I am good at some things but not others

Oh, you guys said some lovely things about my sketch-paintings. Thank you! My heart is warmed. Now I have Hot Heart Syndrome. The doctor said I'll be okay, as long as I'm not startled or upset, ever.

So listen, I would love to illustrate whatever, but I can't draw anything that isn't right in front of me. This is my terrible secret. Seriously, I have no visual memory. I can't even really picture what an elephant looks like right now, much less draw it. (It's gray! And…and looks like a briefcase! Wait, no, that's wrong. Four Ionic columns and a cloud?!) If I were to illustrate, I'd need to see everything I needed to represent. This could get tricky for, say, a children's book. "Listen, I'm glad you want me to illustrate Mr. Wubs and the Tricky Mubbles, but unless you get them all to my apartment and force them to stand still, I really can't do business with you. Yes, the Mubbles too. I understand they're tricky. Not my problem."

The End.

Changing the subject awkwardly: On Christmas day, my parents gave me a pair of warm mittens. They are adorable, in addition to being warm. (It was not the only gift from them. My parents are nothing if not overly generous.)

ANYWAY, after we were done gifting, my mom said, "By the way, the mittens came with a hat, but I think there's something wrong with it." She showed me the hat, which appeared to be perfectly acceptable and something I would happily place on my head.

But then I tried it on:

"You see?" she said. "I don't know why it looks so goofy."
"I can't see," I said. "I'm so confused. Everything is dark. WHY IS THIS HAPPENING TO ME." I stumbled around and my mom laughed a whole lot. I suspect this was a Christmas gift to her.

And then my sister walked in and said, "Yeah, you have it on backwards. Also, don't tie it, oh my god."

RIGHT.

This reminded me of this one summer in college when I worked as a bank teller, and I was terrible at it, just awful, and a fellow teller said to me, helpfully, "There are different kinds of smarts. You have book smarts. You just don't have…life smarts."

It took me this long to discover that I also don't have hat smarts. At least in this case I can blame my mom.

Regarding your latest email

I love my parents and related old-ish people. I do! I love that they're all, to a person, compelled to forward any email they receive that might be viewed as cute, funny, important, or all three. But then they get frustrated with me for not replying. If you're of the Greatest Generation and are wondering why I never respond to such emails, here's what it looks like on my end.


From: Fictional great-aunt
To: Alice Bradley
Subject: FW: Fwd: Fwd: Re: FORWARD: Fwd:
-------

Thought you guys might want to see this. WOW!!

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Join Excite! - http://www.excite.com
The most personalized portal on the Web!

FORWARDED MESSAGE

From: 2319Grandmacutie@aol.com
To: mymailman@aol.com, 193457h@yahoo.com, MyDaughterEileen@hotmail.com, 1sttimeoninternet@optonline.net, Ilovefunnyjokes@yahoo.com, oldyoldensen@hotmail.com, computersfrightenme@nyc.rr.whatever.com, StillHot19u7@aol.com

FUNNY!

---

--FWD MESSAGE--

From: StillHot19u7@aol.com
To: asdkuo@hotmail.com, billyjoelis#1@hotmail.com, mythirdcousin@excite.com, guttercleaners@aol.com, windowwashergil1965@aol.com, 2319Grandmacutie@aol.com


TOO IMPORTANT NOT TO READ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!



--ORIGINAL MESSAGE--

From: stevetheaccountant@accountantswestchester.com
To: brendan073467@aol.com, webfiwery@hotmail.com, werewolves@hotmail.com, noteventryingtocomeupwitheasyemailaddress@optonline.net, theinternetfrightensme@excite.com, mygranddaughterconvincedmetoopenanelectronicmailaccount@hotmail.com, sexyjanet@hotmail.com

I thought you guys might like a chuckle and also appreciate this important message about the dangers of something. Amazing but true!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This email account should be used for professional communications only. Do not share the information contained within to any other parties without explicit permission of Accountants of Westchester, Inc. Also do not print this because something something trees. The views contained within do not necessarily reflect the opinions or thoughts of Accountants of Westchester, LLC. Or are we Inc.? Whichever. Hug a tree.


--ORIGINAL ORIGINAL MESSAGE--

From: newsoftheday@prodigy.com
To:  stevetheaccountant@accountantswestchester.com

SO funny/dangeorus/sad/true! Did you hear about how

REMAINDER OF EMAIL UNABLE TO DOWNLOAD DUE TO LENGTH

?

And when I say “practically,” I mean “forcefully.”

Oh, that’s right—I have a blog. I knew there was something I was forgetting.

We’re back from scenic Salt Lake City, where my brother- and sister-in-law live with my brand spanking new niece. Conveniently, Heather and Jon also live there, so when we weren’t gorging on sweet, sweet New Baby, we were hanging out with them, begging them to move to Jersey. (Their responses: “No, thanks. Really, no. No. No. Please let go of me.” I think they’re coming around!)

Of course they won’t come here, because there’s no reason anyone should ever leave Salt Lake. Damn it, we should all have such low humidity. Maybe some people find zero percent humidity to be a bad thing, but I am squarely in the Hooray For Desert Climate camp. Not to mention, it’s sunny all the damn time, and there’s all this, like, space, and everyone is friendly. Crazily friendly. I was suspicious, but they seemed like they meant it. I had to find a doctor for this sore throat that I was sure was strep and that I would kill the baby (it wasn’t, and I didn’t), and I was calling all kinds of doctors and urgent care places, trying to figure out where to go, and everyone I talked to was so lovely and genuinely concerned and not trying to hang up on me, I just wanted to cry. At the urgent care clinic, the nurse put me in an examining room, and then returned five minutes later to apologize because the doctor was late. Five minutes. I practically humped her. And then the doctor arrived, and he was hot. They think of everything there!

When we weren’t ogling the baby, we were leering at my brother- and sister-in-law’s nice house, with its plants that are alive and its stuff that isn’t broken. Scott and I would ask questions like, “So how do you, uh, keep plants from being all dead and you know?” and “How much did you pay for, like, this thing that works and also is pretty?” We got some answers, but all we wanted is for them to come live here with us and do everything we’re too lazy to do.

So once my sore throat was better, I decided to throw myself down some stairs. That’s what I did at 2:30 a.m. on Tuesday (we were leaving at 5:30 a.m., and I figured I’d ruin any chances of sleep with an injury or two). And I’m bruised in so, so many ways. My arm has this fascinating lump on it that if you touch it I scream. It hurt so much that I didn’t even notice the broken pinky toe until 12 hours later, when I was all why does my toe hurt? And what’s that purple stuff on my foot? And then I took my shoe off (NEVER TAKE THE SHOE OFF) and saw the horror therein. I honestly saw stars. If I had had a tiny tiny saw in my purse, I might have just sheared the thing off. Just to never look at it again.

I'd do it all over again, bruises and all, to see Henry holding his new cousin and kissing her soft little head. If my baby niece and her lovely parents were to come move here they could beat me up every day. And if that doesn’t get them here, nothing will.

If this doesn’t brighten your day, then whoops, you have no soul.

This, my friends, is why having a child is a worthwhile endeavor: yes, it’s hard, and it’s smelly, and you miss all that sleep you used to get. And then the years pass, and you have to deal with grades, and heartaches, and driving tests. But then! (Stay with me, here.) Then one day you wake up, and your behemoth of a man-child has left a CD for you, and you listen to this song that he wrote. And you realize that however big you thought your boy’s heart is, it’s actually ten times bigger. (Metaphorically speaking.)

If you’re even luckier, though, you get your reward early—say, when your child is three and a half, and you hear the song that your nephew wrote for your little boy.

(Incidentally, I have two nephews, both of whom are too amazing to be true—I think they may in fact be holograms—but, ahem, only one of them wrote a song for Henry. So, Dave, if you want equal airtime, may I suggest an oil portrait? Or how about a little interpretative dance? Just a thought.)

Here, without further ado, is “Underwater Batman (Song for Henry).”

(EDITED TO ADD: Hey, do you see the link up at the upper right? The one that casually suggests that you might want to take a survey? This is from the people at Blogads, and will help me get more money in the future, so I won't whine as much about my lack of money. If you could take it, that would be nice. Okay. Thank you.)