Last night was my book party. More than 70 people showed up. That is about five more than came to my wedding.
There were people my age, older people, kids, and even a few babies. There were friends from the high-end kitchen store, friends from my moms’ group, friends from PTA, friends from my neighborhood, friends from the kids’ bus stop, many people I’d never met before, and of course my family. I kept noticing my friend Rachel’s darling little girl (age 3 ½) weaving in and out of teetering book displays and searching for her friends. Her name is Katherine, and she was dressed in a black sweater, houndstooth check skirt, opaque white tights, black ballerina flats, and a crimson flower head band. She looked like a French puppet.
Everything was Virgo perfect: delicious gourmet cookies, Pinot Grigio, upbeat music, silver and clear balloons, and a sea of smiling faces. And oh, there were books! People started buying my book, and the next thing you know, they were crowding around me, standing in line waiting to meet me and have me sign their books. I felt exactly like Charlize Theron.
Or Santa.
The owner of the bookstore started clinking her wine glass to get people’s attention. I read a chapter from my book (this one HERE). They laughed, they cried, they cheered, they took photos, a few people fainted (not really on that last part). As I was reading, a surreal thought washed through my brain: These people are paying for my words. Words. They are writing checks to the bookstore for words on a page, words from the Oxford Dictionary, words that anyone has (free) access to, but that I have rearranged and written down.
I was reading out loud (which I had practiced in my kitchen with a timer, did I mention I’m a Virgo?) and trying to make eye contact with the crowd, but I kept seeing that children’s classic book, Caps For Sale, in my mind. Except it was Words For Sale, Words For Sale, fifty cents a word!
The crowd applauded and cheered, and then I told them, “Thank you so much for coming! The book retails for $15, but as a special promotion for you tonight, it's just $20.”
The evening was absolutely perfect. Everyone went away feeling that they had a great time and got what they came to get.
Except one person.
Toward the end of the evening, adorable tiny Katherine approached me to—I thought—give me a congratualtory hug. No. She tapped insistently on my skirt and said in a mild panic,
“Excuse me, ma’am? Where is the cake?”
MOV
Sunday, January 22, 2012
Saturday, January 21, 2012
635. Yesterday's Phone Call
Let me start off by saying he’s fine. Better than fine. Everything is fine.
I had just sat down with my sandwich when the phone rang. I toyed with not answering it, but on the fifth ring decide to pick up. “Hello?”
It was the nurse from Short’s school, never the voice you want to hear on a Wednesday during school hours. “Hello, Mrs. MOVela? I hate to tell you this: Short was injured at recess.”
In the two seconds she paused between that and her next sentence (“But he’s fine,”) my brain already had him in a wheelchair and blind. Or hooked up to life-support machines. And deaf.
Mowing right past the one bright flower (“he’s fine”) in a garden full of monster weeds (“was injured”), I tried to backtrack.
“What happened?”
“Well, I’m not really sure, I wasn’t there and—”
Short was a verbose child. He took after his older brother this way. If his mouth was sore, he might say, “The number 7 tooth on the lingual side is bothering me, let’s go see a dentist,” or if he had a stomach ache, he might complain, “My lower intestines are acting up, I hope I don’t have Inflammatory Bowel Disease,” or if we’d been swimming he might offer, “This ear infection is troublesome, I wonder if my Eustachian tube is blocked.” He never had an issue pinpointing the problem. If the nurse did not know by now what exactly had happened, there was only one logical conclusion: All his teeth had been smashed out of his face and now he couldn’t communicate.
I heard the words escape my lips before I could stop them: “Is there blood?”
“Oh, no, no blood. I, uh, I don’t see any blood. Umm, well, I don’t think so.”
Were we going to have to have a discussion about what blood looked like? What kind of nurse was she, anyway? Was this just a high school student volunteering for college credits? Either you see blood or you don’t see blood. You shouldn’t have to think about it too much. Red and oozy, not red and oozy. Done.
She interrupted my internal monologue. “A ball hit him.”
Oh, God, everyone knows balls can be lethal. WHO THE HELL LET MY CHILD PLAY WITH A KILLER BALL?!? That’s it, I’m writing to my Congressman right now, balls need to be outlawed.
My mind, never one to sit and relax and shoot the breeze with some wayward neurons or ask a couple dead cells how they were killed (“Alcohol? Or did having kids do that to you?”) chose this moment to bounce ahead like, well, a ball.
“What kind of ball? Tennis ball? Football? Soccer ball?” (oh, please do not let it be a heavy soccer ball, those things were like cannons) “Golf ball? Basketball …”
“It was a basketball …”
“But, but, but …” (why did I continue to interrupt her? why could I not let the poor woman with no medical training whatsoever finish a sentence and tell me exactly what was wrong with my child? “Nurse, please tell me one thing, just one thing: did the ball hit him in the … head?”
I said head in a terrified whisper. I would rather have a child in a wheelchair who could not walk but still was mentally sharp than a vegetable child.
The school nurse could sense my agony through the phone wires.
“Mrs. MOVina, no need to worry! The ball did not hit his head … it hit his eye.”
Now, I myself have not been to medical school. My extensive background in health and medicine was pretty much gleaned from nine weeks of flight attendant training, one entire week of which was devoted to How To Fold Linens to Look Like Swans for first class service. But I do know that an eye is part of a head. Unless his eye fell out of the socket and was dangling somewhere back on the playground, maybe from the monkey bars.
“Short,” I heard the nurse say, addressing my deaf/ blind/ crippled/ life-support youngest child for the first time in the conversation, “Short, Honey, come over here and talk to your mom on the phone because she sounds hysterical.” She didn’t really say that last part, but her tone said it for her.
A tiny corner of my brain rejoiced: he could walk! he could possibly talk!
“Short, Sweetie? It’s Mommy. What happened, are you okay?”
“The basketball hit my eye, so the pediatric surgeon gave me some ice.”
Was now the time to set him straight that the pediatric “surgeon” was not a surgeon, nor probably even a registered nurse, and that she was not really sure what blood was or where eyes were located.
“Short, Darling, put the nice surgeon back on the phone with me.”
“Mrs. MOVetterson? Can you come pick him up, then?”
“Sure, sure, I will be right over.”
Fortunately, we live a three-minute drive from the school. I made the drive in approximately 22 seconds.
“Wow, were you driving on this street when we called you?” said the “nurse” be way of greeting. “You got here awfully fast.”
Short limped out of her office with a small ice pack on his ruddy face.
“May I see your eye?” I murmured. He took the ice off and his face looked okay. I could finally breathe again. “Let’s go then, Short.”
I picked up his backpack and we headed for the door. The part of my brain that likes to have the last word and say inappropriate things and ask annoying awkward questions and exhibit blatant disregard for social niceties such as avoiding awkward confrontations chose this moment to quench her curiosity thirst.
“Excuse me, nurse? Thank you for helping Short and all, but, uh, are you a real nurse? I mean, I am just wondering what kind of training you have?” We were at least by ourselves so I was not calling her out in front of all the office employees or teaching staff.
She laughed. “Oh, gosh, no. I am not a nurse. For the position of school nurse, once you’re hired, you just have to get a basic certification. I have that.”
“So,” continued Nosy Brain, “you did not go to an actual nursing school.”
She smiled her most sincere smile and replied kindly, “I was not trained as a nurse. I am a lawyer.”
I hope she doesn’t sue us about the blood in her office.
MOV
I had just sat down with my sandwich when the phone rang. I toyed with not answering it, but on the fifth ring decide to pick up. “Hello?”
It was the nurse from Short’s school, never the voice you want to hear on a Wednesday during school hours. “Hello, Mrs. MOVela? I hate to tell you this: Short was injured at recess.”
In the two seconds she paused between that and her next sentence (“But he’s fine,”) my brain already had him in a wheelchair and blind. Or hooked up to life-support machines. And deaf.
Mowing right past the one bright flower (“he’s fine”) in a garden full of monster weeds (“was injured”), I tried to backtrack.
“What happened?”
“Well, I’m not really sure, I wasn’t there and—”
Short was a verbose child. He took after his older brother this way. If his mouth was sore, he might say, “The number 7 tooth on the lingual side is bothering me, let’s go see a dentist,” or if he had a stomach ache, he might complain, “My lower intestines are acting up, I hope I don’t have Inflammatory Bowel Disease,” or if we’d been swimming he might offer, “This ear infection is troublesome, I wonder if my Eustachian tube is blocked.” He never had an issue pinpointing the problem. If the nurse did not know by now what exactly had happened, there was only one logical conclusion: All his teeth had been smashed out of his face and now he couldn’t communicate.
I heard the words escape my lips before I could stop them: “Is there blood?”
“Oh, no, no blood. I, uh, I don’t see any blood. Umm, well, I don’t think so.”
Were we going to have to have a discussion about what blood looked like? What kind of nurse was she, anyway? Was this just a high school student volunteering for college credits? Either you see blood or you don’t see blood. You shouldn’t have to think about it too much. Red and oozy, not red and oozy. Done.
She interrupted my internal monologue. “A ball hit him.”
Oh, God, everyone knows balls can be lethal. WHO THE HELL LET MY CHILD PLAY WITH A KILLER BALL?!? That’s it, I’m writing to my Congressman right now, balls need to be outlawed.
My mind, never one to sit and relax and shoot the breeze with some wayward neurons or ask a couple dead cells how they were killed (“Alcohol? Or did having kids do that to you?”) chose this moment to bounce ahead like, well, a ball.
“What kind of ball? Tennis ball? Football? Soccer ball?” (oh, please do not let it be a heavy soccer ball, those things were like cannons) “Golf ball? Basketball …”
“It was a basketball …”
“But, but, but …” (why did I continue to interrupt her? why could I not let the poor woman with no medical training whatsoever finish a sentence and tell me exactly what was wrong with my child? “Nurse, please tell me one thing, just one thing: did the ball hit him in the … head?”
I said head in a terrified whisper. I would rather have a child in a wheelchair who could not walk but still was mentally sharp than a vegetable child.
The school nurse could sense my agony through the phone wires.
“Mrs. MOVina, no need to worry! The ball did not hit his head … it hit his eye.”
Now, I myself have not been to medical school. My extensive background in health and medicine was pretty much gleaned from nine weeks of flight attendant training, one entire week of which was devoted to How To Fold Linens to Look Like Swans for first class service. But I do know that an eye is part of a head. Unless his eye fell out of the socket and was dangling somewhere back on the playground, maybe from the monkey bars.
“Short,” I heard the nurse say, addressing my deaf/ blind/ crippled/ life-support youngest child for the first time in the conversation, “Short, Honey, come over here and talk to your mom on the phone because she sounds hysterical.” She didn’t really say that last part, but her tone said it for her.
A tiny corner of my brain rejoiced: he could walk! he could possibly talk!
“Short, Sweetie? It’s Mommy. What happened, are you okay?”
“The basketball hit my eye, so the pediatric surgeon gave me some ice.”
Was now the time to set him straight that the pediatric “surgeon” was not a surgeon, nor probably even a registered nurse, and that she was not really sure what blood was or where eyes were located.
“Short, Darling, put the nice surgeon back on the phone with me.”
“Mrs. MOVetterson? Can you come pick him up, then?”
“Sure, sure, I will be right over.”
Fortunately, we live a three-minute drive from the school. I made the drive in approximately 22 seconds.
“Wow, were you driving on this street when we called you?” said the “nurse” be way of greeting. “You got here awfully fast.”
Short limped out of her office with a small ice pack on his ruddy face.
“May I see your eye?” I murmured. He took the ice off and his face looked okay. I could finally breathe again. “Let’s go then, Short.”
I picked up his backpack and we headed for the door. The part of my brain that likes to have the last word and say inappropriate things and ask annoying awkward questions and exhibit blatant disregard for social niceties such as avoiding awkward confrontations chose this moment to quench her curiosity thirst.
“Excuse me, nurse? Thank you for helping Short and all, but, uh, are you a real nurse? I mean, I am just wondering what kind of training you have?” We were at least by ourselves so I was not calling her out in front of all the office employees or teaching staff.
She laughed. “Oh, gosh, no. I am not a nurse. For the position of school nurse, once you’re hired, you just have to get a basic certification. I have that.”
“So,” continued Nosy Brain, “you did not go to an actual nursing school.”
She smiled her most sincere smile and replied kindly, “I was not trained as a nurse. I am a lawyer.”
I hope she doesn’t sue us about the blood in her office.
MOV
Tuesday, January 17, 2012
633. The Name Game
I have always been terrible with names. I lie and pretend I’m not. I turn to my best friend for validation and I say, “I’m great with names! Right, Lisa?” “It’s Shelley.”
The problem is, when I first meet someone, I have a million random thoughts buzzing through my head like so many annoying mosquitoes trapped in a screened porch in July, each demanding attention: Is this person having a good first impression of me, Have I already met this person before, Do I have broccoli in my teeth, Do I have bad breath, Did I put enough quarters in the parking meter, Did I accidentally park in the handicapped spot, Does this person have kids the same ages as my kids, and Did I already say what my name is?
That last one is a big part of the problem. I have a name that is quite similar to another (popular) name, so people are forever misunderstanding me when I introduce myself. “Hello, my name is MOV,” I’ll say as clearly as possible while shaking the woman’s hand, and then she’ll lean in and mumble, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, MOVela. I’m (Some Name), I think your son is in my daughter’s class.”
The resultant noise in my brain is overwhelming, what with having to correct her about her misinterpretation of my name (I certainly don’t want her to continue calling me the wrong name) as well as the brand new information that Short (or Tall? which one!?) knows her child (are they friends? is this an opportunity here? do I need to attempt to set up a playdate now?). A simple introduction has become a complicated game of mental chess where I have already ricocheted five moves ahead. I ignore the basic premise of meeting someone, which is to learn their name. I know I need to concentrate, but then I am distracted by her pretty scarf or distinct accent or some other completely irrelevant detail that has absolutely nothing to do with her preferred moniker and how the hell I am going to remember it.
You can see how I get into trouble. All the books on improving memory suggest repeating thevictim's new person’s name back to them, as in Stephanie, it is so nice to meet you! I’ve heard wonderful things about you, Stephanie! I am happy to finally put a face to the name, Stephanie! (Although, as an aside, doesn't the overzealous parroting of someone's name make you sound like an exceptionally eager and over-caffeinated bank employee desperately trying to win the customer's loyalty and convince her to open a CD or refinance her mortgage?) Or, failing that, the helpful books advise coming up with imagery you associate with the person, like if her name is Lily, you visualize a lily across her forehead so that every time you see her you remember, Yes of course—Lily!
I search the Google of my mind for an image of a lily to mentally graffiti onto her unsuspecting face. Oops—I think that’s a daisy. What do lilies look like, anyway? Tulips? Roses? And what color are they, are they always white? Or can they be blue? What is the name of that blue flower I like, is it iris? Wait—did she actually say her name was Iris?
She is moving on to the next person she is meeting here at school, or work, or a party, or wherever, and she turns and says, “Great meeting you again, MOVela! We should get together for tea sometime!” and there I am stranded: Again? Why did she say again? Again as in right now again, or again as in she met me last week again? And do I look like a tea person? Maybe most MOVelas drink tea? Is MOVela a British name? Does she think I’m British? I could be British, but I hate tea. I have tried tea with sugar or without, with milk or without, hot, cold, with lemon, and you know what—I am just not a tea person.
Yes, yes, let’s get together for tea or coffee sometime, that would be lovely! Thanks, Iris! er, I mean Rose?
I fare no better at events with name tags, as messy penmanship is involved. The worst is when I am suddenly required to introduce two people who I supposedly know to each other. “Milk, this is my dear friend, uh, Tennifer.” They both wince and then re-introduce themselves with very boring versions of the names I just said, like Mike and Jennifer. Then learn how to write your damn names, Mike and Jennifer! Do they take a perverse pleasure in making me guess? How hard is it to write legibly? Set the glass of wine down and focus for five seconds.
The Husband approaches me and leans in to whisper something. “How are you doing with learning everyone’s name?” he asks slowly, like he's talking to a four-year-old.
“Awful,” I confess. “I hear them say their names, but it’s like I forget the name as they are saying it. I swear, I am really trying!” I am relieved that he has taken the time to come over and help me, so I gaze up at him with my eyes full of admiration and love. He confuses this look for drunk.
“MOV, I have an easy way to remember people’s names. Just listen to them. Without distractions. Set the glass of wine down and focus for five seconds.”
Oh, that Gusband. He thinks he’s so smart.
MOV
The problem is, when I first meet someone, I have a million random thoughts buzzing through my head like so many annoying mosquitoes trapped in a screened porch in July, each demanding attention: Is this person having a good first impression of me, Have I already met this person before, Do I have broccoli in my teeth, Do I have bad breath, Did I put enough quarters in the parking meter, Did I accidentally park in the handicapped spot, Does this person have kids the same ages as my kids, and Did I already say what my name is?
That last one is a big part of the problem. I have a name that is quite similar to another (popular) name, so people are forever misunderstanding me when I introduce myself. “Hello, my name is MOV,” I’ll say as clearly as possible while shaking the woman’s hand, and then she’ll lean in and mumble, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, MOVela. I’m (Some Name), I think your son is in my daughter’s class.”
The resultant noise in my brain is overwhelming, what with having to correct her about her misinterpretation of my name (I certainly don’t want her to continue calling me the wrong name) as well as the brand new information that Short (or Tall? which one!?) knows her child (are they friends? is this an opportunity here? do I need to attempt to set up a playdate now?). A simple introduction has become a complicated game of mental chess where I have already ricocheted five moves ahead. I ignore the basic premise of meeting someone, which is to learn their name. I know I need to concentrate, but then I am distracted by her pretty scarf or distinct accent or some other completely irrelevant detail that has absolutely nothing to do with her preferred moniker and how the hell I am going to remember it.
You can see how I get into trouble. All the books on improving memory suggest repeating the
I search the Google of my mind for an image of a lily to mentally graffiti onto her unsuspecting face. Oops—I think that’s a daisy. What do lilies look like, anyway? Tulips? Roses? And what color are they, are they always white? Or can they be blue? What is the name of that blue flower I like, is it iris? Wait—did she actually say her name was Iris?
She is moving on to the next person she is meeting here at school, or work, or a party, or wherever, and she turns and says, “Great meeting you again, MOVela! We should get together for tea sometime!” and there I am stranded: Again? Why did she say again? Again as in right now again, or again as in she met me last week again? And do I look like a tea person? Maybe most MOVelas drink tea? Is MOVela a British name? Does she think I’m British? I could be British, but I hate tea. I have tried tea with sugar or without, with milk or without, hot, cold, with lemon, and you know what—I am just not a tea person.
Yes, yes, let’s get together for tea or coffee sometime, that would be lovely! Thanks, Iris! er, I mean Rose?
I fare no better at events with name tags, as messy penmanship is involved. The worst is when I am suddenly required to introduce two people who I supposedly know to each other. “Milk, this is my dear friend, uh, Tennifer.” They both wince and then re-introduce themselves with very boring versions of the names I just said, like Mike and Jennifer. Then learn how to write your damn names, Mike and Jennifer! Do they take a perverse pleasure in making me guess? How hard is it to write legibly? Set the glass of wine down and focus for five seconds.
The Husband approaches me and leans in to whisper something. “How are you doing with learning everyone’s name?” he asks slowly, like he's talking to a four-year-old.
“Awful,” I confess. “I hear them say their names, but it’s like I forget the name as they are saying it. I swear, I am really trying!” I am relieved that he has taken the time to come over and help me, so I gaze up at him with my eyes full of admiration and love. He confuses this look for drunk.
“MOV, I have an easy way to remember people’s names. Just listen to them. Without distractions. Set the glass of wine down and focus for five seconds.”
Oh, that Gusband. He thinks he’s so smart.
MOV
Sunday, January 15, 2012
631. Diary of A Wimpy Hair
My step-mom, Nichole, was a high school teacher for many years, and I remember that she liked to give her students a quirky writing assignment on the first day of school: “Give me the history of your hair,” she’d say. “Can we draw pictures?” they all wanted to know. “Sure, but the main thing is an essay.”
Nichole said the boys, especially the boys, always got into it. They had mohawks and buzz cuts and sideburns. They had slicked back Hollywood hair and spiky rock star hair and ponytails. And most notable of all, they had “product.”
“Boys care about their hair?” I asked her, my voice full of disbelief.
“Oh, you just wait, honey, until you have boys.”
Tall and Short care about their hair as much as I care about lima beans, which is to say: not much. They both entered the world bald, but those tender naked heads soon grew coverings of soft fluff, like stray pieces of cotton blown in from a field.
I washed that delicate hair with the special baby shampoo and inhaled its baby perfection scent. As the hair filled in, longer and thicker, there I was with the camera to chronicle every haircut and every style change (bangs brushed straight down, or bangs brushed back). For a long time, I was a huge fan of the “surfer/ skateboarder” haircut so popular in California: long on top, short in the back. This is the basic cut my fairly compliant elementary-school-aged sons still sport.
My own diary of hair is not much different: straight long blond with bangs, straight long blond without bangs, a brief dalliance with red, chop off all the damage from the red, grow it out, straight long blond with bangs again. My hair is my defining feature, the signature of my appearance. People see me from a distance and know that it’s me: “There’s MOV,” “Are you sure it’s her?” “Of course—look at the hair.”
Hairdressers try to persuade me to go for a chic bob, but I always resist. “This is my look,” I say, as if hair were a non-negotiable. I walk out of the salon looking the exact same way as when I went in: straight long blond hair with bangs.
A friend stops me in the parking lot. “MOV, your hair looks great! Is something different?”
No, nothing’s changed. I just paid $75 to look like me.
MOV
Nichole said the boys, especially the boys, always got into it. They had mohawks and buzz cuts and sideburns. They had slicked back Hollywood hair and spiky rock star hair and ponytails. And most notable of all, they had “product.”
“Boys care about their hair?” I asked her, my voice full of disbelief.
“Oh, you just wait, honey, until you have boys.”
Tall and Short care about their hair as much as I care about lima beans, which is to say: not much. They both entered the world bald, but those tender naked heads soon grew coverings of soft fluff, like stray pieces of cotton blown in from a field.
I washed that delicate hair with the special baby shampoo and inhaled its baby perfection scent. As the hair filled in, longer and thicker, there I was with the camera to chronicle every haircut and every style change (bangs brushed straight down, or bangs brushed back). For a long time, I was a huge fan of the “surfer/ skateboarder” haircut so popular in California: long on top, short in the back. This is the basic cut my fairly compliant elementary-school-aged sons still sport.
My own diary of hair is not much different: straight long blond with bangs, straight long blond without bangs, a brief dalliance with red, chop off all the damage from the red, grow it out, straight long blond with bangs again. My hair is my defining feature, the signature of my appearance. People see me from a distance and know that it’s me: “There’s MOV,” “Are you sure it’s her?” “Of course—look at the hair.”
Hairdressers try to persuade me to go for a chic bob, but I always resist. “This is my look,” I say, as if hair were a non-negotiable. I walk out of the salon looking the exact same way as when I went in: straight long blond hair with bangs.
A friend stops me in the parking lot. “MOV, your hair looks great! Is something different?”
No, nothing’s changed. I just paid $75 to look like me.
MOV
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
626. My Rebound Fling With Santa
Did I ever tell you about this? It was years ago. I was recovering from a bad break-up, and that’s when we started dating.
What first attracted me to him was his positive attitude—he was always in a good mood. He just had this way about him, he could light up a room, so to speak.
Kids, in particular, loved him. My mom has always said you can tell a lot about a guy’s character by how children and pets react to him. I didn’t have a child or a pet, but I could see other people’s kids adored him.
And he was thoughtful. I’d mention I had a tough day at work, and he’d give me a little felt penguin to cheer me up. My room-mate and I had a fight, and Santa would show up with a tiny plush snowman. One time I called him when my car died to ask if he could pick me up. Of course he said yes. I smiled to see he brought a small fuzzy moose with faux suede antlers.
The longer Santa and I were together, the more shelf space I needed for my stuffed animal collection.
But it wasn’t the materialism that drove us apart, nor the binge eating.
Oh, I didn’t tell you about Santa’s weight issues? He had a sweet tooth. In fact, he liked to joke that he had his dentist on speed dial. (This was way back in the days before cell phones and iPads, I guess everyone’s on speed dial now.) He’d have cake for breakfast, cookies for lunch, ice-cream for dinner. It was the Sugar Channel, 24/7. At first, that was great. I crave sweets, too. But aren’t you supposed to be with someone who makes you a better person, not an obese one?
The thing that came between us, though, was Santa’s insatiable appetite for attention. People recognized him everywhere we went, and it got to be a bit much for me. But S.C. (that was my pet name for him) thrived on attention. He needed it, like I needed a trip to Hawaii.
There you have it. Another of our fundamental differences. When things started to get serious, we would talk about where we should live, as the long-distance thing was killing me, but he loved the cold and snow. He’d say, “How about Montana? Or Alaska? Do you like Northern Canada? Have you ever been to Russia?”
I’d suggest Miami or San Diego and he’d cringe. He’d say (in that upbeat way of his), “Wow! Miami is fantastic! But you know what’s even better? Greenland!” There was just no arguing with him.
He bought me a new winter coat, or I should say he had a friend make it for me. He had a lot of “friends” that worked for him, he never told me his exact line of work except that is was “seasonal” and involved “import/ export.” Frankly, the way he hid the details of his life, I thought he might be involved in dealing drugs or embezzling funds or something shady like that.
Turns out he was married.
He had been upfront about things when we met, saying that he was separated. His wife was a bit of a control freak, and the other thing was that they couldn’t have babies. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but Santa was really crazy about kids. It broke his heart to think he might not be able to have any of his own. He brought up the topic a lot:
Santa: MOV, how many children would you like to have someday?
Me: Oh, I don’t know. I never really thought about it. One. Maybe one, or I guess I could have two. Definitely no more than two.
Santa: I want 15.
Me: Did you say 15!? Are you out of your mind? How would you pay for 15 kids?
Santa: Oh, I’m pretty financially secure. Money is not a problem.
See? There was that secrecy thing again.
He showed up on my doorstep one morning with a giant toy polar bear. That’s when I knew something was wrong.
“MOV, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Carol and I are getting back together. I’ve really enjoyed our time together. You’ve made me feel young and merry, but I miss Carol and I need to give our relationship a chance. You are a wonderful person, MOV, and you deserve someone better than me.”
That was it. That was his whole explanation. But instead of feeling like I’d been kicked and dragged by reindeer, I actually felt good. That was part of S.C.’s charm, allure, and charisma: he would take his idea and make you think it was your idea. How could you be mad at someone like that?
I haven’t thought about Santa in years, but the other day I found an old Polaroid of us. I was sitting on his lap, and we looked happy.
MOV
What first attracted me to him was his positive attitude—he was always in a good mood. He just had this way about him, he could light up a room, so to speak.
Kids, in particular, loved him. My mom has always said you can tell a lot about a guy’s character by how children and pets react to him. I didn’t have a child or a pet, but I could see other people’s kids adored him.
And he was thoughtful. I’d mention I had a tough day at work, and he’d give me a little felt penguin to cheer me up. My room-mate and I had a fight, and Santa would show up with a tiny plush snowman. One time I called him when my car died to ask if he could pick me up. Of course he said yes. I smiled to see he brought a small fuzzy moose with faux suede antlers.
The longer Santa and I were together, the more shelf space I needed for my stuffed animal collection.
But it wasn’t the materialism that drove us apart, nor the binge eating.
Oh, I didn’t tell you about Santa’s weight issues? He had a sweet tooth. In fact, he liked to joke that he had his dentist on speed dial. (This was way back in the days before cell phones and iPads, I guess everyone’s on speed dial now.) He’d have cake for breakfast, cookies for lunch, ice-cream for dinner. It was the Sugar Channel, 24/7. At first, that was great. I crave sweets, too. But aren’t you supposed to be with someone who makes you a better person, not an obese one?
The thing that came between us, though, was Santa’s insatiable appetite for attention. People recognized him everywhere we went, and it got to be a bit much for me. But S.C. (that was my pet name for him) thrived on attention. He needed it, like I needed a trip to Hawaii.
There you have it. Another of our fundamental differences. When things started to get serious, we would talk about where we should live, as the long-distance thing was killing me, but he loved the cold and snow. He’d say, “How about Montana? Or Alaska? Do you like Northern Canada? Have you ever been to Russia?”
I’d suggest Miami or San Diego and he’d cringe. He’d say (in that upbeat way of his), “Wow! Miami is fantastic! But you know what’s even better? Greenland!” There was just no arguing with him.
He bought me a new winter coat, or I should say he had a friend make it for me. He had a lot of “friends” that worked for him, he never told me his exact line of work except that is was “seasonal” and involved “import/ export.” Frankly, the way he hid the details of his life, I thought he might be involved in dealing drugs or embezzling funds or something shady like that.
Turns out he was married.
He had been upfront about things when we met, saying that he was separated. His wife was a bit of a control freak, and the other thing was that they couldn’t have babies. I don’t know if I mentioned this, but Santa was really crazy about kids. It broke his heart to think he might not be able to have any of his own. He brought up the topic a lot:
Santa: MOV, how many children would you like to have someday?
Me: Oh, I don’t know. I never really thought about it. One. Maybe one, or I guess I could have two. Definitely no more than two.
Santa: I want 15.
Me: Did you say 15!? Are you out of your mind? How would you pay for 15 kids?
Santa: Oh, I’m pretty financially secure. Money is not a problem.
See? There was that secrecy thing again.
He showed up on my doorstep one morning with a giant toy polar bear. That’s when I knew something was wrong.
“MOV, I don’t know how to tell you this, but Carol and I are getting back together. I’ve really enjoyed our time together. You’ve made me feel young and merry, but I miss Carol and I need to give our relationship a chance. You are a wonderful person, MOV, and you deserve someone better than me.”
That was it. That was his whole explanation. But instead of feeling like I’d been kicked and dragged by reindeer, I actually felt good. That was part of S.C.’s charm, allure, and charisma: he would take his idea and make you think it was your idea. How could you be mad at someone like that?
I haven’t thought about Santa in years, but the other day I found an old Polaroid of us. I was sitting on his lap, and we looked happy.
MOV
Monday, January 9, 2012
625. My Christmas Tree and I Are Getting Divorced
I thought this relationship would be different, less prickly. I was wrong. Christmas Tree and I started out like most couples do, enamored with each other in a twinkly-lights-sort-of-way. I remember the first time I ever laid eyes on Christmas Tree, I just knew he was The One: tall, regal, quiet. Some might’ve interpreted his quietness as stupidity—but I knew he was just shy. And I prefer shy over fake.
Our marriage lasted less than six weeks, which is equivalent to a decade in Hollywood Years. Too bad we live 3000 miles away from Tinsel Town.
When we first moved into together, things progressed quickly. “You turn me on,” he said in that dreamy husky voice of his. “Excuse me?” I responded, thinking he was a little forward for my taste. He cleared his throat, “I said, you need to turn on my lights.”
And that’s who he really was deep down: demanding. The first day it was his lights, the next day he had me running to the kitchen to get him more bottled water because he was “thirsty.” We all know thirsty is code for lazy. And I often found him acting drunk, leaning to one side, threatening to fall down.
Wait, there’s more. He was a mess. Sure, when we met and he was in the snow hanging with all his friends, he seemed robust and “outdoorsy”; I didn’t necessarily notice the trail of needles behind him. Anyone else would’ve thought, “Who leaves a trail of needles? Druggies, that’s who,”—but what can I say? I was blinded by love.
I couldn't get enough of him. I would walk past him just so I could inhale his scent. He smelled like childhood dreams.
In the initial haze of love, I was surrounded by close family members and went through the ritual of putting the angel on the top of Christmas Tree—that’s when things became official. He was Mine. Well-meaning friends came by later to meet Christmas Tree and they all said the right things, Oh, that tree is perfect for you, and Wow, you are so lucky, and How did you fit Christmas Tree through the door?
Sure, there were presents, hastily wrapped presents that were all the wrong color and size. Presents that would have to be returned. Presents with no gift receipt that the clerk would give you a hard time about and ultimately call a manager and then tell you they weren't originally purchased there or if they were that they were now 70% off. They were the type of presents that were bought on sale in a hurry with an expired coupon.
I woke up on December 26th with a cruel hangover that tasted like Pine-Sol and stale shortbread cookies, and a startling realization that shook me to my core: It. Was. Over. I was no longer in a festive mood.
Christmas Tree could not take the hint. Christmas Tree just moped around through New Year’s while trying to hijack that holiday as well. Every time I went in the living room and saw him standing in the corner weeping silently to himself while wearing New Year's confetti, I just cringed. “Oh, you’re still here?” I asked. “I’m not leaving,” he insisted with as much enthusiasm as a wet mop, which is exactly what he could’ve used to clean up all those discarded needles and wilted streamers that lay around him. “And you can’t make me.”
I didn’t want to argue with him. I simply pretended he wasn’t there. Things went on like this for days, both of us refusing to speak.
This morning I looked out the front window and saw a whole army of neighborhood Christmas Trees littering the curb, more holiday divorces up and down our street.
It made me sad. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t just end things with Christmas Tree the way I had been planning. It would be too cruel.
I'll wait 'til Valentine’s Day to kick him out.
MOV
(“My Only Valentine”)
Our marriage lasted less than six weeks, which is equivalent to a decade in Hollywood Years. Too bad we live 3000 miles away from Tinsel Town.
When we first moved into together, things progressed quickly. “You turn me on,” he said in that dreamy husky voice of his. “Excuse me?” I responded, thinking he was a little forward for my taste. He cleared his throat, “I said, you need to turn on my lights.”
And that’s who he really was deep down: demanding. The first day it was his lights, the next day he had me running to the kitchen to get him more bottled water because he was “thirsty.” We all know thirsty is code for lazy. And I often found him acting drunk, leaning to one side, threatening to fall down.
Wait, there’s more. He was a mess. Sure, when we met and he was in the snow hanging with all his friends, he seemed robust and “outdoorsy”; I didn’t necessarily notice the trail of needles behind him. Anyone else would’ve thought, “Who leaves a trail of needles? Druggies, that’s who,”—but what can I say? I was blinded by love.
I couldn't get enough of him. I would walk past him just so I could inhale his scent. He smelled like childhood dreams.
In the initial haze of love, I was surrounded by close family members and went through the ritual of putting the angel on the top of Christmas Tree—that’s when things became official. He was Mine. Well-meaning friends came by later to meet Christmas Tree and they all said the right things, Oh, that tree is perfect for you, and Wow, you are so lucky, and How did you fit Christmas Tree through the door?
Sure, there were presents, hastily wrapped presents that were all the wrong color and size. Presents that would have to be returned. Presents with no gift receipt that the clerk would give you a hard time about and ultimately call a manager and then tell you they weren't originally purchased there or if they were that they were now 70% off. They were the type of presents that were bought on sale in a hurry with an expired coupon.
I woke up on December 26th with a cruel hangover that tasted like Pine-Sol and stale shortbread cookies, and a startling realization that shook me to my core: It. Was. Over. I was no longer in a festive mood.
Christmas Tree could not take the hint. Christmas Tree just moped around through New Year’s while trying to hijack that holiday as well. Every time I went in the living room and saw him standing in the corner weeping silently to himself while wearing New Year's confetti, I just cringed. “Oh, you’re still here?” I asked. “I’m not leaving,” he insisted with as much enthusiasm as a wet mop, which is exactly what he could’ve used to clean up all those discarded needles and wilted streamers that lay around him. “And you can’t make me.”
I didn’t want to argue with him. I simply pretended he wasn’t there. Things went on like this for days, both of us refusing to speak.
This morning I looked out the front window and saw a whole army of neighborhood Christmas Trees littering the curb, more holiday divorces up and down our street.
It made me sad. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t just end things with Christmas Tree the way I had been planning. It would be too cruel.
I'll wait 'til Valentine’s Day to kick him out.
MOV
(“My Only Valentine”)
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
620. My Last Day at The High-End Kitchen Store
If you’ve followed this blog for longer than 30 seconds, you know that I work at a high-end kitchen store. Correction: worked. That’s right—I quit.
I love the high-end kitchen store, and the high-end kitchen store loves me. Why, oh why, you ask, would I quit?
Well, way back in September, I celebrated my birthday. Birthdays are usually a time of reflection and contemplation, a time to take stock of your life and focus on the year ahead. It got me thinking about why I work. Here’s the list I came up with:
471. And I like to get a nice paycheck
I agreed with him that paychecks are a pleasant little side effect of working. But THEN (wait for it) he had the audacity to say that that should be one of the reasons I work, too!!!!!!!!!!!!
As you can imagine, that kind of ruined the rest of my day. Happy Birthday to me!
The next morning, I thought about it some more. I realized he was right after all. A paycheck (for more than $25.13) would be a nice benefit of having a regular-type job. I gave The Boss my final notice (a four-month notice, we Virgos are nothing if not polite and very good planners).
My last day was December 24th. It snuck up on me. I saw it on the calendar, but it seemed so far away, like the apocalypse, until it was right there. The Boss said, “We’ll miss you!” to which I replied, “Do you need someone to work on January 1?” (The high-end kitchen store pays overtime on holidays.)
So on December 24th, all the employees gave me hugs and said they enjoyed working with me and have a nice life and see you around.
And then I boomeranged back on January 1, like an envelope that your forgot to put the stamp on.
“What are you doing here?” queried my (former, well she thought she was former) co-worker. “I thought you quit?”
“I did, yes. I quit. Today is my last day.” I smiled enigmatically.
“But The Boss said December 24th was your last day?”
“No, ha ha ha, that was my first last day. This is my real last day.”
I brought my camera in so I could take pictures of my co-workers and someone could take pictures of all of us standing together pretending to sell things. I forgot to get my camera out of my purse all day so the pictures are in my head instead of on a digital memory card.
It was 7 PM and the store was closed. This was for real. I had been at the high-end kitchen store for four years, it was the end of an era. I thought I might cry.
As The Boss locked the door, she turned to me.
“Do you want to work one more day on January 30th for Inventory?” she asked.
“YES.”
That will be my last last day.
MOV
I love the high-end kitchen store, and the high-end kitchen store loves me. Why, oh why, you ask, would I quit?
Well, way back in September, I celebrated my birthday. Birthdays are usually a time of reflection and contemplation, a time to take stock of your life and focus on the year ahead. It got me thinking about why I work. Here’s the list I came up with:
- I get to dress up
- I get to leave the house and have The Husband watch the kids
- I like my co-workers and we get to gossip about the customers after they leave
- I get to walk around the museum of pretty things that must not be used (e.g. “merchandise”)
- I get a HUUUUUUGE discount on all the pretty things, plus a discount on all the pretty things at the high-end kitchen store’s sister brand, the fabulous furniture place
- Every once in a while (about twice a month), The Boss at the high-end kitchen store will hand me a blue envelope and inside that envelope is a little piece of paper with magical numbers on it, numbers like “$25.13”
- That is exactly the amount (after discount) of the new blue-striped oven mitts I want to buy
471. And I like to get a nice paycheck
I agreed with him that paychecks are a pleasant little side effect of working. But THEN (wait for it) he had the audacity to say that that should be one of the reasons I work, too!!!!!!!!!!!!
As you can imagine, that kind of ruined the rest of my day. Happy Birthday to me!
The next morning, I thought about it some more. I realized he was right after all. A paycheck (for more than $25.13) would be a nice benefit of having a regular-type job. I gave The Boss my final notice (a four-month notice, we Virgos are nothing if not polite and very good planners).
My last day was December 24th. It snuck up on me. I saw it on the calendar, but it seemed so far away, like the apocalypse, until it was right there. The Boss said, “We’ll miss you!” to which I replied, “Do you need someone to work on January 1?” (The high-end kitchen store pays overtime on holidays.)
So on December 24th, all the employees gave me hugs and said they enjoyed working with me and have a nice life and see you around.
And then I boomeranged back on January 1, like an envelope that your forgot to put the stamp on.
“What are you doing here?” queried my (former, well she thought she was former) co-worker. “I thought you quit?”
“I did, yes. I quit. Today is my last day.” I smiled enigmatically.
“But The Boss said December 24th was your last day?”
“No, ha ha ha, that was my first last day. This is my real last day.”
I brought my camera in so I could take pictures of my co-workers and someone could take pictures of all of us standing together pretending to sell things. I forgot to get my camera out of my purse all day so the pictures are in my head instead of on a digital memory card.
It was 7 PM and the store was closed. This was for real. I had been at the high-end kitchen store for four years, it was the end of an era. I thought I might cry.
As The Boss locked the door, she turned to me.
“Do you want to work one more day on January 30th for Inventory?” she asked.
“YES.”
That will be my last last day.
MOV
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