728. Art Critic Starts With "A"

photo by MOV of Short's art

“Mommy,” he said, “I made this for you.”  He gave me a black paper tube, something precious confined in its spiral secrecy.  The curly ribbon tied tight around it brushed against my skin, like a delicate spider’s wispy legs. 

“Do you want me to open it now?” I asked, suspicious since it was only December 17^th, “or do you want me to wait?” 

He squealed, “Now!  Open it now!” 

“Short, is it for Christmas?” I prompted, the textbook version of my proper mommy-self appearing when called for.  “Shouldn’t we wait?” 

His eyes filled with emotion, a mixture of sadness and betrayal, a betrayal of the Instant Gratification Gene that he had (undoubtedly) inherited from me.  Then, in a fit of drama, “If you don’t open it now, Mommy, I will die.” 

His words hung in the air, a semi-deflated yesterday balloon of sorrow floating nowhere.  

I was not expecting such theatrics rolled into a tube that was my only Christmas present (that I myself had not picked out and paid for) from my youngest son.  He will die??  What’s in that tube, a secret elixir to prevent certain death caused by lack of patience? 

His mood shifted mere seconds later.  He was, after all, a mercurial kindergartner.  “Or you can wait, Mommy!  Whatever you like!”  He skipped off in search of Pokémon cards, or the cat, or a stash of unbuilt Legos.  

I set the tube, red ribbon glistening like candy magic, under the prickly tree.

Christmas day arrived, and with it the promise of a special gift, a tube of happiness.  I opened the present, and was thrilled to see a handmade calendar.  Short attends a wonderful school where the teachers are constantly dreaming up elaborate projects (with their resulting byproducts to give to the parents).  This particular idea was absolutely brilliant:  the Virgo in me loved the practicality, while the mommy in me loved the sentimentality.           

“Did you draw this?” I asked with trepidation.  Better to confirm first than to lavish praise on art that had the remote chance of belonging to someone else.  Like what happened last week.    

“Yes!  It’s our family!  You, me, Pop, and Tall!  It’s us!”  His stretchy grin wrapped around his little round face. 

“I love it!” I hugged him and simultaneously marveled at how The Husband and I had somehow produced a second artistic progeny, akin to Picasso or Renoir.  “You and Tall are the very best artists in the whole world!” I exclaimed triumphantly.      

“Yes.  I know,” Short confirmed confidently.  He took the calendar out of my grasp for closer inspection.  “Oh, oh no,” he scrunched up his elastic face with all the seriousness of an appraiser being handed a blatant counterfeit piece that he is only now seeing for the very first time, “Pop does not look so good in this picture.” 

The Husband stifled a laugh.  Truth be told, it was quite a good likeness.  He had been accused in the past of having a large lumpy head. 

Short continued his thorough and professional assessment:  “Let’s see, his arms are good, his legs are good, his hair is good … but his head?  His head is kind of big on one side.  I didn’t draw his head very well.”  A dark, gloomy cloud descended upon Short. 

“Short,” I said, shifting into full-on cheerleader mode, “The drawing is fantastic!  I love it!  I am going to hang it up on the bulletin board in the kitchen right now!” 

And just like that, he was happy again.  As was I.  I inspected the lovely female family member he had so meticulously drawn—eyes as big and blue as swimming pools, hair scribbled with a crayon labeled “Sunshine,” lips like a robust Valentine, legs that could double for an anorexic flamingo, and to top it all off, a retro-inspired color-blocked dress—and I breathed a long, satisfied, sigh of relief:  at least one of us in the drawing was realistic-looking.    

photo by MOV of Short's art

MOV
(“Matisse Or VanGogh”)

725. Who Cares About The Movie, Did You See The Couch?

I am not fun to go to the movies with.  It’s not that I am the type of person who spoils the ending, laughs too loud, or talks to the screen saying, “Nooooooo, don’t go in there because you’re going to get killed!”  I am sure that The Husband or any of my beleaguered movie-going companions would much prefer if I were that type of movie destroyer.  No, the real reason that I can’t convince anyone to go to the movies with me now is:  I am obsessed with set design.

Remember the plot of the cute little rom-com with Diane Keaton, Jack Nicholson, and Keanu Reeves?  No?  Me, neither.  But I can tell you all about that glorious kitchen in Diane’s Hampton’s beach house.  Antique white cabinets, soapstone counters, hardwood floors, Viking stove, Sub-Zero refrigerator, and an island that might qualify as a its own continent.  We ordered this movie on Netflix and never got through the first half hour, what with me freezing it, running to the screen then saying to The Husband, “Do you think they got their drawer pulls at Restoration Hardware?  Do you like that pendant light?  Should we get one over our sink, too?” 

Don’t get me started on “The Devil Wears Prada.”  No one really cares about Anne Hathaway’s character’s dumpy apartment, but her boss's multi-million dollar brownstone and classy art collection was swoon-worthy.  I saw the movie when it was released in theaters, then bought it the second it came out on DVD so I could fast-forward to the spot where Anne is sneaking up the stairs at her boss's house and there is a phenomenal painting of a New York City street scene, complete with taxis and blurry lights.  I covet this painting and I have grand schemes of taking an art class and copying it. 

Who has time for that though when you could watch “Mr. Popper’s Penguins”?  Another movie set in New York, another stunning art collection.  Whole chunks of dialogue go undigested in my brain due to me focusing solely on Jim Carey’s oversized oil paintings that any Art History student would tell you are by Wayne Thiebaud (he of “Cakes” fame).  I kept tugging on The Husband’s jacket sleeve, “Sweetie, do you think that is the original painting?  Or just a copy?” 

Or how about “Match Point”s enviable London loft where Jonathan Rhys Meyers lived with his new wife before he started cheating on her with Scarlett Johansson?  It featured a wall of glass and a view of the Thames River that was to die for.  The wife’s character came from a wealthy family, so that explained the high-end art collection and pricey furniture even though the characters were so young.  Being involved in an intriguing love triangle that ends in murder was never so stylish.   

Sure, Pierce Brosnan is hot in “The Thomas Crown Affair,” but you know what’s hotter?  That unbelievably gorgeous retreat Rene Russo stayed at in the Caribbean.  I was ready to pack my bags and renounce my citizenship on the spot.  No set is more enviable than one on the ocean. 

Speaking of living near the beach, who wouldn’t love the set of another fun rom-com but this one starring Alec Baldwin, Meryl Streep, and Steve Martin?  The moment the camera pans to the Santa Barbara sprawling estate where talented restaurateur Meryl lives, I was checking real estate web sites.  The story line was alluring, but not more alluring than that those arched doorways, soaring ceilings, and antique clawfoot tub. 

I check the latest movie listings and notice Julia Roberts is playing the evil witch in the Snow White re-do called “Mirror, Mirror.”  I most likely won’t be going to that movie:  I can't afford a castle. 

MOV

("Movie's Original Vision")

724. How Basketball Saved My Life

“Get yourself out of the corner!”  I hear the head coach shout to my son.  Moments later, “Take the shot, Tall, you can do it!”  Next is “Rebound, rebound, go-go-go!”  followed by “Pass it, let your teammate help you out!”  I realize that each phrase the coach calls out on the court is a valuable metaphor for my everyday life.

Get yourself out of the corner.  I had put myself in the corner many times in college, taking too many classes and working too many hours while still trying to maintain an active social life and be in a sorority.  It was too much.  When you do 20 things simultaneously, you never do any of them particularly well.  Now that I was an adult who should know better, I reflected on how many times I had overscheduled our family, overextended and made promises I knew would be hard (if not impossible) to fulfill.   I made a change:  I told The Husband the kids could play only one sport per season, no more.  No traveling teams.  No double-booking birthday parties with playdates and sporting events.  It was time to get out of the corner and have room to breathe. 

Take the shot!  Why the hesitation?  What are we afraid of?  If the possibility is right there in front of us, we must jump high and try.  I recently wrote a book of short humor essays.  After months of rejection from agents and publishers, I decided to “take the shot” and self-publish.  The book was ready to sell as of November, and I had a book launch and signing party in January.  I am not world-famous (yet), but I am proud of myself for not letting that initial negativity block me from moving forward to chase my dream.    

Rebound, rebound.  So the job is not what you thought—quit and seek a new one.  Or a family member is ill—support him and help him to get through it with renewed vigor.  When life hands you hard work that you were not expecting, sharpen the focus and attack it with gusto.

Let a teammate help you out.  I am not super-woman, and yet, sometimes I am reluctant to ask for help.  It’s okay to say you can’t do it all.  It’s okay to not live up to society’s (unrealistic) expectations.  The best thing you can do is admit you’re human and let others help you.  Now we tell the kids to make their own beds.  They also set the table and feed the cat.  They know we are all a team, and we must help each other. 

I walk over the coach after practice to thank him.  “Hey, Coach,” I say, “thanks for a great session.  Tall got a lot out of it.” 

And so did I.  

MOV

("Mom's On Varsity")

723. Accused

I have been accused of writing the same material over and over. I actually received a nasty comment from some cyber-bully, and she said, "Your blog, overall, is very repetitive." I cannot even fathom why she would say such a thing.

I have been accused of writing the same material over and over. I actually received a nasty comment from some cyber-bully, and she said, "Your blog, overall, is very repetitive." I cannot even fathom why she would say such a thing.

MOV 

720. I Want To Be The Winner

Last year, we went to our local school’s annual basketball fundraiser.  The novelty was that the faculty, not the students, played basketball against each other.  As a separate fundraiser, you could buy raffle tickets to win one of several expensive themed gift baskets which had been donated by local businesses. 

We got there early and bought 50 tickets.  The boys walked up and down the crowded school cafeteria where the baskets were displayed, weighing the merits of each prize.  After much deliberation and discussion, they set about stuffing the ticket boxes for their favorite baskets.  When the winning raffle ticket numbers were announced at halftime, ours tickets numbers were not among them.    

However, our six-year-old neighbor, Justin, did win.  He won a Lego-themed basket, with every imaginable Lego set teetering out the edge of the confines of the plastic wrap.  He smiled wide, revealing his tiny white teeth, like miniature Chiclets.  “I won,” he whispered to my sons on the way out after the game.  The hesitation is his voice indicated that he could scarcely believe it. 

“That’s great,” responded Short, “we’re on our way to go choose which basket we won too.” 

Uh, oh.  He clearly did not understand how these things work.  “Short, Honey, we did not win.  I’m sorry.”  I made an exaggerated sad face, like a clown that just got fired. 

Short still was not comprehending reality versus desire.  “You told me to pick which basket I wanted to win, and I pick all.  But I will take the Lego one,” he offered magnanimously. 

The Husband stifled a laugh.  “Oh, Short, I’m sorry.  We lost.” 

Lost was a word Short’s four-year-old brain was familiar with.  Short lost when playing soccer against Tall.  Short lost when playing cards against Tall.  Short lost when racing Tall across the yard.  Pretty much any time Tall was in the picture, Short lost. 

If you’ve ever seen one of those time-lapse photography things on the weather channel with the sky going from sunny to violently stormy and approaching hurricane levels in approximately three seconds, then you know what we were dealing with.    

“Nooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!” squealed Short, exposing his inner tantrum, and then flinging his compact body on the school hallway’s dirty floor.  “I am sick of losing!  I want to be the winner!” 

Other people were starting to stare.  People we’d never met, people we were good friends with, young people, old people, teacher people.  I could only pretend for so long that I was not related to the pile of tears and fury on the floor. 

“Noooooooo!!!!!” the moaning and writhing continued.  “I hate you!  It’s not fair!” 

The Husband and I exchanged a look, a look that said Get that child off the floor and out to the car as fast as humanly possible.  That’s when I remembered that we had walked to the school, not driven. 

We live one mile from the school.  A mile says Hey, walking is good exercise!  A mile says If you drive, you’re really a big wimp.  A mile says, Walking with your family is super-fun and great for togetherness time and happy memories.  What a mile forgets to tell you is that it is not quite so enticing when 25% of your group boycotts the walking component of the walking home equation.  The Husband ended up carrying our screaming child home that evening.      

Fast forward to yesterday.   

I was reluctant to attend the basketball game after what happened last year.  But, like an adventurer who goes to the Antarctic and loses a limb to frostbite but then later decides it was still overall a “fun” trip and maybe she should do it again, I thought:  What can possibly go wrong?  It might even be fun!   

The game was fun.  The cookie-buying was fun.  The raffle ticket discussion?  Not so much.

“Short,” I began quietly, “we are probably not going to win a basket.  Just know that, okay?  We are not wasting $50 this time, we’re just buying two tickets, one for each of you.  And you most likely will not win.  Remember that.” 

Short nodded solemnly, then said, “Remember how Justin won last time?  And he carried the big big big GIANT basket all the way down the very long hall and how I did NOT win?  Do you remember, Mommy?  Because I was sad.” 

He looked like he might cry now.        

“Short, I need to tell you something. The chances of you knowing someone who wins are very great. You will know one of the winners. But the chances of your number getting picked are small.”      
I leaned in and gave him a tight hug.  Then I said, “Tell you what, Short, after the 3^rd quarter, we’ll leave the game early and get ice-cream on the way home.  Okay?” 

“Sure.  Okay,”  he shrugged.  He and Tall walked through the basket display area and put their tickets in the boxes.  “Remember how sad I was last time?” I overheard him say to Tall again and again, like a bad 80’s song on a permanent loop. 

When we started to sneak out after the 3^rd quarter, Short tugged on my sleeve.  “Mommy, we have to check if we won or not!  Remember?”  His face was full of magic and hope mingling in an intoxicating cocktail of kindergarten delusion. 

“Short, uh, uh … this year it turns out you have to go online the next day to see if you won.”  It was not a complete lie, you could check online.  Or just read the posters right now in the hall to see if your name was there. 

Happy with my answer, Short, Tall, The Husband, and I started to walk outside.  I would delay the bad news by 24-hours and reveal our misfortune and bad luck to Short in the privacy of our own home, where he could have a hissy fit as loud and long as he wanted. 

Suddenly, my friend Rebecca ran out the door after us.  “MOV!  Wait!” 

At first, I thought I might've dropped my sweater or forgotten my water bottle.  “Hi Rebecca!  What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing’s wrong:  you won a basket!”  She pumped her fist in the air, a gesture of glory. 

Short turned abruptly to face Rebecca, then he looked at me.  “Did she say we won, Mommy?” 

“Yes, she did!  I’ll go in and get it.” 

Short was more baffled than ever.  Last year, we bought lots of tickets and got our hopes up:  nothing.  This year we bought the minimum number and mashed our hopes into the ground:  winner. 

I walked back to the cafeteria and approached a lady holding a clipboard.  She was directing other winners to their prospective baskets.  “Name, please?” she asked me politely. 

“Hi.  I’m MOV.  I’m not sure which basket we—”

“Oh, you’re MOV!” she beamed.  “Kirsti,” she called another woman over, “Kirsti, this is MOV.  MOV, you won the grand prize.  The basket is called Toys Forever and is worth $500!” 

I could feel my face flush crimson.  The Kirsti lady handed me the biggest basket I had ever seen except for on TV game shows, filled with all manner of toys and gift certificates.  Short was going to go wild when I walked out that door to where they were waiting outside.

I thanked her profusely and tried to balance myself under the weight of the basket.  Someone pushed open the glass door for me.  Tall and Short gasped collectively.  “We won THAT?” squealed Short.  Nothing this exciting had ever happened to him.      

The Husband asked tentatively, “Which one of you bid your ticket on this prize?  Is this the one you bid on, Tall?”

“No, Pop, I bid on the one with all the spy stuff.”

“Then congratulations, Short!” cheered The Husband, “You are a winner.”    

Short smiled enthusiastically.  “I want to share it with Tall.  I’m a good sharer.” 

Tall nodded.  “Thanks, Short.  I would share with you too if I won.” 

Then Short let out a delighted scream, so different from last year, “I won!  I won!  Yaaaaaaaaaaaayyy, me!  I finally finally won!” 

Yay, Short!  You are a winner.   

MOV

719. Alternatives To Blogging

I was born blogging.  Okay, that’s not true.  It’s not like the first words out of my mouth upon greeting the doc before he even had a chance to clamp my umbilical cord were “Hey, hand me that keyboard!”  No, I was actually blogging waaaaaaay before that—in utero.   

• “Update:  it’s toasty warm in here, but I think Mom ate sardines again—yuck.” 
• “Status:  sleepy.”
• “The Latest:  my eyelashes have started to develop, and I think I am feeling fingernails as well.” 
• “Question:  do you think I might have a twin in here?  or is that just a weird shadow?”

No, in reality there was no blogging back in the prehistoric dinosaur days of my youth, and thank goodness for that.  Fast forward to this century.  I discovered blogging less than two years ago when my unsympathetic co-workers at the high-end kitchen store got sick of me telling farfetched stories and one of my co-workers finally mustered the courage to say what the others had been thinking all along:  “MOV, write a blog.” 

Blogging quickly became more than a fun little diversion or interesting new hobby.  Like that left-over piece of chicken with cream and broccoli sauce that you forgot for a month in the back of the frig and now it turned into an unrecognizable space creature, my blogging addiction turned into something out of my control. 

It.  Was.  Bad.    

I would come home from working a long day at the high-end kitchen store and instead of spending time with my beloved family or at least pretending to greet them, I would dash up to the study and click the computer on, chanting “Please-be-comments-please-be-comments-please-be-comments.”  I would return from my weekly Target run, and before even unloading the red and white plastic bags full of cheap treasures, I would find myself in front of the computer clicking on “Blog Statistics” to see which posts were generating the most hits.  In the middle of a quiet dinner with the family, I would make up some elaborate excuse about how I think I left a light on upstairs again and need to turn off this instant so the cat doesn’t accidentally knock it over and cause a huge fire while we’re eating but then I would zip upstairs and forget all about the lamp while I was re-reading my latest blog post and double checking for new followers.    

The Husband is, of course, on to me. 

“Checking your blog again?” he inquires in a flat tone with the identical enthusiasm of a DMV clerk greeting his 189^th driver’s license renewal of the day.

“Checking your blog again?” mimic the children in the same world-weary manner, after hearing their father say it so many times. 

So what?  Yes, I am checking my blog again if you must know.  It’s not the worst habit in the world.  What if instead of checking my blog in my spare time, I went down to the animal shelter and got a puppy each time? 

Or what if, instead of checking my blog, I went to the kitchen and ate a cookie each time?

Or, what if instead of checking my blog, I went to our basement work-out room and worked out for a few minutes each time? 

The bottom line is:  if I didn’t blog, I would be a dog-collecting, cookie-gorging, obese, skinny, work-out girl. 

And who wants that? 

MOV  
(“Mistress Of Vision”)

717. Queen Virgo Moved Out

I walked into the kitchen at 4:30 this morning, searching for Girl Scout cookies.  I opened the refrigerator and gasped:  there was a gallon jug of milk blocking the orange juice carton, containers of (expired) yogurt cozying up to dried out peanut butter (label facing away), and wilty lettuce keeping company with grated cheese (bag not sealed properly) and the last vestiges of mayonnaise; lemons were not in the fruit drawer, nor even in a baggie; nothing was alphabetical, haphazardness reigned supreme.  It was obvious what had happened:  Queen Virgo moved out.

This had been a long time coming. 

When Tall was born, Queen Virgo spent hours and hours and hours pairing up teeny-tiny white baby socks and ironing onesies.  It was fun for the first week or so, but then Queen Virgo decided she had better things to do, like sleep. 

A few years later when Short was born, Queen Virgo still had a vision of order and cleanliness.  Unfortunately, Short, Tall, The Husband, and even the cat had other ideas.  The Husband liked to put his newspapers in the recycle bin without refolding them first (I know—it’s a wonder we’re still married).  Tall would track mud in the back door and then wipe up the floor with a wet towel without bothering to dry the floor afterwards.  When Short was a toddler, he put his dishes in the dishwasher facing the wrong way.  The cat wandered from room to room, never so much as offering to vacuum up the excessive fur she shed.  Queen Virgo was despondent.   

Oh, sure, when the family was at work or school, Queen Virgo would scramble around trying to make the house a palace again, or at least get the Legos off the dining room table.  She would make the beds (only to be slept in and messed up again mere hours later), wash dishes, put laundry away, Windex the bathroom mirror, all the while saying, “Would anyone notice if I moved to Honolulu?”

But last night must have been the final straw.  She had washed all the dinner pots, pans, dishes, and glasses, dried them, and put them away, when The Husband walked into the kitchen with his dirty ice-cream bowl.  He chirped, “Don’t forget this one, Sweetie!” 

Queen Virgo does not respond well to being told to do a task when she thought she was already done with said task.  Queen Virgo hurled the ice-cream bowl at his head. 

No, not really.  But she left, possibly for good. 

Fortunately, besides leaving behind a legacy of perfection, she also left behind a detailed map for where the extra Girl Scout cookies are hidden.  (Hint:  they’re behind the frozen corn out in the garage’s extra freezer, obviously Queen Virgo’s final attempt to adhere to alphabetical order even under duress.) 

I’d send her a thank you note, but she left no forwarding address. 

MOV