281. Time-Share

(a flashback)

So The Husband and I are on vacation in Hawaii. We’re celebrating our second anniversary and no small children have been born yet, so we are ignorant and happy. I scored us a screaming good deal with a combination of my good looks and witty repartee free United flight passes and some Marriott Hotel points.

After our five hour flight, we arrive exhausted and exhilarated, ready to hit the beach. We have, by some Divine Intervention on the part of the Vacation Gods, been upgraded to an ocean-view suite, complete with mini-kitchen. As the hotel front desk clerk swipes my Amex card to prepay for the week ($300 for the entire seven days, did I say screaming good deal???), he shoves some paper in my face for me to sign and mumbles something about “attending the potential time-share buyer seminar”.

Whoa, there, what? As I glance down at the fine print (font size .6), I vaguely remember something about being required to go to the 3-hour seminar in order to get the cut-throat discount. Yikes. Not sure how The Husband’s going to take that. I glance over at The Husband and notice that he’s doing what he always does in times of stress or uncertainty: he’s checking the football scores in the local newspaper. He’s completely oblivious to what the desk clerk and I are whispering about.

I decide to tell him later, maybe after a few Mai-tai’s.

There’s really no need for me to put this off, as the phone is ringing by the time we enter our room with our suitcases. Yep, it’s the front desk, calling to verify which seminar time slot we would like to sign up for. I am somehow bullied into accepting the 10 AM appointment for the next morning (Clerk: “Madam, would the 10 AM appointment accommodate your schedule? Free drinks will be served.” Me: “Yes, please, that would be fine, I'm looking forward to it.”)

10 AM comes far too quickly, and by this point I have briefed The Husband on our obligation to attend (Him: “Why do we have to do this?”, Me: “Because otherwise the room is $875 per night instead of $300 for the whole week.” Him: “Can I wear my swimsuit?”). We decide ahead of time that since our Powers of Mental Telepathy are weak at best, we should devise a simple code so the other one knows exactly how we feel about stupid idiotic time shares (essentially that they’re stupid and idiotic).

The code phrase we agree on is: “that’s interesting”. The direct translation is: “I would never in a million years buy one”.

Things start out well. Our Personal Agent of Doom Sales Rep is named Corey and he's probably in his mid-50’s with salt-and-pepper gray hair and a well-cut suit (suit, in Hawaii? for some reason, yes that's what he has on).  He lays out all the numbers of why time shares actually pay for themselves (???) in only 6 or 7 years, and how you can trade for other resorts, blah-blah-blah. I am hoping The Husband is paying attention because my mind keeps wandering back to this cute seashell jewelry box I saw in the hotel gift shop ($42, and velvet-lined).

Now it’s time for a tour. Corey takes us to the Owner’s Level, and the Husband wisely asks if this would be where we would stay (“Yes, depending on which Tier of Ownership Investment you select,”). The view is mesmerizing—we can see dolphins and surfers and future sunsets. My brain has woken up enough to transfer from its happy place ($42 seashell box) to stare at the Cold Hard Truth (timeshare cost per month: $719 plus activity fee). That is more than our rent. Now, I am not very good at math, but after scrunching up my face and thinking hard, I realize that this equates to roughly $200,000 per year, which is money we just don’t have.

The Husband is being sucked in by the spiel. He is nodding-nodding-nodding as Corey goes on and on about dolphins and fresh ocean air and pineapple burgers. In an act of sheer desperation, I pull out the code phrase: “That’s interesting! That’s very interesting!” and The Husband goes pale. He looks at Corey and then back at me, and then he asks Corey if he can talk to me alone for a minute.

Corey graciously steps out of the room. I panic and say, “Are you insane?!? We can’t sign up for this garbage!” and The Husband replies, “Me? You are the one who’s ready to get her checkbook out!”

Huh? After further discussion, I am beginning to realize that my darling husband of two years has swiftly forgotten the Secret Code Phrase. It is so top secret, it's even a secret to him.

“Hon, ‘That’s interesting’ does not mean ‘That’s interesting’. That was the special code, remember?” I say patiently, as if trying to train a deaf dog.

“Code? Code for what?” Not only has he forgotten the code, he has apparently forgotten the discussion leading up to the necessity of said code. One day of unfiltered sunshine has fried his brain.

“The. Code. The code means ‘no’.” I look at him.

He starts laughing. He gives me a big hug. “Thank God! I thought you were really interested and I was getting ready to tell you that we do not have that kind of money!”

I smile back at him. “I know, I know........... Uh, do we maybe have $42 for a seashell box, though?”

MOV
("Maui, On Vacation")

279. What Is Facebook?

I’ll admit it: I’m Amish. Well, not Amish Amish, more like Amish-Lite. For ten years, I did not own a television (by choice!). Cell phones make me nervous, and I only broke down and bought one last year. Email is a relatively new phenomenon for me. So why should it surprise you that I don’t do Facebook?

For the longest time, I didn’t know what Facebook was. I thought it was some sort of special computer notebook for college students to keep track of their coursework (sort of a cross between a laptop and an I-Pad).

Obviously, my friends mock me for my lack of awareness. They say things like, “MOV, you need to get on Facebook so you can find out what everyone is up to!” I don’t particularly want to know what everyone is up to. I’m still trying to keep track of what I am up to.

Then, as if they are Facebook Ambassadors or Facebook Sales Reps (working on commission, natch), they say, “MOV, you can re-connect with friends from high school and college!” to which I think, if I haven’t stayed in touch with someone, there is probably a good reason, like maybe they turned out to be a serial killer (did I forget to mention that I went to high school with Andrew Cunanan, murderer of Versace, and that Andrew and I ran on the cross-country team together?).

Facebook. My cynical friends say, “You know, you’re probably better off without FB,” (they abbreviate it to ‘FB’ to sound more hip), “because I literally can spend two hours a day on it! It’s crazy!”

Two hours. Where do they get that two hours? Did the Universe bestow them with 26-hour days, because I’m still trying to cram everything into my meager allotment of 24 hours and failing miserably. Maybe they skip lunch? Maybe they don’t bother to shower and dry their hair? Maybe they just get six hours of sleep instead of eight? Where do those extra two hours come from?

The other thing I don’t get is the whole Facebook Friending Thing. Yes, “friend” as a verb. Apparently, you can friend someone and then you can leave messages on their “wall” and they can look at your Facebook Portfolio as well. I have heard of great drama stemming from someone rejecting or ignoring a “friend” request. Parents tell me their kids won’t respond to their “friend” inquiries. (Heck, my kids won’t be friends with me in the real world, you think I want to risk that kind of rejection in cyberspace too?) 

It hurts people's feelings to delete their friend requests--it's like not inviting someone to a party, but even more blatant:  you do not qualify as my friend;  I can do better than you, I can be friends with some random person I just met on the airplane and never ever have to talk to them or hear their voice or see them.  Sounds distancing to me.    

Excuse me, I have to run:  I'm meeting a girlfriend for lunch in person.  We're going to gossip and eat chocolate cake (last I checked, their is no "eat chocolate cake" option on Facebook; ah, well, something to strive for). 

MOV

(P.S. Yes, I saw the movie "Social Network".  Loved it.)

269. December 25th

Acceptable Phrases:

Christmas time
Christmas Eve
Santa Claus
Christmas tree
Christmas gifts
“Have you finished your Christmas shopping?”
Christmas decorations
Christmas vacation
Christmas special
“We’ll be closed on Christmas day,”
Ugly Christmas sweater
“I can’t believe you’re flying on Christmas!”
Christmas spirit
Christmas carol
“What did you get for Christmas?”
Christmas theme
Christmas cookies
"My birthday falls on Christmas,"
After-Christmas sale
“I love Christmas.”

Unacceptable:

“Merry Christmas!” (substitute “Happy Holidays” instead, as they might not celebrate Christmas and they would be very offended).

MOV
(“Merry Ostensible Villain”)

268. Believe

So my 7-year-old son announces at the breakfast table, "There's no such thing as Santa."  As you can imagine, this catches the 4-year-old's attention pretty quickly.  "WHAT?" says the 4-year-old.

I grab Tall by his sleeve and yank him out of the room.  (Okay, maybe not my proudest Parenting Moment.)  "Tall, who told you that?" I demand. 

"Older kids on the bus," he confesses timidly.  Those damn Older Kids.  Always ruining everything for everyone else. 

"Well, then I guess Santa doesn't come to their house," I say, channeling my mother or Bing Crosby or Carol Brady or someone-who-knows-how-to-handle-dissension. 

In the next few seconds, all the childhood myths cloud my brain:  Easter Bunny, Leprechauns, Tooth Fairy.  We tell our children to believe in Santa Claus and they do.  They trust us.  Until one day, the fable explodes, and then they say: 

"Mommy?  Does God exist?"

MOV  
("Mashing Our Values")      

267. Christmas Present

So The Husband and I have spent all our money on renovating our house, Christmas presents for the boys, and my plane ticket to California to see my mom. That leaves no money for the two of us to exchange gifts.

At first, I thought this would be fantastic: we’re not materialist! we’re above all this blatant commercialism!  But the more I work at the high-end kitchen store and the more I see people buying things for their sweethearts (“I think she might like a whole new set of copper pans. Three thousand dollars? That’s it? Okay, let’s add some cookbooks and kitchen tools too,”), the more bitter and jealous I become.

I decide to take matters into my own hands. The Husband and I will exchange gifts after all, material expensive gifts, and lots of ‘em.

How do I plan to pull this off without incurring debt? (No, not stealing.) I tell The Husband to go around the house and choose 10 things that I already own and wrap* them up and put them under the tree (*my sister Oakley sewed fabric reusable gift bags for us last year, so we are not wasting wrapping paper). I told him he could choose things like my grey cashmere sweater or my gold bracelet I got for college graduation or a silver frame with a photo of the boys….. whatever he wants.  The surprise will be in seeing what he picks. 

As is typical, he was not on board at first. But having dealt with me known me for over a decade, he knows that I am relentless in getting my way. He finally saw the silliness logic in my proposal and is resigned eager to participate.

What he doesn’t know yet is he’ll be receiving not only his favorite leather jacket, but also his alarm clock. And possibly a butter knife.

MOV
("Mirthful Offbeat Vicissitudes")

266. Proactive

So Tall is sick and stays home from school.  It’s my one day off from the high-end kitchen store, so we're going to make the most of things and have a relaxing day watching cartoons and making brownies.

The Husband gets home from work at 6:30 PM and immediately comments about Tall’s attire and my worthiness as a mother: “Wow! You already had Tall get undressed, take a bath, and put on clean pajamas! And you’re even in your pajamas too! Way to be proactive, MOV!”

The Husband’s tone is upbeat and cheery. Whatever previous Work Stress he had brought home with him has dissipated. He smiles at me, looks over at Tall and smiles at him.

Then it hits him. “Uh, those are his Rocket jammies….. he wore those same ones last night..…. Did you do laundry today too, MOV?” (hopeful now), “or is he just wearing the same thing…...” (starting to dawn on him), “He never even got dressed today, did he?” (surprised and a little bit mad) “And actually, neither did you,” (puzzle finally solved).

“Nope!” I chirp, “Today was a ‘sick day’ and we just lounged!”

I mean, come on, really.  The Husband has known me for almost 14 years, how can he not know me?

MOV

262. DNA Scramble

So today I receive my cousin Francesca’s Christmas card, complete with a photo of her darling five (count them, five) children. The kids range in age from a two-year-old toddler to a nine-year-old third-grader. It’s easy to look at them and say, yep, that one looks like their dad Doug, or wow—Maisy has Francesca’s red hair! What’s not so easy to decipher from the photo is their personalities. Does Bryce talk back? Is Elliot aggressive? And is Lucinda gregarious like big brother Michael?

My own two sons are an interesting composite of me and The Husband. Purely by looks, Tall is me (blond, slim) and Short is The Husband (darker hair, broad shoulders). Then things get murky. Tall is a natural athlete (thank you to The Husband’s good genes) and an avid reader (that would be me). He’s also a great artist (me) and has lots of friends (The Husband). So who do we blame his quick temper on?

Short is determined (The Husband) and has a fabulous sense of humor (uh, me?). He is kind and genuine (not sure where he gets that) but hates to lose in games (his Aunt Oakley?). We stick these labels on our children, trying to compartmentalize their personalities, so we know what to expect and how to deal with them.

But they change. Every day.

I look at Francesca’s card again. Oh, wow. I thought that was Maisy in front of Michael…. it’s not. Lucinda just looks exactly like her.

MOV
(“Mirror Or Variant”)