Playing The Name Game

January 20, 2011 in Daily Life | Tags: , , , | 105 comments

There’s a woman in town whose path often crosses mine. She is lovely and very sweet and she never fails to say hello to me. And for the life of me, I cannot pronounce her first name.

I know what her name is and at home, it rolls off my tongue (I’ve practiced). There are songs that have her name in the title and songs where her name is in the chorus. You’d think I’d remember this when I see her at the grocery store, the gym, in the parking lot of our kids’ school.

Sometimes, I call her by her daughter’s name. Sometimes, I get it out with the emphasis on the wrong syllable. Most times, I smile widely and nod. Always, I am mortified. I do not blame her if she believes me to be an idiot.

Embarrassingly enough, she’s not the first person that I have had this mental block with. My first week of college, I met a guy named Andy. I thought his name was Gary. Over the next few months, he had to correct me so often that I jokingly began hedging my bets when I ran into him by calling him Andy-Gary. It stuck. He didn’t care much for my company (go figure). Even today, when I thought of him I had to pause and ask myself, Was it Gary? Or Andy?

My apologies kind lady; I mean you no disrespect. I will try not to make your musical name sound so discordant. In the meantime, I won’t be offended if you start calling me something else. I’m thinking I deserve it.

Things That Go Bump in the Dark

January 14, 2011 in Small moments | Tags: , , , , | 4 comments

We have a basement rec room that is largely unused unless we have overnight guests, in which case presto-chango! it is our guest room, or the kids have friends over, when it becomes a free-for-all room.

Henry has a friend over. It is her first time visiting us and of course, the two of them head to the basement. I am getting dinner together when I hear feet pounding up the stairs.

The pounding stops. “I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” Henry says. “Are you coming?”

“No, I’m staying down here.”

There’s a pause. I know he is processing her expression of independence. Henry rarely chooses to be alone. He is either trailing after his siblings or he is being trailed by his friends. He does not comprehend self-selected solitude.

“Okay,” he calls down. I hear a few more footsteps on the stairs, then: “Oh, Janie*, don’t worry about the scary monsters near the door over there. I turned the light on so they won’t bother you.”

He emerges from the stairwell and before I have composed myself, he darts into the bathroom. I am not surprised to hear small footsteps on the stairs shortly thereafter.

“I’m just coming up to check on the dog,” Janie says.

“Paco’s fine, honey. You know, it’s perfectly safe for you to play downstairs – you don’t have to wait for Henry.”

“No, thanks,” she says to me. Turning away, she calls to him through the bathroom door. She sounds exasperated. “Alright. I came up and am right here sitting next to the wall.”

“I hear ya,” he calls back. Janie and I listen to the sounds of the toilet flushing, the faucet running, the hand towel holder squeaking. The door slides open and he is there, looking for all the world like the cat who ate the canary.

He grins at her, then at me. “We’re going to go back down to the basement. Okay, Mom?” They depart without further ado.

He doesn’t understand privacy but he is a budding master of psychology. My apologies to all of Henry’s friends, present and future. If this is what he’s like at five, Lord knows how he’ll be at fifteen and twenty-five.

*Not her real name.

Bitchy Bagels

January 7, 2011 in Daily Life | Tags: , , , | 4 comments

Small and I were charged with supplying “city food” for 17 preschoolers today.

My first thought was to steam hot dogs and serve them in stale buns; my next was to make sushi rolls. I settled on a more palatable mid-morning snack and something infinitely easier for me to provide – fresh bagels. 

We arrived at our regular bagel place bright and early. Henry marched directly to the potato chip display. Before he could open his mouth to say, “I want,” I had elbowed our way through the commuters to the counter and given my order to the heavily mascara-ed twenty-year old behind it. “I’d like eighteen bagels, please.”

She smiled blandly at me. “Would you prefer a dozen and a half?”

I paused and stared at her. Was she joking? I hadn’t finished my quart of coffee yet, maybe I had misunderstood her. “Yes,” I said, “That’s what I want. A dozen and a half. Six plain, six cinnamon raisin and six sesame.”

She snapped a brown bag open and began filling my order. “What was the last kind, again?”

“Ses-a-me.”

“Sesame, sure. Do you want a different kind for your extra bagel?”

“What extra bagel?”

“Oh!” she tittered, eyeing me like I was the idiot. “We do a baker’s dozen. You know, thirteen instead of twelve.”

“Oh,” I said. “What a relief you can perform simple math, after all.”

Alright, I didn’t really say that last bit. I just thought it. Don’t mess with me before I’m fully caffeinated.

Updated “Oldies but Goodies”

January 5, 2011 in Mary's Lists | Tags: , , | Leave a comment

Out of sheer laziness or extreme procrastination (you take your pick), I have updated the “Oldies but Goodies” page of OINKtales. It is here that I provide links to my favorite posts from the past.

Whether you’ve just started OINKing with me, or you’d like a trip down memory lane, I invite you to review some of my best and worst moments.

Thanks for reading, following, tweeting, linking and commenting. I appreciate every ounce of your support!

And now, on to my New Year’s resolutions: Writing more, Posting more, Living more. May 2011 be a banner year for us all.

A Glimpse Into My Future

December 31, 2010 in Medium moments | Tags: , , | 12 comments

My daughter was born with an old soul. She is more mature than her six years allow and generally conducts herself in a manner above reproach. She notices the smallest details while keeping the big picture in mind. She plans ahead; laying out her clothes the night before she wears them, making sure her bookbag is packed and ready for library day, spotting and collecting items for future projects of her own design. She is a quiet, but undeniable presence in our house. A smile from Nora is a true gift.

She also has a mile-wide stubborn streak. Once she has made up her mind, there is no moving her. And Lord, I have tried. Her dissents are typically measured and yet, forceful. To wit: the other day, we disagreed on a point. I wanted all the kids to go outside and play. She lobbied to stay inside. I gave her a choice: Go outside for a while and then play video games or stay inside and find something else to do while the other kids played video games. She firmly informed me that these options were unacceptable and stalked off to her room. She did not slam the door.

Hours later, after the cycle of diplomatic entreaties, acknowledgements and apologies was long completed, my husband came home. “Did you see Nora’s note?” he asked me, laughing.

“What note?”

“Oh!” said Nora, looking up from her snack. “It’s kind of funny, now.” She seemed a little sheepish.

I went upstairs. This is the note she wrote to me:

She’s a pistol; there’s no denying it.

I am reluctant to ring in the new year. For when I do, I will be that much closer to someone’s teen years.

Here’s to 2011, anyway!

 

 

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