google “willpower” to see if the experts have any helpful tips for accessing said willpower?). I used to get up almost every morning at 5 AM to go for a six mile run (well, I did it for about a week or so with my running group); I am sure I can do something as easy as not flipping the power button for the computer.
(Of course, if I need to Mapquest something, then that would be allowed no matter what day it is. Same goes for looking up reviews for a new restaurant. Or what time a movie is playing. Or if I need a recipe for lemon pound cake. Or the phone number for the car repair shop where I get my oil changed.)
Uh, wish me luck.
MOV
(“Mom’s Original Vice”)
I have decided to take rash action against this Time Thief: as of right now, today, this instant, I resolve to only be on the computer every other day. You read that right: I’m cutting my computer time in half (if I could just cut my chocolate intake this cavalierly).
This new endeavor is sure to take willpower, willpower that I am confident I possess deep down (should I Google “willpower” to see if the experts have any helpful tips for accessing said willpower?). I used to get up almost every morning at 5 AM to go for a six mile run (well, I did it for about a week or so with my running group); I am sure I can do something as easy as not flipping the power button for the computer.
(Of course, if I need to Mapquest something, then that would be allowed no matter what day it is. Same goes for looking up reviews for a new restaurant. Or what time a movie is playing. Or if I need a recipe for lemon pound cake. Or the phone number for the car repair shop where I get my oil changed.)
Uh, wish me luck.
MOV
(“Mom’s Original Vice”)
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