mothersofbrothersblog

1003. Who Invited You

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Mon, 30 May 2022 11:55:00 +0000

I blame myself. Normally, I am quite organized, some might say obsessively so. I have calendars, to-do lists, color-coded receipts, and even notes like “Tell Short to talk to History teacher.” My reminders have morphed beyond the immediate boundaries of myself and are now about helping other people as well.

So you can see how it was bound to happen.

We showed up on time, 7pm sharp, as if it was a flight to Chicago that might leave without us. There were a lot of people there already, they seemed like a surprisingly punctual group, but who could blame them? They were all graduating and couldn’t wait to get on with their fresh, shiny lives, or at least have a good party to look back on. They were laughing and playing badminton and singing made-up songs and tossing bean bag things in the corn hole and sitting around a firepit joking: they looked like an ad for happiness or a very expensive toothpaste.

The Husband and I found model-perfect Laney right away and handed her the card. I had neatly wrapped the pristine, white envelope with a smooth, satin ribbon, indicating that it was more than a card. Yes there was money inside. I didn’t hug Laney when I gave it to her, because truth be told, I didn't know her that well, so instead I said, Here’s another card for LeRoy too and by the way, where is your mom?

Laney pointed toward the house, and The Husband and I dutifully walked in.

We thought we were walking into the family room, but we were actually walking into a design magazine, complete with chandeliers and red refrigerators and avant-garde art and rustic beams. It was all very chic and made me say dumb things like, Where did you get that tile??

I gave Nikki a tight squeeze and told her the house was gorgeous, which she already knew. It was like saying, Hey and we all breathe air! Isn’t that fascinating!

Still, she seemed proud of her home and flattered that I mentioned how great everything was. She never once said, MOV, this is a party is for my son and his twin sister and THEIR friends, no parents were actually invited, so honestly what the hell are you doing here?

No, those words were never uttered. Instead, she and her husband said things like, Would you mind taking this platter of watermelon and putting it on the deck?

I did all the right things. I put the watermelon on the deck. I congratulated Nikki on Laney getting into Yale on a golf scholarship. I asked if LeRoy was excited about going to Tech.

I should have maybe clued in when they didn’t offer me any wine. BECAUSE THEY DIDN’T HAVE ANY. BECAUSE IT WAS A PARTY FOR TEENAGERS.

I saw a big basket of kooky glasses that the plastic frames spell out “2022.” I went to try on a pair and The Husband helpfully mentioned that they might actually be for the kids.

I sashayed around the party holding the basket like a prize and forcing the kids to all take a pair of glasses. When I got to my own son, Tall, he hissed through clenched teeth, Stop it.

As I went to set the basket down, The Husband tugged my elbow. He leaned in and whispered, Time to go.

I can honestly say that this was the first time I truly, truly, truly looked around and noticed not that we were early or hyper-competitively extremely on time or that other parents were just not there yet or maybe running late … instead, I realized to my horror, there were 50 people in that backyard and none of them were over the age of 19.

This was a graduation party. For graduates. We were not invited.

I started to do the mental gymnastics of analyzing all the evites in my brain … we have Susan’s son’s graduation party coming up on Saturday, and then Rodrigo on Sunday afternoon, and then Evan and Tyler’s brunch on Tuesday, and Nick and Davis on Thursday … and I never actually saw the evite of Laney and LeRoy anywhere in the cobwebby crevices of my brain because oh yes there WAS an evite, but it was addressed to Tall, not to me.

How could I be so stupid?

We said a rushed-and-slightly-embarrassed goodbye to our hosts and made up something about how our dog was really sick and we had to check on him, blah blah blah. We slipped out the front door, and I stopped and took a deep breath. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry or if this was (hopefully) just a very bad dream.

The Husband turned to me and said the only thing he could under the circumstances,

“So, whose party should we ruin next?”

1002. It's a Dog Dog Dog World

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Tue, 02 Jul 2019 13:13:00 +0000

I have always been a cat person. I love fluffy cats, short-haired cats, black cats, orange cats, calico cats, tiny kittens, overweight cats, you name it. So it should come as somewhat of a surprise that my latest job is:

Dog Walker.

I like to tell people that this is because no one will pay me to walk their cats (that's right, cats are smart enough to walk themselves).

Paint the scene: I found myself in a job situation with a co-worker that I could no longer tolerate. She truly made every day miserable, and I knew things were bad when I would secretly hope she would call in sick, go on a vacation, or just flat-out die.

Yep, I needed to quit.

I endured three long years there, while things continued to get worse. I would come home from working with this awful co-worker, and every day my family would say Find another job!

I randomly saw a sign near our house that said the three little words I needed to hear:

WANTED: DOG WALKER.

I applied, passed the background check, and now people I have never met happily give me their keys to go into their home while they are gone and take their most valued possession (their dog).

I am terrified of Pit Bulls. Did I mention that? Why yes I did, right there on the job application. I said I would walk any type of dog (especially a cat) but staunchly refused to walk a Pit Bull.

You know where this is going, right? The very first dog they assigned me was a Pit Bull. It (he? she? who knows, as I have tried to block it out) bit me on the ankle the moment it saw me.

Somehow I lived through the ordeal, and continued to walk dogs. Now we will briefly pause so that I can show you pictures of dogs I may have walked, or you can just think I got these photos off the internet:

Oh my goodness, is that a cute dog or what?

Another favorite.

Be still my heart. Look at those eyes!

Oh how I adore you, you gorgeous thing! (And what a smart owner to color coordinate with the yummy orange leash to really set off those spots.)

Reasons why I love my job: The dogs never complain. They never say, You are 5 minutes late, again, MOV! They never criticize my choice of outfit. Or the fact that I didn't brush my hair. They genuinely seem happy to see me, and sad when I leave (which is more than I can say for my teenagers). They usually do what I say (Sit! Shake! Let's cross the street here now!), and if the worst part of the job is picking up poop, well, what job doesn't have some metaphorical poop you have to deal with?

Sometimes the owners are home. This always shocks me. I feel like I am breaking and entering and they might call the police at any moment. That never happens. Instead they mumble something about how they forgot that I was coming, but sure please take Scout for a walk.

Scout and I go.

We feel the fresh air. We squint into the sunlight. We notice that squirrel dart up that tree trunk. We hear the birds chirp, sometimes at us. We smell the freshly cut grass. We smile at other people walking by, and we stop and chat when those people have dogs too.

But mostly we walk.

I LOVE MY JOB.

1001. It's Just A Sunflower

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Fri, 28 Jun 2019 12:40:00 +0000

Yep. I’m back. It’s really me. Had to think about it for five years, but then I decided to write something. Here goes:

The Husband has always planted vegetables: corn, squash,

zucchini (is that the same as squash, or just sort of a distant

cousin? Who knows), pumpkins, lettuce, tomatoes.

His garden is green and leafy and full of nutritious things;

it makes my friends swoon with jealousy (“MOV, did you

personally grow all that?” Me, without hesitation: “Yes.”)

So it should some as somewhat of a surprise when

The Husband one day woke up and told me:

“This year, I’m planting sunflowers.”

Naturally, I was thrilled. Sunflowers are one of my favorite

kinds of flowers, next to tulips. They are big and bold, and

basically look like if children’s laughter was made of flowers.

Yep, I love them.

Now, in the five years I have not been writing my blog

(and who knows, the next post might take me five more

years to compose, so don’t get your hopes up), I have

gotten into photography. Not Ansel Adams or

Irving Penn-level photography, but (ahem) I have won …

let me just say … I have won EVERY SINGLE

PHOTOGRAPHY CONTEST that I have entered.

That sounds impressive, doesn’t it?

So anyway, like I was saying, I like to take pictures.

Pictures of my kids, pictures of the beach if we go on

vacation, pictures of the dog (we got a dog in the past

five years- who knew I was a dog person?!? Oh and

now I have a part-time job as a dog-walker, so I guess

I need to get you up to speed on a couple things

sometime soon.)

Standard deviation: here is a pic of the dog:

(Cute, right? He only weighs about 105 pounds-

same as me, I like to say.)

Enough rambling, MOV! Get to the point of the

story already! Gah, writing is harder than I thought,

and I guess I am really rusty.

So. The Husband. The sunflowers. The newfound

interest in photography. (Maybe you know where

this is going because I sure don’t?) One morning I

innocently glance out the window and notice that

the light is what can only be described as magical.

I have to grab my camera RIGHT NOW THIS SECOND.

I walk outside in my jammies and approach the sunflowers.

They are easily three feet taller than I am

(hard to believe, as I am somewhat tallish in real life,

but they dwarf me). I hold my good camera

(as opposed to my phone camera) to my eyeball

and start clicking away.

Unfortunately, due to the inconsiderate shade of a

nearby tree, the sunflowers are turned the wrong

way and do not look good in my pictures. Instead

of being sunny, they are dark. They stubbornly do

not respond to coaxing or bribery like my sons

(“Please please look this way! If you just cooperate

for two pictures, I promise I will take you to the pool

later and we can get ice-cream!”). Nope.

They stay firmly in place (think rooted).

I take matters into my own hands. I walk over and

gently try to adjust the flower. I attempt to turn the

stalk where I need it to be.

No sooner do I touch it, then it snaps off in my hand.

The Husband will not be happy later, I already know.

Not having learned my lesson (gah! The cliches.

Writing really is harder than I remember), I gently

bend another flower to get it into the acceptable

photographic range.

SNAP!

Did I mention his garden only has about three

sunflowers at this early date?

I have destroyed ⅔ of his bounty.

Unfazed (probably due to all that flight attendant

emergency training of what to do in a crisis situation),

I prop the now-dead sunflowers into the general area

of where I need them to be for my picture. Perfect.

Then I start snapping away.

I check my camera, and I am satisfied.

Now I take the remnants of the sunflowers and

internally debate my choices. Leave them

propped up and pretend to be shocked when they

“suddenly” wilt in the next day or two, ultimatley

saying “a fox must have chewed through them”?

Throw them over the fence into the neighbor’s

yard and blame it on a “strong gust of wind”?

In the end, I (stupidly) decide that honesty is the

best policy (more cliches. And spellcheck does

not even know to add and accent to cliche.

I’m sorry). I cut the flowers down even more

and stick them in a vase.

Predictably, The Husband was not pleased upon

his arrival home (“MOV, those are MY flowers!!!

What gives you the right to cut them!!! I can’t

believe you did this!!!”).

By the next day (who am I kidding, month), he

forgot all about my selfish ways, and yes, I got a

pretty good photo out of the deal:

(Thank you for being here, and I will try to write again

if I have anything remotely entertaining to say.)

MOV

Ps- first blog back, I had major formatting issues, so if

anyone has advice on that let me know

1000. Dolphin in a Wheelchair and Other Disturbing Things

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Wed, 03 Dec 2014 01:55:00 +0000

There are some phrases you never hear uttered, such as, “That chocolate was disgusting,” “I would totally vote for Nixon if he were alive,” and “Hooker with morals.”

No one says these things, because they are unacceptable to say. They are lies. We all know there is no such thing as “disgusting” chocolate. Heck, even stale and melty M and M’s are better than no M and M’s.

Another thing you never hear about is when someone who used to love to write suddenly (or maybe not so suddenly) just stops. STOPS.

STOPS.

WRITING.

What? Did Hemingway stop writing? Did Shakespeare stop writing? Did John Grisham one day just stop writing??

No, of course not. They had something to say, and an audience who wanted to hear it.

As a blogger and eventually book writer, I also had something to say. More than something. I had a LOT to say.

But guess what? After 1000 posts (that’s right, count ‘em), I think I have said it all. And not only that, I am a little bit sick of hearing my own voice. So, Blog, I am divorcing you.

It’s been a fun ride. I remember when I started and had zero followers. And then two. And then, unbelievably, 10. Then somehow, 100. And now, over 600! In just five years.

For someone who considers herself shy in real life, this is a huge accomplishment for me. People wanted to read what I wrote!

Somehow, I cobbled it into a book. And then with help from a fellow blogger, we made a second book. The insecure me I was when I was 11 might not believe that. But it’s true.

I thank you, dear readers, for reading what I wrote, and for commenting. (I was a bit obsessive, sometimes checking my comments every 15 minutes, sometimes less). I thank you for making me feel like what I wrote mattered. And for taking the time to come back and read just one more essay, one more paragraph, one more story. I was writing for you.

But lately, the busy-ness of life intrudes. The laundry. The job. The carpool. There are never enough unoccupied minutes to build a pyramid of words. Discarded words lay littered across the floor of my study, mocking me (“MOV, you’ll wish you had us back! Mark my, uh… words!”).

Now I must bid you and this lovely blog adieu. It pains me, because I know as soon as I sign off, Muse will return with buckets full of ideas for me (“Muse, honestly, where have you been for six months?!”).

I never thought I would utter this phrase: Goodbye, Blog.

994. Help, I've Fallen and I Can't Get Up

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Sun, 17 Aug 2014 09:18:00 +0000

I recently wrote about my face not cooperating with my brain and now my feet are apparently in on the mutiny: yesterday I fell while walking.

Notice I don’t say “while skateboarding” or “while bungee jumping” or some equally glamourous or athletic endeavor. Nope. Walking.

Let me set the complicated scene. Daytime. My front yard. Walking at a normal pace (not running) toward my car parked out front. Accompanied by my kids (because let’s face it: there are always witnesses to help record life’s embarrassments and retell them in excruciating detail after the fact). I made the critical mistake of stepping off the curb when suddenly my rebellious left ankle chose this precise moment to go out.

I came toppling down (with a surprised, squeaky sort of grunt sound effect emanating from my nose and mouth, young witnesses later confirmed) and landed face down in a heap in the street, keys and purse strewn about the asphalt.

I felt like I’d been pushed, or at least tripped.

This is when my life switched into slow motion, like some sort of Matrix movie. I lay there in a crumpled up pile for what seemed like 10 minutes (but was probably 10 seconds) evaluating what had just occurred. Who was my assailant? Had Tall played a cruel joke on his middle-aged mother and given me a well-timed shove? Had Short picked up the sidewalk and shook it fiercely, like a blanket? Had a rare earthquake just announced its presence?

No. My feet just did not get the memo to perform a complicated maneuver (e.g. “walk”) and therefore I fell.

The fall was not without repercussions. Skin was scraped. Ego was bruised. Blood was involved.

The children (who are used to falling off their bikes and such) were immediately sympathetic and helpful: “Mom! Are you okay?” “Do you need help?”

I pushed myself up and for the first time noticed my elderly neighbor Harriet staring at me from her front yard across the street. Harriet is about 99 years old and has a live-in nurse.

I did not want to alarm Harriet, so I waved and called out: I’m all right!

She waved back from her walker and responded, “Don’t worry, dear, that happens to me all the time.”

I dusted myself off, got in the car with the kids and drove away, praying Harriet would not post a video of my fall on YouTube later.

MOV

986. If I Get Your Name Sorta Right, It Should Still Count

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Wed, 26 Feb 2014 14:51:00 +0000

For some strange reason, I was not blessed with the DNA coding to remember people’s names correctly. Fortunately, I can remember that I do know the person, and that we had a long chat about where their daughter is going to college or about how their cat might have to have surgery, but then the part about their actual name? Not so much.

Sharon? I want to call her Karen.

Winnie? Let’s make that Wendy.

Brad? How about Bob.

JoAnna? I’ll change that to Jessica.

I should get points though, right? Partial credit? It means I was paying a tiny bit of attention at some point, but maybe not all the way.

The Husband (big surprise here) does not quite agree with me.

“If you know you forgot their name, why don’t you avoid it all together? Because if you get the name wrong, it’s not like in math class where you get some points for showing your work. You lose points. It is better to not say a name at all and then you stay at zero points instead of negative.”

Zero points? Who wants to stay at zero points?!? I want the possibility to earn points!

I call the kids in for their opinions.

“Grande, Little, Mommy wants to ask you something.”

“It’s Tall and Short, Mom.”

Nevermind.

MOV

984. Floppy Beach Hat

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Wed, 12 Feb 2014 11:28:00 +0000

I bought a floppy beach hat today. It is 22 degrees out.

My purchase is partially wishful thinking that the weather will tropicate overnight.

But even if it did—what then? I am not a floppy beach hat girl. I wish I was. I so want to be her. I imagine myself languorously drifting into the local market, embellished with the floppy beach hat.

People I don’t know would whisper about me behind my back: “She is wearing a floppy beach hat. Therefore, her life must be perfect in that casual not-trying-too-hard kind of way.”

I want people to think I am not trying too hard.

But I am actually trying really hard.

I own a black coat with a fake fur collar. For floppy beach hat girl. I also have a pair of 5-inch stilettos acquired on trip to New Zealand two decades ago.

I have worn the shoes exactly once.

Floppy beach hat girl would wear those shoes to go see the dentist.

You know she would.

Floppy beach hat girl is fearless. She wears what she wants, when she wants. She doesn’t agonize before leaving the house if she is dressed appropriately and then ultimately put on jeans and a Target t-shirt (again) just so she can look like a suburban soccer mom. No. Floppy beach hat girl will wear bracelets made of rubber bands (bestowed upon her by her 7-year-old) with an evening gown to go to her husband’s work party. She dresses for herself, not caring what others think one way or another.

I take a cue from floppy beach hat girl. I put on black corduroy pants, a pink sweater, and a crazy wood necklace shaped like arrows that I bought at a second-hand store in LA. I lace up chunky leather boots. I look in the mirror and smile.

As we are about to leave, my snarky 4^th grader groans, “You’re not wearing that, are you, Mom?”

I zip back to my closet and change. Jeans and a sweatshirt. No necklace.

Floppy beach hat girl will have to wait another day.

MOV

982. Dating Superman

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Mon, 03 Feb 2014 03:07:00 +0000

It’s not like I didn’t know who he was when we met. He had on the cape, the tights, the giant letter “S” across his chest. He looked like a very handsome caricature of himself.

“Hello, I’m Superman,” he said confidently, as he extended his hand.

“MOV,” I replied. I felt my cheeks turn red. It’s not every day you meet a superhero.

His grip was tight, but not too tight. He could probably bend steel with those hands if he wanted to.

Once we started talking, I confirmed that he was single. I know what you’re thinking: Lois Lane. That’s what everyone says now when I tell the story. But we actually met way before he and Lois were an item.

Superman and I had a lot in common. We both liked long walks on the beach, saving puppies, and listening to rain while enjoying a good book and a cup of hot cocoa. Oh, didn’t I tell you? We met through a dating service.

This was back in the days before the Internet and Match Dot Com. You had to fill out a questionnaire with, like, 50 questions, and poof! They would set you up with your perfect guy.

I don’t remember all the questions, but I do remember my answers: Super! As in, “If you unexpectedly found yourself with a day off, what would your first thought be?” Or, “Tell us about your relationship with your next-door neighbor,” and, “What is the one word your best friend would use to describe you?”

It just seemed natural that they would set me up with him. I liked Super and he was Super.

The beginning was great. He called when he said he would, showed up with flowers, always paid for dinner—that kind of thing. He was courteous and thoughtful. I even started to think about introducing him to my family.

But then something changed. He was very show-offy. Say a giant metal safe was falling out a window of a high-rise building just as we happened to be walking under it? He would reach out and catch it and prevent us from being killed. Okay, maybe that’s a bad example because I am glad that I didn’t get crushed by a safe. Oh, here’s one: if a baby was playing on railroad tracks FIVE STREETS OVER then he would woosh away and save the baby or stop the train or whatever.

The whole saving people thing got to be annoying. It interrupted a lot of romantic moments, if you know what I mean.

He was always “on”—always paying attention to something else, somewhere else, some element of danger lurking that I had no idea about. And everywhere we went, people had to come up and shake his hand and thank him.

“Oh, Superman,” they would swoon, “you are the greatest! Thank you so much for saving my dad from being eaten by that shark,” blah-blah-blah.

Of course I would stand to the side, smiling and nodding politely (what else was I going to do?) and then the people would turn to me and say how lucky I was to be dating Superman.

Lucky. Yeah, right.

Then, totally out of the blue, he proposed. Literally out of the blue: he scooped me up, flew me in his arms to a mountain top, and pulled a diamond ring out of a secret pocket in his cape.

I said yes. Not because I wanted to say yes, but because I felt pressured. And the fact that I was on a random mountain top and not sure how I’d get home if I said no.

He wanted to elope, and I wanted to break up. He told me to meet him down at City Hall but I was a no-show. I felt bad, but I couldn’t go through with it. It’s not like I have to be in the spotlight all the time, but with Superman I knew I would never be in the spotlight. Ever.

He knocked on my apartment door with a big bouquet of roses in his hand.

“MOV, can we start over?”

My roommate glanced up from watching TV and rolled her eyes.

“Look, S,” I began, “I love the idea of you. But the you in the flesh, well … it’s a little hard to take.”

He set the flowers on the table and left. I never heard from him again. Well, until last week, that is. He sent me a friend request on Facebook. I immediately checked his relationship status: Single.

And according to his profile, he still likes saving puppies.

MOV

978. The Set-Up

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 15:02:00 +0000

“Mommy, will you always remember me?”

“Of course!”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes!” I enthuse.

“Next week?” he persists.

I nod.

“Knock-knock,” he grins.

“Who’s there?” I dutifully respond.

Aghast, he shrieks, “You don’t remember me!”

MOV
****
Trifecta challenge: make us laugh in just 33 words

977. Wintry Mix

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Fri, 13 Dec 2013 19:52:00 +0000

We live in a part of the country that gets hit by big storms this time of year. I expect that. Not embrace, so much, just expect and tolerate.

What I did not expect, and have some difficulty tolerating (or even understanding) is this new thing the meteorologists like to call, “wintry mix.” The cute blond weather girl bobs her head up and down, cheerfully explaining that we must have our ice scrapers at the ready because she anticipates a “wintry mix” on Saturday. She smiles as if someone has just told her she won a new car. Smile, smile, enthusiastic nod, wintry mix.

I’m not even sure I am spelling it correctly. Is it “wintry” or “wintery” or “wintree”? It’s hard to spell something when you don’t know what the heck it is.

I do what I always do when I want information but am too lazy to type it into Google: I ask The Husband.

“What’s this ‘wintry mix’ all about?”

“What do you mean?” He stops reading his book and gives me a look as if I had asked why oranges are orange.

“Well, what is it?”

“MOV, you know. Snow, ice, freezing rain. Wintry mix.” He shrugs. His shrug says Oranges are orange, don’t ask me again.

“Then why don’t they say ‘snow, ice, freezing rain’?” I inquire thoughtfully. “That would make more sense.”

“Well, they don’t know which one it’s going to be. See, at certain altitudes, if the cold air is intercepted by precipitation, then it could be hail, depending on the temperature. But if warm air is trapped under the clouds, it might only be rain. Snow happens when the temperature stays below 32 degrees, but it is hard to predict because if they are even off one or two degrees, it could change.”

I was scrunching up my face, trying to listen, but honestly he had lost me at “altitudes.” Sure, I was a flight attendant for 10 years, but the only altitude I had to remember was 35,000 feet.

Once again, I was being punished because I was from California. No one in California in their right mind would say, “summery mix,” as in: a mix of sunshine, ocean breeze, and chirpy bird noises. Summery mix is implied by the mere fact that the zip code starts with a 9 and a 2. (A 9 followed by an 8 is Seattle. I wonder if they have “rainy mix” there.)

I look out the window, confused. It is pure, fluffy snow. I want to call it “snow,” but I know better. Wintry mix, to me, sounds like it should be some elaborate cocktail involving vodka, Sambuca, and liquid nitrogen.

I walk in the kitchen and am vaguely disappointed that we never purchased any liquid nitrogen, like they always have in the pantry on my favorite TV show, Top Chef. Straight vodka would have to suffice.

Wintry mix, indeed.

MOV

976. That Plucky Writer

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Mon, 25 Nov 2013 18:08:00 +0000

I have written three books. Really, they have written themselves, I just sort of vomited up all the words.

I take the books off the shelf now and marvel at them, thinking, I did this! This thing in my hands did not exist before me!

I imagine it’s exactly like the person who built the Duomo felt. Well, people. It was probably a lot of people. And they most likely died during that time, since it took 140 years to complete.

So, to clarify, I don’t feel dead.

What I meant, was, it’s a big accomplishment. Not to brag, though. I don't have a t-shirt with “I’m an Author!” printed on the front. (Although, to my darling husband if you are reading this: potential Christmas present?)

It’s not like I’m rich and famous or anything. I don’t have a cleaning lady, and Oprah still won’t return my calls. But, FYI, I would take rich over famous any day of the week. Think about it: if you are famous, you are hounded relentlessly. If you are rich but no one knows who you are, you can just go about your business, buying jets or 2^nd houses in Belize (or 25^th houses in Belize) and no one cares.

Writing does not make you rich. I found that out. What it does make you is neurotic. I carry a little notebook around and pluck it out of my pocket to jot down quick notes. Actually, since I bought my new iPhone, I dictate to SIRI. SIRI sometimes misspells things or misinterprets things, and I am left to decipher later: What the hell does “Thistle turns green” mean?? Why was that important?

SIRI is helpful with directions, though. I use her as my GPS. She never says in a snotty tone, “Recalibrating,” when I miss my turn. She calmly gives me a new route.

And then I say, “Read me my last note, SIRI,” and she says, “You are bitch and famous, or you will be moon.”


MOV
****
trifecta writing challenge/ 333 words/ required word is "pluck"

**Shameless self-promotion:  You can buy the books I wrote here, and here, and here, and they make great Christmas or Hanukkah presents!!

975. I Wonder Where My Wonder Went

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Tue, 19 Nov 2013 14:17:00 +0000

I’m not dead. I am, however, buried alive in boxes.

Packing is a mindless task—a robot could do it. Put stuff in, pad well, tape closed. Repeat. While my hands wrestle the cardboard, my brain hijacks a plane to childhood.

My childhood full of wonder. I wonder what it will be like to grow up? I wonder what it will be like to drive a car? I wonder what it would be like to go to Paris? I wonder what it would be like to stay up late? I wonder what it would be like to get married/ have kids/ buy a house/ fill in the blanks ___________?

There is no more wonder, because all those things have happened.

I am Bill Murray in Groudhog Day: get up, make breakfast, kids to school, do laundry, run errands, pick the kids up, drive them to sports, eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed. Same as yesterday. Same as tomorrow, and tomorrow’s tomorrow.

There is no room for wonder while filling up the empty gas tank or buying paper towels at Target.

And yet …

My life’s brimming with possibilities: we’re moving into an apartment because we’re renovating. We are making this tiny house into our dream home. The possibilities are about room designs, furniture, tile choices.

Yet, still no wonder. I had those decisions mapped out the day we bought the house. Wonder disappears when it is replaced by MUST. I must have an island, I must have a walk-in-closet, I must have floor-to-ceiling windows. Wonder sneaks in and MUST chases it away. MUST detests this naïf companion.

I rush around to fill these boxes, fill them with china, clothes, photo albums. My children absorb this frenzied energy.

We take a break. We have a new origami book: Short studies it, wants to attempt a paper frog. He folds the green square carefully. He whispers,

“Mommy, origami is not a fast thing. Origami is a calm and peaceful thing.”

My wonder has returned.

MOV
****
trifecta writing challenge/ required word: "companion"/ exactly 333 words

974. Here's What Happened to Me Today

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Tue, 08 Oct 2013 17:36:00 +0000

I hired a personal trainer. Before you think I’m some wealthy heiress, know this: I suffered from a debilitating back injury over the summer. After ER trips, X-rays, drugs, doctor’s visits, physical therapy, massage, and a renewed desire for a drink called a “zombie” (a nauseating-sounding blend of rum, brandy, pineapple juice, and orange juice—don’t judge), I figured I had earned a few sessions of personal training.

Personal training would not only cure my back pain, I rationalized, it would inevitably turn me into Claudia Schiffer. Or Heidi Klum. Or Gwyneth.

Maybe.

Anyway, things went great with my trainer until he announced that he expected me to be working out on some of our “off” days. (Note to self: I always thought “off” meant “off”?) Since I can only afford the trainer twice/week, that meant he expected me to work out at least three of the remaining days.

Deflated, I asked him if it would be okay if I swam on one of those days.

“Sure! I think that would be a great idea!” he enthused.

The next morning at 5am sharp, I was in the pool swimming laps. I had new goggles, a new swimcap, and a new attitude. I was a female Michael Phelps.

When I got out of the pool, I decided to chat with the lifeguard for a few minutes. Since he would be the one saving my life if my future self happened to hit her head against the cement pool wall, I thought it would be good to at least know his name.

It was a difficult Russian name and I immediately forgot it. I changed the subject and asked him if he liked swimming. (Gimme a break, it was early. I couldn’t think of anything else to chat about.)

He promptly replied, “I can’t swim.”

Yikes! The lifeguard can’t swim?!

Realizing his error in language, he corrected himself: “I am not allowed to swim while on duty.”

At least I got my heart rate up.

MOV
*****
trifecta writing challenge/ exactly 333 words/ key word is "zombie"

973. How It Feels to Beat a 9-Year-Old at Checkers

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Sat, 05 Oct 2013 10:50:00 +0000

It feels great. I’ll be honest: if feels really great. Especially when that particular 9-year-old happens to be my junior Einstein son, Tall.

Everything this child touches turns to gold. He is smart, funny, athletic, and has tons of friends. He is also one of these people that instinctively understands how to play a game he has been introduced to mere moments before.

I made the mistake of allowing him to sign up for his school chess club several weeks ago. Ever since that time, all I hear is, “Mom, let’s play a quick game of chess!”

And it is a quick game, since I find myself in check mate in a matter of 10 minutes, sometimes less.

But he was not going to win at checkers. No. Checkers was mine.

I taught him the basics and of course he beat me. Twice. But then something kicked in, some sort of primal need for redemption, and that was it. He was half my size and one quarter of my age. I could take him.

My guys got across the board in record time. “King me!” I cried out, with an inappropriate amount of glee.

Next thing you know, I had Tall’s two remaining pieces backed into a corner. I tried not to laugh a wicked little laugh, but I couldn’t help it. I had not won a game against this child since that time he had the flu when he was three and he was just not up for Monopoly that day.

Tall saw that he had no way out. He abruptly stood up and intentionally upended the board, with all the pieces splattering across the table and the floor.

I guess he gets his good sportsmanship from me.

MOV

971. Me and All My Badges

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Sat, 14 Sep 2013 11:52:00 +0000

As a mom of a 4^th grade son and a 2^nd grade son, it may come as somewhat of a surprise that I found myself at my very first Boy Scout meeting last night.

As we all know, Boy Scouts instill wonderful values in your child, values like hard work, respect, discipline, and good citizenship. Clearly, I would be happy to have any Boy Scout around to open a door, help me walk across the street, or provide necessary first aid if I was ever bitten by a bear. Boy Scouts perform a crucial role in society.

However, last night I got the impression that everyone else had started scouting at an earlier age (say, in the womb), and that I was once again late to the party. There were 5 and 6-year-olds covered in merit badges, decorated to the point that you could no longer see the khaki uniform shirt underneath. Nevermind that. Put that all aside for a moment, and let’s concentrate on this new fun concept I was introduced to: Badges.

Everything your child does has the potential to earn him a badge. Your boy plays Little League? He simultaneously earned the Baseball Badge. He accompanied you kicking and screaming to a few museums last summer? Those represent Cultural Badges. How about the time the two of you fed the neighbor’s cat for a week? That would be the Community Service Badge. Do you see where I am going with this? Everything gets a badge.

I feel compelled to design a few badges of my own. How about all those times I asked Tall to make his bed and he ignored me? Non-Compliant Badge. And Short whining incessantly about doing his homework the last two weeks? That would be the Vocal Complaining Badge. Both of my kids forever leaving their dirty clothes in a giant pile and not remembering to take them to the laundry room? The Forgetful Badge.

I, of course, have inadvertently earned a few badges of my own. There is the Dish Washer Extraordinaire Badge. The Errand Queen Badge. The Chauffer of My Own Children to All Their Activities Badge.

What about the fact that I have memorized the exact aisle location of everything I need to buy at Target? That would be the Target Memorizer Badge. It is a bigger badge and more prestigious than the others, and in the shape of a red and white bull's eye. It takes years of practice and training to earn that one.

The Husband has earned a few badges as well. Most notably, the highly coveted Good Listener Badge. This badge (sadly) has been revoked a few times over the years. He also has his Knows Everything About Football Badge (the stitching on the badge is an image of a football on a TV screen). Obviously, this badge is what caused the Good Listener badge be revoked most recently. He also has his Forgot to Feed the Cat Badge (symbolized by a scrawny cat meowing) and his I Promise I’ll Take Your Car to the Shop Badge (along with a broken car).

See? We can all earn our badges.

There is a new badge I am currently training for: Shoe Buyer. The symbol is a sexy stiletto. Oops, I need to get to Nordstrom now to practice. Gotta run.

MOV

970. That Time My Wig Fell Off

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Thu, 22 Aug 2013 10:51:00 +0000

My hair had never been what you would call “luxurious.” Pantene shampoo marketers had never phoned and begged me to be in one of their commercials. Even my beloved gayer-than-Liberace hairdresser of 20 years had frequently oh-so-subtlely hinted, “Hon, let’s consider going ultra-short!”

But then I'd gaze in the mirror at my lackluster blond hair, and I'd see Alice in Wonderland. Yes, a stringier, more split-endier version of my childhood idol, but Alice nonetheless.

“I like it long,” I would say to Robert-the-hair-guru, and he would give me a weak Mona Lisa smile and reluctantly set down the scissors.

So it should come as somewhat of a surprise that women (yes, that is plural) literally stopped me on the street one day to compliment me on my gorgeous hair.

I did not have the heart to tell them it was a special hair clip made of (I hoped) horse hair but possibly (I tried not to think about it too much) even human hair. Human hair that some altruistic soul had chopped off to donate to cancer victims who had lost their hair to chemotherapy and radiation, not exactly meant for narcissistic stringy-haired individuals like me who just wanted to look like Heidi Klum or Claudia Schiffer for once in her life.

I had been shopping at Nordstrom with my mom (a rarity, since I favored Target and she preferred to not shop at all since “I will always see something I want to buy and then have to buy it”) when we innocently wandered into the hair accessories department.

Sparkly barrettes and satin headbands had beckoned to us, like an all-you-can-eat buffet of Godiva chocolate at a Weight Watchers' meeting, when I saw it: a fluffy blond hair clip that pretty much doubles the volume of your hair. Not only that, but it was the EXACT color of my own hair, a golden blond with a touch of mousiness for reality’s sake. (Now you can see these hair thingies at kiosks in malls everywhere, but this was 15 years ago, so they were a complete novelty at the time.)

I tried it on, pulling the front sections of my own hair back into this blond wonder. My new (fake) hair cascaded in a way that can only be described as “super model.” I instantly looked 10 years younger, 10 pounds lighter, and 10 IQ points dumber. I had to have it.

My mom, who had been posing with brunette poufy pony-tail holders and I-Dream-of-Jeannie fake braids, glanced at me, grabbed her chest, and let out a loud gasp. When she regained her composure, she began to ramble:

“Oh, MOV, that wig is stunning! You have to buy it. Wow! You look amazing. How much is it? You know what, I’ll buy it for you. We used to call them ‘falls’ back in my day, but these new ones are such better quality. Oh, MOV, look in the mirror.”

She was right, there was no way we were walking out of Nordstrom without it. My mom pulled out her Mastercard and chatted cheerfully with the salesgirl.

“You must sell a lot of these, right? What a great product. I might have to come back and buy one for myself, too.”

The salesgirl nodded encouragingly, and then turned to me and asked, “Do you want to wear it home right now?”

Here is where I panicked. Wear it? Wear a wig? I began to have second thoughts just as my mom was signing the credit card slip.

“No, uh, it is for special occasions. Can I just have a bag, please?”

“And lots of tissue paper,” interjected my mom with a wink. “And maybe a nice shiny box with your pretty Nordstrom logo.” My mom liked the entire experience of high-end department stores, which is why she was wise to stay at home with her credit cards tucked safely away and try to get some gardening done instead.

As we walked out of the silver mecca that is Nordstrom, I gave my mom a big hug. The fake hair had been expensive, a real splurge. It is not something I would normally have bought for myself.

“When are you going to wear it?” she asked, still giddy from buying a frivolous present for her daughter.

“Maybe out to dinner with The Husband?” I volunteered. “That would be fun.”

The opportunity arose faster than I thought. A mere week later, The Husband told me his work was hosting a Christmas luncheon at a local restaurant and spouses were invited. I put on my cutest black dress with a short red jacket and a colorful silk scarf tied around my neck like I was French, or an American pretending to be French. Then, as the finishing touch, I put on the new blond hair clip, fastening it securely high on the top of my head for maximum impact.

When I walked out of the bathroom from getting ready, The Husband actually swooned. There was no other word for it.

“MOV, you look so beautiful! Did you just get your hair done today? Did you buy those hair roller things that plug in? WOW! How did you get your hair to do that? You should wear your hair like that every day.”

I basked in the glory of the undeserved attention, and momentarily considered telling him it was a just a fluffy hair clip. A fake. But then I reconsidered, because I did not want him to tease me about it, even in jest, nor accidentally slip and tell one of his co-workers. Instead, I played it cool.

“You like my hair?” I whispered, channeling Marilyn Monroe. “Well, I tried a new conditioner.”

“Whatever conditioner it was, we are buying stock in it. Okay, let’s get going.” He had a grin plastered to his face as if he had just found a $100 bill lying on the sidewalk.

When we got to the restaurant and valet-parked the car, three random women standing on the curb waiting for their cars said, “Your hair is soooooooooooo pretty!” They looked at me with pure admiration and perhaps a slight touch of envy.

We walked into the private room and most of The Husband’s co-workers were already there. They greeted me enthusiastically and smiled warmly at me and my hair.

I ordered a club sandwich and a glass of Pinot Grigio (everyone else was ordering wine or liquor, and since it was the holiday season, I thought, Why not?). I was suddenly very self-conscious and concerned that I might have a stray piece of bacon in my teeth. Honestly, I shouldn’t have worried about that at all. I should have been thinking about my hair. Throughout lunch, The Husband, sitting right next to me and with his hand on my back, had been absent-mindedly petting my long flowing locks, like I was some exotic creature from the petting zoo. Maybe a rare pink sheep.

Now, The Husband is not one to pet my hair. He never did that before, and I can safely say he has never done it since. But in that one particular moment, he could not stop stroking my magnificent Brigitte Bardot hair.

I started obsessing about the bacon potentially lodged in my teeth. Lettuce could be stuck in there as well, and this combination (in my Pinot Grigio-addled brain) convinced me that The Husband could end up getting fired for being married to someone like me. Someone who was … messy and a bad eater.

I excused myself to the ladies’ room and was shocked to see that not only had my new hair clip not stayed on the top of my head like it was supposed to, but the clippy portion was somehow defective and had loosened to the point that it was half-way down my back. I was like some mutant “Growing Hair Barbie” experiment gone grossly awry.

I tried to unclip it and re-clip it, but then a few of the plastic teeth of the clips broke off in my fingers as I clumsily attempted to adjust it. The bathroom was the kind that only one person can fit in and lock the door, so someone (The Husband’s co-worker? his boss? the owner of the restaurant?) started knocking.

“Just a minute!” I screeched.

I felt big tears well up in my eyes, but I knew a smeary mascara look would only make things worse. As a last resort, I hastily untied my scarf from around my neck and somehow managed to loop it back around the hair piece to hold everything in place. I looked very different than when I had gone into the ladies’ room originally.

When I returned to the table, I leaned down and whispered to The Husband, “The crab cakes made me sick. We have to leave right now.”

Stunned, he volleyed back, “You had a club sandwich.”

“We. Have. To. Leave.” I smiled through gritted teeth.

The Husband turned to his co-workers and announced apologetically, “Sorry, guys, you know MOV is a flight attendant and she just got paged for a flight. We have to go. So sorry.”

Several people stood up at the table to shake hands with me, and then The Husband’s boss leaned in for a hug.

I cringed inside. Please don’t hug me, dear God, you’re going to pull my hair, no, no hugs!

I decided to kiss him instead. A kiss would throw him off guard and maybe make him forget all about the hug.

I leaned in for a peck on his cheek, and he pulled away so as not to be kissed by me, but we inadvertently found ourselves kissing on the lips.

The kiss was approximately half a second, maybe less, but we were both mortified. His wife, still seated, took another swig of her wine, then glared at me and my silk scarf tied around my head.

The Husband and I walked out to the car in icy silence. He finally sneered, “What the hell was THAT all about?” right as the valet was bringing our car around. He handed the valet a $5 bill, then got in the driver’s seat, leaving me to get in on my side by myself.

Just when I thought things could not possibly get any worse, the valet helped me into my seat and shut the door. On my hair.

We started to drive away and the valet frantically chased after us, with my hair piece in his hand. The Husband stopped the car, and rolled down the passenger window.

“Miss, miss, you dropped this!” the valet said apologetically as he held out the fake hair.

“No, that’s not mine,” I said without even looking at him, and then we drove away, me stringy-haired as ever.

MOV

969. What My Days Look Like

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Tue, 04 Jun 2013 18:47:00 +0000

She maneuvered a sharp metal object mere millimeters from my eyes. I tried desperately not to flinch while silently begging Please don’t stab me. I would have begged out loud, but she had both her hands in my mouth.

Now she was rambling on about her son playing lacrosse. “He’s really good,” she said, “he might qualify for a scholarship.”

She scraped the edge of my tooth and I tried to move my tongue out of the way.
“Do your sons play sports?” she inquired.

Why do they always do this? How am I supposed to answer with the little round mirror jammed inside my cheek and that silver gougey-thing bobbing about?

“Uhhr-hrr,” I grunted.

“They do? That’s great. Which sport?”

I closed my eyes tight and pretended that I was a narcoleptic. It’s not that I didn’t want to say “regional soccer,” it’s just that I would most likely swallow the suction tube if I attempted to answer. Also, she kept spinning that steel pick around like she was in a dental baton twirling competition.

Just then, Dr. Beyond Gorgeous walked in the room. He is so dreamy. Think George Clooney’s unknown and much better-looking younger brother. Mmmmmmmmm.

“How are you, MOV?”

He grinned wide, like an ad for toothpaste. His teeth glistened like the light of 32 flawless diamonds on a snowy peak at high noon. I was temporarily blinded. He waited for Kathy to finish, and then he started examining my mouth.

“Okay, then, try to lay off the sugar. I notice a few areas that could develop into cavities if we’re not careful.”

I liked how he said “We,” like we were a team. Team Anti-Decay. Kathy winked at me, as if to say, And you will make my job a lot easier too if I don’t have to scrape so much.

I made a quick stop on the way home. As I purchased my treat, I thought, Well, at least Kathy gets to keep her job this way.

MOV
****

trifecta writing challenge: 333 words, key word is "light"; I wrote this piece a few days ago and have made minor modifications to fit the challenge

968. War of the Elbows

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Fri, 31 May 2013 21:39:00 +0000

I was scrunched in my middle seat, saying futile prayers to The Gods of Travel that nobody would sit in the aisle seat.

The Window Person gets the window, they get all the power, right? Shade up, shade down. View, no view. Blinding sunlight ruining the movie, or complete darkness combined with a burnt-out reading light when you have a brand-new book. The Window People are a menace.

And those damn Aisle People. They jump up and go to the bathroom anytime. Right after take-off, right before meal service, during the movie, whenever. They have more power than the Window People. They practically own the plane.

This power goes to their heads. They suddenly think they have rights to both armrests. Theirs and mine. Isn’t it enough that they have one armrest on the outside and that they can get up whenever they want? And if the plane crashes, they are getting out to safety 15 seconds before me? By laws of adverse possession, they claim the middle armrest.

The Middle Loser (me) is clearly not a planner. By the time the Middle Loser got around to buying a ticket, all the good seats were taken. The Middle Loser deserves to sit folded over like a broken umbrella for five hours.

I stage a coup. When Aisle Person gets up to stretch, I pounce. I adhere my elbow to the armrest like a very strong magnet.

Now I notice Aisle Person is holding two full glasses of white wine. He must be an alcoholic. Drinking while flying, stretching his legs, hogging up armrests. How did this freak get through security? He has absolutely no consideration for—

“Excuse me, miss? I brought you some wine.”

He hands me a glass.

“For … me?”

He nods. “Middle seats suck. You deserve a free glass of wine.”

I smile and thank him. I accidentally lift my elbow for a second when I take a sip.

Just long enough for him to regain access of the armrest.

MOV
*****

trifecta writing challenge/ I shortened and edited a piece I wrote a few days ago/ exactly 333 words/ required word is "freak"

964. Open Letter to a Loyal Shirt

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Wed, 22 May 2013 09:15:00 +0000

Dear Loyal Shirt,

I remember when we first met, at the mall of all places. You beckoned me over from a metal rack where you were hanging out with your colorful comrades.

I noticed you right away—your basic black hue, your stunning embroidered neckline, and your flattering boxy cut.

You were different somehow, longer. You offered more coverage than is typical, obscuring not just the tumucular region, but even offering a respite from the viewing of the hips.

I knew I had to have you, and when I found out you were on sale (!), well, that was just the proverbial cherry on the whipped cream of my shopping expedition sundae.

I got you home and for years you behaved even better than expected. You had no qualms about accompanying me to work, school functions, even doctors’ appointments. You could be counted on for holidays, vacations, sporting events, or trips to the grocery store. You unilaterally embraced every climate; every raindrop or snowflake or ray of blazing sunshine was your pal. You were flexible and could be paired with virtually anything in my closet: denim jeans, floral print skirts, cotton khakis, plaid shorts, striped capris, even a formal interview suit. You made numerous appearances in several family photos.

You were my silent workhorse, my prized clothing chameleon.

Until.

There’s always an “until,” isn’t there?

You know what I am talking about. Don't pretend you don't. The Husband made the grave miscalculation to …

No. It’s too painful. I can’t talk about it yet.

… he made the grave miscalculation to put you in … the washer … and then … the dryer. ON HIGH HEAT.

Has he never had a wardrobe component like you, Loyal Shirt? I always dry cleaned you. In fact, I know for a fact, factually speaking, that The Husband had accompanied you to the dry cleaner (for drop off AND pick up) on several occasions. I have witnesses! Gray Skirt and Navy Linen Dress had seen you there. Red Cashmere Sweater Made In England told me you two stopped and had lunch. Even Black Work Jacket had cozied up to you in the very same plastic bag.

So what is one tumble in the dryer between friends, hmm? After all we have been through together? Why would you insist on shrinking up like that? Why? I always did treat you well, before this one isolated incident, I swear. And you know it was not my fault anyway! So why punish me? Isn’t that like blaming the victim?

Tell The Husband you are mad, don’t take it out on me when I am getting ready to have a conference with my sons’ principal and need to match you up with Boat Print Skirt. You know that White Rayon Sweater shows every bit of deodorant or cat fur, how dare you even mention such a substitution.

What I am saying is: It’s over. It is. I, for one, wish it could be different, we all do. The kids do (who wants to see their mom with deodorant or cat fur at school conference day?). I know that deep in my heart of hearts, even The Husband wishes things turned out differently.

Why? Because I took his credit card and I am headed to the mall.

It won’t be easy to replace you, but I’ll try.

Your Loving Friend,
MOV

958. My Kids Are Bionic

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Fri, 10 May 2013 09:32:00 +0000

I never wore glasses. I can usually hear when a bus is driving up behind me. I am able to outrun elderly people any day of the week.

Sure, I consider myself gifted.

But my children? They’re bionic.

PROOF: They tell me when my cell phone rings. We are in the living room. I left the phone in the car.

PROOF: I go to get a step-stool to retrieve something on top of the refrigerator. When I return, they have already scaled the refrigerator. Like Spiderman.

PROOF: I sniff the milk to see if it has gone bad. Short yells out, “Throw it away, Mommy!” He is upstairs.

PROOF: I glance at a timeshare thing that just came in the mail. My 3rd-grader, Tall, snatches it out of my hands and declares, “You don’t want to do this, Mom. The fine print says 50K down and then an APR of 21%. That’s highway robbery.” Fine print? Where? That black squiggly design at the bottom of the postcard, is that what he’s referring to?

It is humbling to be outdone by your peers, but more so your own children.

I used to watch Lindsay Wagner as the Bionic Woman, with various limbs made out of wires, and artificial eyeballs inserted into her head—eyeballs that could see 500 feet away. I would watch the 6 Million Dollar Man and scoff at the audacity of those producers to give us such unrealistic garbage to watch. He can run a mile in 2 minutes? Yeah, right.

But now I know it was not fiction after all. Someone in Hollywood was just writing about their kids.

MOV

956. The "B" List

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Wed, 08 May 2013 15:00:00 +0000

The first time I ever heard the concept of a “B” list was when I was planning my wedding. My mom told me that we should keep the number of guests to a certain limit, but I was free to maintain a “B” list in case some people RSVP’d no.

“Wait, what do you mean a ‘B’ list?”

“You know, if the main people you are inviting can’t come, then you have extra people on a secondary list … people that you like, but not necessarily your first choice.”

I was really puzzled by this, because in my mind, everyone I wanted to invite was my “A” list—there was no secondary list. In fact, if pressed, the only people we didn’t really need at the wedding would be the guests my fiancé wanted to invite. I guess those were the “B” list people.

Not surprisingly, my fiancé was not real pleased to hear about that.

“What do you mean, ‘B’ list?”

Anyway, we somehow worked it all out without an “A” or “B” list after all. We invited everyone we wanted, and did not worry too much about who could not attend.

Fast forward 13 years and I find myself again in this conundrum with my own children. But instead of me deciding who is on the “B” list, I learn that I am the one on the “B” list. My kids have no desire to spend time with good ol’ mom if there exists someone born between 2001 and 2008 within a half mile radius.

Gone are the days when separation anxiety gripped my toddler like a tube of toothpaste being squeezed down the middle. Goes are the days when my preschooler Velcro-ed himself to my leg every morning at drop-off. Gone are the days when my kindergartner ran toward me with open arms after getting off the school bus, like a commercial for a cheesy Lifetime movie about a custody battle.

I now fall squarely in the category of “people you like, but not necessarily your first choice.”

The other day, I made the mistake of giving my sons the option of getting out of school early to take me to the airport or they could go to a full day of school and have a playdate with a neighbor friend.

Guess which one they chose?

I, of course, was devastated. I confided my situation to The Husband later that evening.

“Sweetie, I am not longer on the ‘A’ list,” I lamented.

He smiled and said something he thought might be reassuring, “Oh, MOV, don’t worry … you never were.”

MOV

952. Z Is for Zoo with Zero Zebras

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 09:42:00 +0000

When my younger son, Short, was about three years old, he became obsessed with zebras. He adored stuffed animal zebras, books about zebras, sticker of zebras … basically anything that had a picture of a zebra on it, he wanted. How thrilled were we when we received an invitation in the mail to the local zoo for a free trial membership.

It was summer, so I did not even have to pull my older son, Tall, out of school for the outing. Both children were excited to see lions, tigers, and zebras—oh my!

The day started out uneventfully: a cheetah, a gorilla, a few snakes. We progressed on to the elephants and then the giraffes. I was saving the big highlight for right after lunch—the threat of no zebras would guarantee our mealtime would remain calm and orderly.

Sure enough, something upset Short at lunch (the fact that his apple juice was lukewarm, if you must know) and he began to have a meltdown verging dangerously close to full-blown tantrum. I took his favorite stuffed animal Zebra (nickname: “Zeebie”) out of his stroller and gave Short a stern lecture:

“See this? Zebra? You love zebras, right? We came to see zebras. If you have gooooooood behavior, we can see the zebras. If you don’t, then … no. We will go home.”

His dour expression changed instantly, and the crying and whining stopped. He morphed into the Stepford child I had always dreamed of having: quiet, obedient, and profoundly sorry for causing a problem.

“I sorry, Mommy.” (Sniff) “I want to see zebras. I be good now.”

He nodded his little head apologetically, forced a smile, and with that, I knew I had won.

“Good, Short. You made the right decision. Because you are having good behavior, we will go see the zebras now.”

I was going to keep this trick up my sleeve for future use as well. We could come to the zoo every single week for the rest of eternity if it meant good behavior at mealtimes. Heck, we could move in with the zebras. I was ready to go to the zoo membership office right then and there, credit card in hand, to buy a lifetime membership for our entire family. Why had other parents not thought of the Zebra Method of good parenting? I was secretly considering patenting it.

We threw away our lunch trash and excitedly headed over to the zebra pens. There was some sort of wall or barricade with signs directing us through a detour. As we approached, Tall started to read the sign out loud, clearly enunciating every syllable:

“We apologize for the inconvenience, but the Zebra Habitat is temporarily closed for repairs and remodeling. We will reopen in—”

I could not react fast enough. I was internally debating putting my hands over Tall’s mouth (and really, what kind of school teaches a 5 ½ year-old to read big words with that kind of accuracy?!) or putting my hands over Short’s ears. My slow response caused me to do neither.

“Milkshakes!” I screamed. “Who wants milkshakes from the Milkshake Hut we just passed? Ooh, I bet they have chocolate!” Distract, distract, distract.

“Zebras!” squawked Short, refusing to be distracted. “I want to see zebras NOW!”

I felt horrible. Through my own stupidity, I had talked up the zebras. I had used the zebras as a threat, and then, conversely, as a reward. Now the damn zebras were beating me at my own game, a crazy game that I never really wanted to play in the first place. How was I supposed to tell Short he could not see the zebras even after he had good behavior at lunch? He would never trust me again.

I did the only thing I could think of: took Short to see the Mongolian wild horses that I knew from the zoo map were a mere two minute walk down the path. The wild horses were not black and white striped, nor even black and white spotted; they were … brown. Plain, boring, medium brown. The color of dirt.

“Look, Sweetie, look! Zebras! Brown zebras!” I pointed at the Mongolian wild horses and began to jump up and down, like I was on crack.

Just because Short was a three-years-old toddler did not mean he was dumb. He shook his head emphatically no and said, “Mommy, those are horses.”

Tall looked at me like I was insane. He took a deep breath and began,

“Mom, the sign says—”

I grabbed Tall, pulled him close to me, and whispered in his ear: “I will buy you a new Lego set if you go along with whatever I say next.”

Tall’s eyes got wide; his mom had clearly lost any traces of sanity here at the zoo.

I cleared my throat. “Boys, the sign says, ‘Przewalski’s horses, or Dzungarian horses, are a rare and endangered subspecies of wild horse native to central Asia, specifically Mongolia. Sometimes referred to as ‘International Plain Brown Zebras.’ International Plain Brown Zebras! You are so lucky you get to see these! They are so unbelievably rare! WOW!”

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Tall reading the sign quietly to himself again. It took every shred of self-restraint that he possessed to not contradict me, but he has always been the son who can focus on the bigger gain (new Lego set) and give up the instant gratification (calling mommy out). He stayed silent.

In this moment, I was praising Short’s preschool teachers for rejecting all my previous helpful suggestions of flashcards and daily quizzing to get him reading early. In fact, I was almost wishing we had watched more TV all those mornings when we were drawing or reading instead.

Short looked at me. He looked at Tall. He looked at the horses. And then he burst into applause.

“Inner-naznal Plain Brown Zebras! Yay! They almost look like horses!”

“Yes, Sweetie, they are from the same family, you are so smart! Yes, but they are not! They are actually a special type of zebra!”

By this time, I was attracting a small crowd of interested zoo-goers who were not familiar with the myriad variations in the zebra species. Specifically, a few zoo employees.

I was not about to stick around and wait to be corrected by these khaki-uniformed zealots, so I ushered my children quickly to the car. I was worried that Tall might say something deleterious when we got there, but he didn’t.

And that explains why, whenever we pass a farm and happen to see a certain type of exotic creature, Short inevitably squeals,

“Oh, look, Mommy! Inner-naznal Plain Brown Zebras!”

MOV

951. Y Is for Youth and How to Keep It

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Mon, 29 Apr 2013 10:38:00 +0000

Our society is obsessed with youth. I remember being young (say, 20 or so), and feeling like no one would take me seriously. Any HR person at any job I applied for eyed me suspiciously—Do you have any experience?—and I recall looking forward with eager anticipation to the day when my face and seriousness-taking factor would match.

Oh, they match all right. Everyone takes me seriously now.

I go to the mall and those teeny-bopper kiosk girls shove eye cream samples at me as I walk by. I go to the doctor and he suggests I switch to a high-fiber cereal and start working out immediately. I go to Short’s soccer game and I overhear his coach ask him if that gray-haired lady (me) is his grandmother.

But there is one place where I always look good, always look young, no matter what: standing next to my brother.

You see, he is 6’5” and built like a football player. A very large football player with a nickname like “Tank.” That means when I stand next to him in pictures I look like Petite Ballerina Barbie in comparison. And since he is so tall, if we happen to take photos outside, I of course end up in the shade of him (like he is a giant tree or something) which tends to diminish those troublesome little lines that have found their way around my eyes and forehead. I appear shadowy, and as we all know, shadowy = young.

Most recently I went to England to visit my brother. He is stationed there in the military. We took a day trip to Stonehenge and of course took a few photos. In the car I stared at my iPhone photos in awe: I look 25! Maybe even 20! I don’t need to eat more fiber or use eye cream or fix my highlights—I just need to stand next to my brother all the time!

Don't tell The Husband and my kids, but effective immediately, we are all moving to England. And I won’t be packing any eye cream.

MOV

949. W Is for Washing Machine Funeral

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Fri, 26 Apr 2013 08:30:00 +0000

It was premature to even plan the funeral until my dear friend had actually died, but I knew she was getting close. She had already lived a solid decade longer than anyone could have predicted, even with her present “condition,” which had symptoms of loud banging and clanking, along with excessive speeds at awkward intervals. I had looked it up online and found out she had “Spinning Disorder” which was not curable. Her life span would be less than one month at this point, and that was a generous estimate.

The Husband was clearly on her side, and would have none of it when I brought up the subject of her imminent demise and (more happily) her replacement.

“How can you even talk about Washing Machine like that? I thought you loved Washing Machine,” he started, making me question my intimacy level with not only Washing Machine, but also with The Husband. “I think we can get another few years out of her, and besides, I think she can hear us talking about her.”

Now this was quite the reversal. I was usually the one who ascribed personality traits and sometimes even names to inanimate objects, not The Husband. Normally, he was pragmatic.

“Sweetie,” I countered, “let’s be realistic. Washing Machine was here when we bought the house almost four years ago, and she had already served her 20-year tour of duty for the previous owner. Twenty-four in ‘appliance years’ is like 110 in people years. She is beyond elderly, she’s ... ancient.”

The Husband adopted a peculiar look, a look of horror, mixed with disgust, with a dash of determination thrown in. I had seen this same look before, right after my car engine died three years ago and had to be replaced. The Husband was exhibiting classic signs of denial.

“MOV, Washing Machine is not dead yet, and I refuse to acknowledge the possibility.”

“Look, Sweetie, we just got our tax refund—$700! And that is exactly what a decent quality washer costs. Let’s go to Sears, scope out a few, and make a decision.”

The Husband shook his head forlornly.

“No. No. I refuse.”

He disappeared to the basement, and came back a few minutes later as if nothing had happened.

“We’re going to Sears,” he said, getting his jacket.

I tried to suppress my smug attitude and a devious smile, but I knew I had won.

“MOV, Washing Machine is fine,” he clarified. “Now Dryer won’t start.”

MOV

946. V Is for (Punchline)

noreply@blogger.com (MOV) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 11:05:00 +0000

Having two little boys means that they must accompany you on errands from time to time or you will remain on permanent house arrest for several years. When I had my first baby, I tentatively dragged him to the grocery store or Target every few weeks; when I had my second son, I felt comfortable enough to take both kids to the vet or the bank or dry cleaner daily if need be. It was all a matter of choosing a time of day when everyone was rested and well-fed.

So I thought nothing of taking my adorable son Tall (age 3 and a half at the time) and his one-year-old baby brother to Trader Joe’s to pick up a few things.

We had made our serpentine way around the aisles, picking up such essentials as bread, milk, juice, and frozen chicken nuggets. I casually threw some chocolate cookies into the cart when the children were momentarily distracted by the guy giving out fajita samples.

And then it happened.

We turned a corner, heading to the check-out area, and Tall tugged excitedly on my sleeve, indicating something momentous.

“Mommy, look!” he proclaimed, pointing. “Over there, look!”

I was expecting to see Big Bird or Godzilla or at the very least, a cantaloupe display that had tipped over and blocked the ice-cream aisle. Instead, he was pointing to a section of the store that I was already intimately familiar with.

“Vino, Mommy! Vino! Your favorite!” Now he was yelling, in his sweet little preschooler “outside” voice, a voice that was suddenly attracting a lot of unwanted attention from Trader Joe employees and other customers. Anyone within a one-mile radius was craning their neck to look over at the mommy who clearly was a lush.

I kept walking, feeling my face turn 100 shades of Valentine red, trying to ignore my son and silently pretending that he had just followed me in here and I had never met him before. Tall was oblivious to my reaction, so he continued with his “helpfulness.” He was quite exasperated with me at this point.

“Mommy! Mommy! Don’t forget your vino!”

At this point I realized that the only way to get him to stop screaming out was to put a bottle or five of vino into the cart. He smiled, proud of himself for assisting his mommy in remembering something so crucial to her everyday existence.

So, yes, the letter V is for … vino.

MOV
("Mistress Of Vino")