That YouTube Family and Me

Oh no. My kids have a few days off of school. Which means they are going to want to entertain themselves, not with the entire room full of toys they have upstairs, not with their creativity and their brilliant brains. No. They are going to want to watch YouTube videos. The Anarchist, in particular, is already itching to watch her particular favorite kind of YouTube video, the family vlog. These families are wholesome, adorable, happy, and well-off. The Anarchist has begged multiple times for me to let her join one of these YouTube families. At this rate, I am losing my patience, and am about two seconds away from taking her up on her offer. Then, at least, I would not be subjected to watching video after video of each and every detail of their super-great lives.

Why that YouTube Family is better than us:

Adorable. Wholesome.
Prayerful. Sweet.

They are just so CUTE!
Fair enough. We are not that cute. I mean, the kids USED to be cute, but they are no longer chubby-cheeked cherubs like the four, yes FOUR kids under eight in this ridiculously precious family. We just can't compete on the cute level.

They have a toddler.
The toddler has the world's sweetest voice. The toddler says the world's cutest things. We don't have a toddler. We have two whiny tweens and a cat who meows like she's whining. YouTube family for the win!

They say prayers all the time.
I do, too, thank you very much. I say, "Please God help me not toss my whining children out the window. Please, God, let me not die of exhaustion." I just say these things quietly, instead of loudly in front of a camera. I am secretly pious. Or secretly whiny at the Eternal Creator. Whatever.

They dress up for church.
Never mind that the one time I tried to get my kids to put on pants without holes for church the raging fit that ensued could be heard around the neighborhood, my children are apparently jealous of this family dressed in their Sunday best. The Dictator hasn't worn a skirt or dress in a year (except as a costume), but apparently she would don a frilly dress and patent leather shoes if they would just let her be a part of YouTube family. Or maybe my kids just wish I would curl my hair and put on a tank top for modesty under my already-modest v-neck dress. Not gonna happen, kiddos.

Their mom always has a sweet voice.
Yes, yes, the voices again. Maybe my kids don't remember, but if you go back and listen to all the recordings I made of myself with my children when they were tiny, my voice was sweet and kind, too. Because of the camera. I bet this lady groans and sighs and uses exasperated tones the minute she turns off that record button. At least I hope she does.

They make their own food.
Hey! So do we! I make food! I DO! Just because you don't like it, doesn't mean it isn't food, beloved offspring. Oh, they bake bread, do they? I used to do that too...when I didn't work. (Full disclosure: I was terrible at baking bread, which is why all of our "fresh baked bread" now comes from a can. Yes. We are a canned bread family. No one is perfect...except YouTube family).

When the kids hit each other, mom still uses her sweet voice, and the only bad thing that happens is that they get to kiss each other.
Which is exactly how it works in real life, right? You get into a bar fight and law enforcement shows up and uses their sweetest voices to ask you nicely to "hug it out," right? These kids are going to be so shell-shocked the first time they commit assault as adults (they're totally going to commit assault as adults, I can just feel it).

They live in tornado alley, but it's okay, because they have a TV in their finished basement.
My kids hear about a tornado happening a bajillion miles away in Topeka, and they are trembling in terror and weeping for the lives they have already assumed they have lost. But they would go live in this family and endure seventeen tornadoes a day, because this family is cute! And their basement is so fancy! And there's a TV down there! And their mom is using her sweet voice! And they are praying such nice things, so loudly!

They are so creative. Like, they do projects all of the time!
Yes, it seems that YouTube mom is one of those mythical homeschooling moms. I still don't know how anyone can do it, but props to those of you with enough patience to try. So, the projects are part of their schooling. I tried to explain to my kids that they are probably only taping the really fun projects, and that probably they usually just do lame math and handwriting worksheets. I also tried reminding them that when I try to get them to do creative projects, they just roll their eyes at me and turn on YouTube. They do not seem to care. They seem to genuinely want to join this family as they glue things to other things, even though they never want to glue anything to anything at our house. Sigh...

They do service projects for the community.
The last time I tried to get my kids to do a service project, the Dictator rolled her eyes, and huffed, and hid, and the Anarchist tried to eat snacks instead of helping, so I'm not sure why they think it would be different with this family...oh...because YouTube family's service project involved playing with Legos...and it was filmed for YouTube.

And I'm willing to bet this is what it all actually boils down to. My kids just want a family that films its every move for the YouTube viewing public. They would be willing to clean, bake, glue stuff, dress up, pray, and help their community, as long as it was being taped and broadcast. Maybe we would all be better people if we knew that random families were constantly watching us. Maybe we would pray more. Maybe I would use my sweet voice. Maybe we would acquire a precocious toddler to say adorable things at us. Maybe no tornado would dare approach our immaculate basement. Maybe we would all laugh when my kids got into all-out brawls. Maybe I would curl my hair for church. You know what? Never mind. Nothing is worth curling my hair over. Not even internet fame. Sorry kids.

Twelve At-Home Mental Health Remedies That Are Cheaper Than Therapy

If you're like many Americans, you might be currently feeling the effects of depression and anxiety after the rather tense election season. Maybe your candidate didn't win. Maybe some of your friendships just got a little more complicated. Maybe you dread Thanksgiving dinner with relatives who don't share your views on third party voting. Maybe you fear for your very life. Or maybe you, like me, are just one of those lucky people who walks around constantly rehearsing every regrettable action in your past past, and every potentially regrettable action of the future, drowning in the guilt of your very existence, and paralyzed by indecision. Neat.

Sweatpants therapy.
Sooooo pretty.

Whatever the reason, if you're struggling with these debilitating mental illnesses, you'll need to address them. After all, mental health is as important as physical well-being. Here's the tricky part, mental health is as important, but NOT as well covered--insurance-wise--as physical health. So maybe you've tried the pills your doctor eagerly prescribed you, but weren't a fan of the side effects. Or maybe you'd like to couple drugs with therapy, the way most mental health professionals recommend. But maybe you, like me, have to eat and pay bills and basically subsist, so therapy, while cute in theory, just isn't in the budget.

Never to worry. There are plenty of holistic ways to address your mental health needs that cost WAY less than therapy. And I, as totally-not-a-mental-health-professional-by-anyone's-definition-ever, am ready to share my personal, dreadfully ineffective, inadvisable, at-home methods of coping with serious mental disease-that-you-should-absolutely-have-addressed-by-a-professional with you.

1. Exercise. Exercise is great for you in so many ways. I personally had to rule this one out, as I can't go to a gym because social anxiety is another fun thing I have, and what if I treadmill wrong?! I could exercise at home (I have this yoga DVD that I like to scream, "DON'T TELL ME TO BREATHE!" at), but my death kitten sees this as an opportunity for leg hunting, so I have had to rule exercise out completely. But for you? Go for it. It's supposed to be great, or whatever.

2. Get less sleep.  I know. I know. Conventional wisdom says that more sleep is essential for mental health. But here's the thing. If you sleep, your brain can function well enough to think. And if you think, you might start to spiral into what-if thoughts. "What if I accidentally identified myself as an ally by liking that post about safety pins, even though I have no right to identify as an ally, and now I've ruined the world?" "What if I can't make ends meet this Christmas?" "What if my very life is in danger?" "What if the reason the Dictator is afraid of heights is because we didn't throw her around enough as a baby? What if we've ruined everything for her because now she can't do that one step in her dance and it will scar her for life and she will give up on everything and become a barista like her mother but she has a nut allergy so that job would be so dangerous for her and she'd be putting her life at risk doing minimum wage work, and all I had to do to stop it was toss her in the air a few more times as an infant and squeal, 'Who's Mommy's brave baby?' but I didn't and I shouldn't even be a parent, but that's the only meaningful thing I do, so I shouldn't even exist?" (That last one was maybe exclusive to just me).

Anyway, sleep less, and you will think things like, "Hungry. Want food. Sleepy. Want nap. Should leave now. Where did car go?" These things are safe and will do little damage to your psyche.

3. Netflix/HBO/etc. Those people on Game of Thrones have it waaaay worse than you do. Watch a couple of episodes to remind yourself that you are probably less likely to be beheaded this week than any of those poor schmucks.

4. If distressed while shopping, find the plush toys or sweaters, or decorative pillows, or whatever, and squeeze the heck out of those things. Like, pretend you are doing it to make sure that those Beanie Boos hold up under pressure, but use this as an opportunity to take out all your aggression on an inanimate object that doesn't belong to you. Disfigure it's face, twist its little body. Squish it into a wad that fits into the palm of your hand and think, "This is one thing in the universe that I can control."  It's fine. This is a thing normal people do, and no one will question your sanity. I'm sure of it.

"Suuuunny Day! Singin' my ANGST awaay!"

5. Sing in the shower. Loudly. This works best if you don't have a shared wall. But even if you do, I say it's worth the risk. Plus, I bet my neighbors really love Tori Amos's angstiest vintage hits.

6. Color. Forget adult coloring books. Those things are stressful. Tiny, finicky spaces. Stupid. Plus, then you'll have to use colored pencils or markers. Colored pencils make that awful scratching noise, and if you're too stressed, they'll snap. Markers will just be squashed by all your pent-up stress. Find a nice, big book with pictures of Elmo or Doc McStuffins, or whatever the toddlers are into these days. Use crayons. Press hard. Hang the dang thing on the fridge and tell yourself how great you are. If you are tired enough from not sleeping (see #2), you might be delirious enough to believe that it's true!

7. Yell, "You're fine! You're fine! You're fine!" at yourself as you drive anywhere in your car. Bonus points if you do this while rocking and crying.

Great. You killed it. Nice job.
Who do you think you are, God?
Narcissist.

8. Cheese.

9. Garden. Just kidding. Don't do that. Everything will die, and it will all have been your fault.

10. Find a community. Communities are great, if you do it right. You might want to find a community that builds you up and challenges you to be a better person. I found a beautiful faith community of brilliant, sensitive, thoughtful, successful, hyper-educated folks who say things like, "Empathy is important," and, "Therapy is good," and, "We need to take action," and,, "We all matter." Ugh. Empathy is inevitable and exhausting, therapy is pricey, action is hard, and I don't want to matter, because responsibility is scary. So maybe ditch the "challenges you" part. Find a community of people who are just kinda "meh," so you can feel super awesome about yourself by comparison. Either that, or do what I did, but then you're gonna need, like, eight Doc McStuffins coloring books to work through all of your feelings.

11. Sweatpants. No one can feel sad while wearing sweatpants.

12. Publish all of your opinions and feelings on social media. Do it immediately without stopping to think. After all, it's the immediate release of all your rage and fear, coupled with that instant gratification of a couple of like-minded acquaintances clicking the "Like" button that you're after. Be as self-righteous and indignant as possible. Link to some questionable news sources. Be outraged. Evoke all of the feelings forever. It'll be great. What could possibly go wrong? If you're feeling extra ambitious, why not write a blog post while you're at it? Maybe one giving helpful advice? I mean, it turns out you really are a genius. Just look at that picture of Princess Elsa you colored! Who else could create such realistic shading? No one, that's who. Now go  eat some cheese, belt out some sad music in the shower, and pretend that you aren't going to regret this in about twenty minutes.*

*Should symptoms recur because you discovered your own hypocrisy/failed to parent perfectly/don't feel safe in the world/are questioning the meaning of your very existence, simply repeat, "You're fine, you're fine, you're fine," until it's true. Cognitive-behavioral therapy right there.** You're welcome.

**It's probably not.

16 Reasons Why I Can't Just Let it Go and Enjoy the Fifth Grade Graduation Ceremony

1. Because I CAN'T SEE. Not just because some unreasonably tall man is sitting in front of me wearing a hat. Not just because I didn't get to the school a full 45 minutes early, and so I had to sit near the back. I can't see because there is a mob of people selfishly standing directly in everyone's line of sight despite repeated requests/demands by so many other parents that they get out of the aisle return to their seats so that people can see their own children graduate.

2. Because this is the mentality that got us the Trump candidacy. It is here. Right in front of me. Manifest in yoga pants and dad jeans that refuse to sit in chairs for the good of humanity.

3. Because I don't want to care that the lady standing directly between me and viewing my precious offspring has absolutely awful underwear lines, but she has put her underwear lines right in front of my eyes.

4. Because I cannot quell the rage seething up from inside, and I might actually murder someone in a second, so maybe it's better if we just addressed this whole awful scenario instead of pretending that no one is being overtly selfish (aisle mob), and that no one else (ahem...me) is being overtly self-righteous.

5. Because the meek shall inherit the earth, but apparently not the photo opportunities at this graduation ceremony, which seems patently unfair and so can't these people who feel like they are the center of the universe get just a little bit smote or something? Puh-leez??

This is how a smug, morally superior person
photographs their child. Poorly. With lots of
parent shoulders in the shot. But no one else's
view was sacrificed for this amazing
photograph. (Dictator is the one in shades...in
the interest of privacy, the other children have
been turned into hamsters).

 6. Because the PTO Facebook page is full of parents fearfully reporting their children almost being run over by other parents at the crosswalk, because these people are actually driving into the crossing guard and young children while they cross the street, because it's not their children crossing the street, so why should they care? Same mentality.

7. Because I'm probably actually a Pharisee and you are breaking the rules.

7.1 (because I fail at counting): Because this is what you get when you promote being "proactive" in a society that already has a problem with acting wisely and considering others and the long-term consequences of actions. You get people "proactively" shoving their way into whatever space they damn well choose, to get the perfect photo of their kids at the expense of the less proactive/more considerate parents. You get that. And a Trump candidacy.

8. Because this song is sad and touching, and the ever-stoic Dictator is fighting back tears as she sings it, which is pretty emotionally intense for the Dictator. I would like to be crying for sentimental reasons, and instead I look up and have to cry for dad-jeans-in-my-face reasons.

9. Because we're all here to celebrate that several hardworking teachers spent years painstakingly teaching our children to share, take turns, think about others, and be polite, and then Yoga Pants, Underwear Lines, Dad Jeans, and Shove-y McGee and their dozen or so friends over here are undermining all those years of hard work in one horrific bad example of how to behave in groups.

10. Because I actually want to believe that most people are inherently good, and you're absolutely ruining that for me.

11. Because it's so lovely up here at the top of Kohlberg's moral pyramid, reflecting on universal principals and my own self-righteous superiority, and I feel it's only fair to drag you up from self-interested level two, where you've currently planted yourselves. Please. Come. Ascend the heights. Join me in the revelry of fretfully over-analyzing every single potential decision for its moral value until we're all paralyzed and inactive together, constantly debating the best  course of action, and never taking a single photo of our kids, because what about the negative consequences of our cameras' flashes for the people around us? Doesn't that sound fun?

12. Because you're better than this.

13. Because I'm pretty agoraphobic, and a dozen mom butts in my face is really not helping.

14. Because both of my parents were music teachers, and I have impeccable concert etiquette, which is pretty transferable to all performance/ceremony situations. One really central part of this etiquette is remaining seated like not-a-jerk for the duration of the performance/ceremony. You are being really bad at that right now. It is causing me physical pain to watch you be this bad at it. I want to help you. I want to teach you. I want to physically force you into your seat and pin you down until you stay put like a good audience member.

15. Because really, though, when we let nonsense like this happen, we create a culture where no one is accountable for the harm they cause others. This is a little thing, but it's the same mentality that leads to the bigger things. Our children are watching. Our children are learning. They are learning to take what they want, without worrying who they are taking it from. They are learning to do what pleases them, without concern for who they are stepping on in the process. They are learning that rules and compassion are for other, "weaker" people. They are learning to bully. They are learning that "winners" push and shove and ignore pleas to stop. They are learning that "losers" are those who follow the rules. They are learning that adults should act like children. They are learning that they are the center of the universe. They are learning 'murica. They are learning a Trump candidacy.

16. Because we're all better than this. So I'm not going to just let it go and enjoy the ceremony. I can't. Because when I let it go, when we all let it go, we forget to remind each other to be human. My kid already walked. I already got my picture. That's not the point. I'm not going to quietly accept that other people can't see their kids. I'm going to keep telling you to sit down. I'm going to keep reminding us that we are human. And I'm going to keep reminding myself to be human, too. Deep breaths. Be decent. Shoving people down like dominos will not grant you the moral high ground. Surrender. Sigh. Hug your kid. Write a blog post.

Look! I got a lovely picture of the Dictator,
and I didn't even harm any ne'er-do-wells
in the process!

Math, Puppies, Chronic Sleep Deprivation, and Me

I got some sleep the other day--a full eight hours, more than twice my usual amount--and had a startling revelation: I can actually perform basic math functions, engage in adult conversations, interact in normal ways with my children, and not murder people eating potato chips in my general proximity.

It's like I'm a whole different person when I sleep. A person who only cries at puppies a little bit, and who gets out of the car when she goes to the store.

Well-Rested Me: Forgets algebra, calculus, and trigonometry, but can still add two digit numbers without using her fingers to count.

Sleep-Deprived Me: Uses all available appendages to assist in counting/basic addition. Has to start over at least once. Gets the wrong answer.

Well-Rested Me: Talks far too quickly, but is actually fairly articulate. Sounds mature, sane, and college-educated, if a bit nervous.

Sleep-Deprived Me: Says the words of the things you hear called sentences in all of the orders that are wrong and barely comprehensible, but makes kind of sense to you because somewhere there is a major of Englishness in there.

Well-Rested Me: Hears chewing and gulping noises. Is mildly perturbed. Raises eyebrows and makes snide comment about chewer having a hollow head and too much saliva. 

Sleep-Deprived Me: Is one potato chip away from breaking someone's cacophonous jaw and kicking their saliva-filled throat. Would go to jail to make the bad noises go away. 

Well-Rested Me: Sees an adorable English Bulldog puppy on a walk and coos at it like an idiot.

Sleep-Deprived Me: Sees an aging Basset Hound relieving itself on a tree and dissolves into a fit of sentimental tears.

Well-Rested Me: Is amusingly self-loathing. Like, stand-up comic style self-loathing. The kind you would laugh at.

Sleep-Deprived Me: Is literally the worst person whoever walked the face of the earth. Is ruining everyone's entire life by her very presence. Destroys everything she touches. What is the point of her, anyway? She is not funny. She never has been. Nothing she ever does is ever a thing anyone likes. She is repulsively self-loathing. Like, most-annoying-person-you-know style self-loathing. The kind you would shudder at. Push her off a cliff now. You know you want to.

Well-Rested Me: Pours the juice next to the cup. Because paying attention to things like the location of cups just isn't mentally stimulating enough.

Sleep-Deprived Me: Carefully studies the location of the cup. Holds the cup steady. Continues to watch as she pours the juice next to the cup with a great deal of care. Continues to pour juice on table because change is hard.

Well-Rested Me: Goes to a place. Parks car. Goes into the place. 

Sleep-Deprived Me: Goes to a place. Parks car. Spends the next 5-20 minutes sitting in the car trying to gather enough energy to unbuckle the seat belt and open the door.

Well-Rested Me: Is surprisingly confident. Does adult things like shop at stores, make phone calls, put gas in vehicles, talk to other adults.

Sleep-Deprived Me: Is actually a child, probably. Needs a grown-up to help with phone calls, payments, operating a stove, and driving a car. Will cry if she needs to ask a question of someone in charge. Would like a juice box and a pat on the head.

Well-Rested Me: Listens intently to the interesting stories her children tell. Is genuinely interested in how school was. Pretends to care about video games and whatever other nerdy business they are up to.

Sleep-Deprived Me: "Shhhh. Just, shhhh. Mom is so tired. She can't handle sounds right now. I'm glad school was good/tragic/dramatic/life-changing, but tell me about it in your quietest voice or I won't be able to listen right now. I'm sure Video Game YouTuber of the Moment is very interesting, but shhh...I need to sleep. Too many noises. Go tell Dad."

Sleep-Deprived Me: Will just make dinner/do the dishes/fold laundry. That's all her brain can handle.

Well-Rested Me: Will go into existential crisis while making the dinner/doing the dishes/folding the laundry, because leaving her brain to it's own mad devices while doing menial tasks is such a bad idea. ("Who am I, anyway, to be the one to decide if this sprig of basil should live or die?" "This lone, filthy sock is a metaphor for my life!" "The soap bubbles are so fleeting! Just like childhood!")

Well-Rested Me: Forgets to write checks for school trips/dance costumes/etc. until the last minute. 

Sleep-Deprived Me: Forgets to write checks for school trips/dance costumes/etc. entirely. Finally takes no less than three attempts to write/void said checks, having written the wrong amount, made them out to the wrong organization, or forgotten to include the "T" in her last name--yet again rendering it as "Moron."

Well-Rested Me: Will respond to children's noisy music/comedy endeavors with enthusiasm and appreciation.

Sleep-Deprived Me: Will respond to children's noisy music/comedy endeavors with, "Why would you make noises at me like this?! Shhh!!!!! Too many noises!"

Well-Rested Me: Will probably remember to turn off the iron/stove/toaster oven. Most likely will remember to lock the door behind her. Probably has her wallet in her purse and has not left it on the counter at Target/on the floor by the cat food in the kitchen/in the hands of some devious ne'er do well. Remembers to bring her phone in case of some unforeseen car-related-emergency.

Sleep-Deprived Me: Is probably phoneless in the midst of a burning condo, about to be assaulted by some ne'er-do-well who has snuck in through the unlocked door, while she concerns herself with the task of pouring juice next to her cup and weeping because she hates herself and loves puppies. Probably. But can't be bothered to notice because "shhh....just shh...I'm happy to hear the house is on fire and bad guys are stealing my identity/cat/flaming toaster oven, but I can't deal with this right now. Too many noises. Just shhh...Mom is tired. Too many noises."

15 Totally Rational Reasons Why I Am Not Answering the Phone

I'm so sorry, I can't come to the phone right now. I'm:

1. At work. I'm a barista, because that's a grown-up job to have. As a barista, I am not allowed to carry my phone on the floor. Hopefully you're not the school calling because one of my children has had an accident, because I'm really not allowed to answer my phone. Baristing comes first.

I am currently unable to take your call, as I am cowering under
this blanket in terror. 

2. Sleeping. As a super-important, grown-up barista, I only get about four hours a night, so if I'm napping, that's some seriously sacred me-time. The sound is turned off on my phone, and I am not sorry about that at all.

3. Driving. Totally not safe to answer the phone under those circumstances. It's even illegal in some states. I'm a risk-avoidant rule-follower, so obviously, the phone will just have to keep ringing.

4. Thinking about driving. I'm going to be driving in a minute. I'm already in that mental space. Your phone call will just have to wait.

5. Having panic attacks every time the phone rings. The last time it rang, I threw it across the room, and proceeded to hide in the closet until the terrifying sounds went away. The sound is off now, and I've hidden the phone under a stack of pillows for good measure.


6. Filled with guilt for not returning your last phone call. I'm so filled with guilt that I don't even know what to say to you...so...maybe I won't say anything at all.

7. Not sure whose number this is, and I have a great fear of the unknown. What if you're someone from work wanting me to cover a shift I can't cover, but I answer, freak out, and accidentally say "yes" in a fit of panic? What if you're the Anarchist's friend's mom? What if that, huh? You're all nice, and normal, and want to set up a play date, and I'm all awkward and scared, and hear the word "playdate" and panic, because no one who is willing to host a playdate can possibly be sane. You're probably a psychopath, and it's never wise to answer the phone for a psychopath. Or what if you're some nice friend? The sound of your friendly voice will fill me with guilt for not having called you sooner. I will not be able to speak. I will choke on my tongue and die. Phone calls can be fatal. Best not to answer, in any case.

8. In the shower.

9. No longer in the shower. But I was in the shower two hours ago, at which point I hid my phone and promised myself that if anyone called, it would be completely ethical to pretend to be in the shower for the next three hours, so as to safely avoid phone calls. This is reasonable. This is how everyone does it.

10. Waiting for your warning text to alert me to your impending phone call. I'm sure you're planning on doing that, right? Because that's a need I have. A normal need. A need that all of the people have...not just me.

11. Eating.

12. Afraid you might be someone with good news. Good news is not to be trusted. Also, I don't deserve good news (because I am a jerk who doesn't answer her phone). This whole scenario is highly suspect. Please hang up and text me with some bad news. I'm really good at bad news. And texts.

13. An introvert. The internet has convinced me that this is the only, all-encompassing excuse that I need. I really love the internet.

14. Certain you hate me. Why else would you be calling me? You're either a complete stranger, or you know me. If you know me, you know my phone phobia. You know you shouldn't call me. You clearly want me to suffer. This is some diabolical plot to give me a heart attack. Well, I'm not falling for it. In fact, I've thrown that vile torture instrument across the room. It's currently lodged in a pile of dirty socks where it can't hurt me anymore. You'll have to kill me directly, by shanking me in a dark alley, like a respectable person.

15. Currently searching for my lost phone. Don't worry. It'll turn up, submerged in an Americano, under a pile of wet leaves, or in a snow puddle in the street. Or ya know, buried in a dirty clothes pile where it belongs. Leave a message and I'll call you back actively avoid it/become overwhelmed by paralyzing guilt for the next two months until you call again, and which point, I'm sorry, but I won't be able to come to the phone...I'm in the shower.*

*Or am I?

A Mere Facebook Post Cannot Contain My Offspring

You know that cut and paste nonsense that's going around Facebook? The one that's all like, "Ask your adorable tots these questions about yourself and see what adorable, little kid things they say." Well, my kids aren't adorable tots, but they still wanted to do it, because they think they are adorable, and they like when I post things about them all over social media, because I won't let them post things about themselves all over social media. Also, I was hoping they would say super flattering things about me. Anyway, I did a group interview. And of course, our family goodness was just spilling out all over the place. It was obscene amounts of Morton. Too much for one tiny Facebook post. Luckily, I have a blog. And too much time on my hands, while I wait for my children to go to bed (I asked them to do that thing a half an hour ago, and they are still down here doing a Muppets-style cover of a 21 Pilots Song, which is utterly hilarious, but definitely NOT what I asked them to do). Anyway, I find the responses rather revealing. Also, I detect a theme here. Apparently, I am a drowsy glutton. 1. What is something I always say? Dictator: "What are you doing?!"

Anarchist: "SHHH! SHHH! SHHH!"

Dictator: I want to go with that one, too, actually.

That's fair.

2. What makes me happy?
D: Llamas, narwhals, sloths, cheese, and sleep.
A: CHEESE! AND HUGS!

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes, and under certain circumstances, as long as it isn't awkward.

3. What makes me sad?

D: No sleep.
A: Not sleeping.

Truth.

4. How do I make you laugh?

D: By talking really funny, and telling funny stories about things that happened at work.
A: By telling us that one blog about the American Girl dolls.

If I told you my customer-related work stories, you'd laugh too.

5. What was I like as a child?

A: Shy and adorable.
D: Puffy hair. And funny, probably. Obviously.

6. How old am I?

D: 34!
A: ...And a half!

Rub it in, Anarchist. Rub it in.

7. How tall am I?

D: About, 5 foot something. I don’t know.
A: About...10 feet. You can NOT be 5 foot something. I’M 4 foot something.
D: 6 feet, maybe?
A: I feel like she’s 8 feet tall. Let’s just go with that. That's right, kids. I'm a freaking amazon.,

Waiting for their 8 foot tall mother to get off her phone,
put down her cheesy crackers, and let them in the car
so they can go home and be deprived of computer games
while she resumes napping.

8. What's my favorite thing to do?

D: Check your Facebook, play little alphabet games on your phone, eat cheese, and sleep.
A: SLEEP! Go on your phone and play games. Keep me from playing computer games.

Incorrect. The correct answer is "watching Netflix in my pajamas while eating cheese, eventually passing out and drooling all over Daddy."

9. What do I do when you're not around?

D: Nap, go out to lunches with Grandma and the new baby who--by the way--we haven’t seen in FOREVER.

A: Mmm...date with Dad. Or be at work and sleep, or stuff. Work and sleep or stuff. Apt.

10. What am I really good at?

D: Writing funny blog posts.
A: Napping and eating cheese. And snuggling us.

I am the Cheese Eating Champion of the world.

11. What am I not good at?

D: Minecraft. You are NOT good at Minecraft. Or Mario Kart
A: You’re not good at not being sleepy. Okay, listen, kiddos. When I was your age I didn't have video games, so I never got a chance to develop hand-eye coordination. So of course I'm bad at Mario Kart. And Minecraft is stupid. Too many blocks. And if you slept four hours a night you would be bad at not being sleepy, too. By the way, the correct answer was "trigonometry."

12. What do I do for a job?

D: Barista!
A: Barista. Maybe one day I will just lie and tell them I do something that will impress them. Like astronaut, or president, or video game YouTuber.

13. What's my favorite food?

D: Cheese.
A: CHEESE!
CHEESE!!!!!!!!!!

14. What do you enjoy doing with me?

D: Doing art and stuff with you. Showing you earwax plays. A: Hugging you. Oh, my babies, I love your earwax plays, your art, and your hugs. You kids are my favorite things, although as you've made clear, cheese and sleep come in a close second. So go to bed so mommy can eat a snack or three and pass out on the couch while watching Netflix. *drools*

Thoughts While Cleaning a Shelf Used to Store Cleaning Supplies

Thoughts while cleaning a shelf used to store cleaning supplies (at work, because why would I ever clean things at home?):

Why did she choose me of all people, to do this highly detailed cleaning task? If she saw my house for a split second, she wouldn't even let me clean things. I should not be cleaning things.

I hope they don't think I wasn't hesitant to do this because I'm lazy. I am not lazy. I just hate doing things I'm bad at. I just want to succeed all the time.

I'm going to fail.

I wonder if "frustrated perfectionism" is a real thing, or if it's just something neurotic Type B people made up to make themselves feel better for not trying. 

Seriously, though. Look how bad I am at scrubbing this drawer. Am I supposed to be scrubbing this drawer? Is scrubbing drawers even a thing that people do? 

It's not my fault, though. It's totally because my mom used to vacuum when she was angry. It was probably cathartic for her, so it's definitely fine that she did that. It's just that I now associate all cleaning with anger, and I'm a peace-loving creature by nature, so I naturally must avoid all cleaning. It's not my mom's fault. It's not my fault. It just is. And that's fine. 

I'm pretty sure this bottle of cleaning stuff is corroded. I don't even know what this cleaning stuff is. Am I supposed to be wiping down the actual bottle of cleaning stuff? Is that expected? Is that a thing people do?

I searched my files, and lo and behold, there are exactly no
pictures that are even remotely cleaning-related. So here
is a picture of me in a bunny suit. You're welcome.

See? I'm just not an expert at this at all. There are things I'm innately good at, and this is not one of them. I shouldn't be doing it, that's all.

Wow. That's the attitude that got me here in the first place. Here. In a coffee shop. I am a 35 year old woman sitting on the floor of a coffee shop scrubbing bottles of scrubbing solution. This is what my life amounts to. All because I am afraid to try anything at which I might fail.

Wait...am I actually 35?

No. I'm not. But close enough.

You know, if we didn't have so many chemicals, we wouldn't need a shelf on which to store them. And if we didn't have a shelf, there would be less things to clean, and then we would need less cleaning chemicals. Dear god, cleaning is the most futile thing ever. 

It's like...cleaning is the start of a horrific cycle of unnecessary life complications. 

I mean, if I weren't cleaning I could be feeding orphans, or creating art right now. 

Oh shut up, you know you'd just be napping, Molly. Or eating cheese. 

We need to buy more cheese. Cheese is pretty much the only thing I have right now.

Ewww...what was that? It was furry. Or gooey. I can't tell which. I wonder if there's a word for that.

Dear lord, it fell on me!

I'm pretty sure no one has scrubbed this shelf in three years. Why should they, though? It's just going to get dirty again tomorrow. What's the point of cleaning? Everything you do is undone. Anything you ever do is undone. Life is just an endless pattern of doing and undoing. There is no point.

Nothing has a point.

I don't have a point.

Okay, whatever this is has to be a mix of at least three toxic chemicals. Nothing else would create a sludge of this color and substance.

I would have made a great comparative religions professor, though. I would have worn sweaters to work.

Lots of sweaters.

Wow. I probably shouldn't be touching this without gloves. It can't be safe.

I can feel my skin melting.

Yep. I'm gonna die.

This is how I go. A 35 (34?) year old woman, on the floor, doing what will only be undone tomorrow. Scrubbing what should never have existed to begin with. Silently enduring the futilities of life as her skin melts. (As her worth melts).

On the other hand, if I die, my family can collect life insurance, and then my life will have served a purpose after all.

Okay, life isn't totally futile.

Hey, maybe I should clean some things when I get home. Like really clean. Like, clean clean. Maybe there's something satisfying about the futility of this kind of physical labor. Maybe it's all really Zen and stuff.

But I don't even know if I have any cleaning solution. I'd probably need to get some more. But then I'd have to make space to store it.

And what would I start with? The only area in which I (now) have expertise is the cleaning of cleaning shelves. And if I bought a new cleaning shelf, it would already be clean. And I'm not going to want to do anything else, because I won't be good at it, and I don't do things unless I'm guaranteed to succeed. 

Wow, I'm such a frustrated perfectionist...if that's even a thing.

Yeah.

It's totally a thing.

So clearly, this is the last thing I'm cleaning today (or, ya know, ever). I cleaned, and I did a good job, and yay me, but I don't want to go overboard. I've had enough existential crisis for one day.

I'm just going to go home and take a nap and dream about cheese, and how great I would have looked in a professor sweater.

The Anarchist and the Dictator Go to the Doctor, and I Die of Embarrassment

We took the whole day off for dental/doctor appointments yesterday. The Dictator was despondent most of the day, because she knew she was getting a flu shot, and her pain tolerance is pretty much zero. The Anarchist was giddy for most of the day because going to the doctor's means a captive audience, which for the Anarchist is very best thing.

Aww...look how wholesome, and normal,
and NOT embarrassing they look! Looks
can be deceiving.

 THE DENTIST APPOINTMENT

The dentist appointment was fine, except that I maybe broke their Keurig machine and didn't tell them. Also, some kid who looked like he could be one of the college students I work with came trotting out of the back yelling, "Molly? Molly?"

Me: Yes?
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid: Hey! Um...so one of your kids. Uh...there are two of them, so I get confused...uh...the Dictator. You know her chipped tooth?
Me: Um...no?
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid: Yeah. You know. The bottom tooth that's all grey and chipped?
Me: I...uh...don't look into her mouth ever. Mouths are gross.
Twelve Year Old Dental Kid (whispering conspiratorially): Ha! Well, the chipped tooth came out in shards and I had to extract each shard separately. I didn't charge you, though.
Me (wondering if Twelve Year Old Dental Kid pulled one over on his dental superiors and if he might get fired for not charging for a shard extraction): Uh...thanks. We appreciate it.

[Twelve Year Old Dental Kid skips away...probably to play video games or whatever boys that age do]

You guys. I found out from my kids afterward that there was no way Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was going to get in trouble from the grown ups in the office. Because here's the thing...Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was not a hygienist. He was not a tech. Twelve Year Old Dental Kid was the DENTIST. He has already been through dental school. He is the Doogie Howser of teeth, probably. (Please help me, I'm getting old. This is what aging feels like, isn't it?)

The Doctor's Appointment

To set the scene, imagine me holding 17 coats (okay, three coats, but they were puffy), the Dictator in the fetal position next to me, glaring at the Doctor, and the Anarchist on the Doctor's stool, spinning ceaselessly. Then imagine the Dictator intermittently getting up to practice pirouettes and pique turns, then sitting down when she realized she was supposed to be angry.

The Fat Assassin has issues.

Doc: How is everyone?
Dictator: [lifts head and glares]
Anarchist: GOOD! Except the Dictator never plays with me and our cat is mean!

Doc: So, Anarchist, who lives in your house with you?
Anarchist: My mom, dad, sister, and the cat.
Dictator (under her breath): You mean the murder kitten?
Doc: And how is everyone getting along?
Anarchist: Everyone is getting along great. Except the cat. She has issues.

Doc: Who's going first?
Dictator (snarling): I'm going never.
Anarchist: I WILL! Because I'm braver than the Dictator. Also, she never plays with me.
Doc: So, are you ready for a hearing exam?
Anarchist: Oh my GOSH! I LOVE those things! A hearing exam is how I got my glasses!

Doc: Do you take vitamins?
Anarchist: Yeah. When my parents remember to buy them for me. Dictator doesn't though, because they NEVER remember to buy her kind.
Doc: [raises eyebrows at me]
Me: [sinks into puffy coat pile]

Doc: Do you guys drink pop?
Me: (furiously pantomiming to children that they must answer "no" because don't they remember last time?)
Kids (joyfully and emphatically): YES!
Doc: About how often?
Me: Well, usually only about once a month...
Kids (drowning me out with their enthusiasm): ALL OF THE TIME!

Doc: Anarchist, hop up on the table.
Anarchist: Why? Are you going to check all my cat bites?
Doc: Your what?!?!
Anarchist: What are you going to check?
Doc: What do I usually check?
Anarchist: My butt?
Doc: Uh...your ears and nose and throat?
Anarchist: And my cat bites?
Doc: Do you ever take the cat to the vet, Anarchist?
Me (apologetically): Well, it's been a while...a lot longer than it should have been. We actually need to do that...
Anarchist: NEVER! We NEVER take her! And she's still alive! Maybe that's why she bites me...
Me (hiding in the coat pile): Well, I mean she's an indoor cat, so...
Anarchist: When she dies we can get a puppy! A puppy will play with me, because the Dictator sure won't.

Doc: Anarchist, how are your bowel movements?
Anarchist: Do you mean POOP?! [proceeds to detail every bowel movement from the past several weeks in detail, with sound effects, song, and alarmingly specific descriptions...this conversation lasts close to 5 minutes, and can most likely be heard from the lobby...of the neighboring building]

This one can make
up lyrically impressive
songs about feces
on the spot.

Doc: Dictator, how much sleep do you get?
Me: Well, she goes to bed at 9, but she reads, so it's probably later. We try, though...
Anarchist: THE DICTATOR STAYS AWAKE UNTIL ALMOST MIDNIGHT EVERY NIGHT! I SEE HER!
Me (defensively, reasonably, with great fear of being judged): It's probably not quite midnight, Anarchist. I'm sure she...
Anarchist (butting in): It IS! I check the clock! But I sleep in, so it's fine.
Doc: Dictator, you need to get more sleep.
Dictator [very seriously, while crashing into the wall mid-pirouette]: I can't. I have to read.
Doc: Well, maybe read for a shorter period of time.
Dictator (leaping/crashing into the counter): If I did that, how could I possibly finish reading everything there is to read? Be reasonable.

Doc: Dictator, how's school?
Dictator: Boring.
Doc: Really? What kind of grades do you get?
Dictator: All A's
Doc: So what's your favorite subject?
Dictator: Science? No...Math? No...uh...none of them. I don't like any of them. I just want to dance all the time.

This one's probably plotting
the untimely demise of
her pediatrician.

Doc: You want to be a dancer when you grow up?
Dictator (appalled): Of course not!
Doc: What do you want to be?
Dictator: Uh, NOT getting a shot?

Flu immunizations enter the room. The Dictator runs to a corner and proceeds to behave like a terrified, trapped animal. The Anarchist sees this, and decides that all of the drama cannot belong to the Dictator. She immediately launches into fake tears and fake trembling, cowering behind me while shrieking and pointing at the nurse. The Dictator is chased around the room. The Anarchist screams as much as possible. Flu immunizations occur. The Anarchist laughs. The Dictator looks betrayed and enraged. She glowers a death glare at the doctor.

Doc: You can hit me if you want, Dictator.
Dictator (because hitting him wouldn't kill him, and she clearly wants him dead): No.
Anarchist (gleefully): I'LL hit 'im for ya! [proceeds to whale on doctor's arm the entire way down the hall to check-out].

All of the nurses at the nurses' station were laughing hysterically at us as we exited. I'm pretty sure the meaning of our existence as a family is to provide entertainment with our crazy antics. We are like the jesters of suburban Michigan. But while I enjoy entertaining people, I think the Bureaucrat gets to take them to their next doctor's appointment. I'll be at the vet with The Fat Assassin (murder kitten)...she's far less embarrassing.

Earwax, the Musical

It is the second week of Christmas break. My kids are bored, loopy, and not getting along. The Anarchist is actually threatening to off herself/others less than usual, which is a positive for sure, but the amount of squealing and thrashing in my home has increased to epic levels. My nerves are shot. I want to go home. Oh wait, this is home. So when the Anarchist begged the Dictator to play with her for the thirty-thousandth time, the Dictator answered with an emphatic "no," and the Anarchist looked like she might die of sorrow, the Bureaucrat and I lost our minds and made a desperate suggestion.

Bureaucrat: "Why don't you guys put on a play with your dolls together?"

Dictator: "Oh yeah! We never showed you guys the Belly Button Lint Show! We could do THAT show for you!"

Bureaucrat (who won't be around this evening, and is clearly a total jerk): "That's a GREAT idea!"

Anarchist (singing, to the tune of "Do You Want to Build a Snowman"): "Do you want to build a LINT MAN??"

Dictator: "Wait. I remember performing that for them already."

Anarchist (crestfallen): "Oh. Yeah."

Dictator: "Well, I guess we can't play together, after all."

[At this point, the Anarchist looks like she's about to fling her plate across the table and start shrieking like a monkey, which is a thing that can actually happen in our family at dinnertime.]

Me (really desperate, now): "Uh...what about a sequel? A sequel to the Belly Button Lint Show. What about...uh..."Earwax?"  Uh..."Earwax, the Musical?"

Anarchist and Dictator (in unison, and harmony, and peace forever): "YES!!! Earwax, the Musical! It's gonna be all improv...'cause no one wants to deal with reading scripts."

Guys, I brought this on myself. I know I did. But please help me share the load. It's too much for one woman. I need a village. A village to watch Earwax, the Musical with me. Please take your seats, silence your electronic devices, and refrain from eating in the theater (it really distracts the plastic actors). The show is about to begin.

The Cast L-R: Dictator, Responsible Doll, Phoebe the Earwax victim,
Anarchist Jr. the wounded, Anarchist. This is before the onstage nudity.
Onstage nudity is totally okay, because it's for the sake of art, and we are
all about that in our super-classy family.

Oh geez, guys. There's a curtain.

The curtain is the Dictator standing behind a fleece Unicorn blanket. The curtain is undulating.

From behind the curtain, the Anarchist emerges to introduce the show, and reveal some unpleasant information (while jumping up and down without ceasing):

"Hello, and welcome to our show, Earwax, the Musical."  Hang in there, because it might be a pretty darned long one!"  


(Oh, lord, I am doomed.)

ACT I

The curtain does a little pirouette and then struts away. A handful of dolls emerge from a pile behind the Bureaucrat's chair. One, who I assume is the lead character, is covered in bandages and casts, and limps out on crutches is flung onto the stage next to some crutches. All of the characters launch into a song and dance routine song and bouncing up and down routine which contains the opening (and, I fear, ONLY) musical number.

"Phoebe has a lot of medical problems from pee to belly button lint. Phoebe has a lot of medical problems, and we don't know what to do about IT! [dramatic tempo change] Phoebe has medical prob-LEMS. We never know what it could be. Phoebe has medical PROB-lems. And now she's really gotta pee!!!!"

The song continues on for quite some time, and considering its unscripted nature, it is actually decently in unison. More bodily functions and maladies are listed, and there is a lot of bouncing.

Then, a doll (the American Girl knock-off with the feral-cave-woman dreadlocks, who is usually relegated to playing the bad guy) in a white dress collapses, and the other dolls crowd around her obviously concerned. She begins thrashing. The other dolls act startled.

DOLLS, in unison: Oh no, Phoebe! Are you okay?

"Wait, who's she?" I ask. I thought Phoebe was the totally-wounded looking doll.

"It's Phoebe. Duh!" my kids reply, totally breaking character.

"Then who's the doll with all the broken bones and bandages?"

"That's Anarchist Jr. She just likes to break body parts to get attention, but she's not important in this show."

ANARCHIST JR., melodramatically: OHHHH! MY LEG IS KILLING ME! CAN I SIT DOWN?

An exam is ordered for Phoebe (the doll on the floor, not the doll in the casts). An exam that requires doll-nudity. This poor doll always has to get naked. Good thing she has crazy dreadlocks with which to cover herself.

The next scene is basically stage directions spoken aloud. Poop and pee samples are taken into a party hat. A fight breaks out over who gets to take the earwax sample. Anarchist Jr. talks incessantly about how much her broken body parts hurt. The scene fades with everyone talking distractedly, while the naked earwax-having crazy doll continues to thrash around on the ground.

ACT II

Scene I

The scene opens as some doll or other manages to extract a bloody, yes bloody ear wax sample from the unfortunate Phoebe. Then, in a moment of supernatural majesty, four aging Cabbage Patch dolls sporting tiaras and wands emerge from Phoebe's ear are tossed haphazardly onto the stage.

EARWAX SISTERS (singing-ish): We are Millie, Maggie, Michelle, and Maddie and we are the Earwax Sisters! Oh, we are your earwax, yes, we are your earwax, oh we are your earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax, earwax...repeat, ad nauseum.

(Okay. So I lied. There was kind of another musical number. But really, this was more like bad Gregorian chant sung by gross Muppets. It doesn't really count.)

At this point, one of the sisters, whose names the Anarchist and Dictator had obviously forgotten (I reminded them, as I had been taking copious notes to keep my sanity), spoke.

MILLIE, OR WHOEVER: "Hey Phoebe. We've been livin' in your ear since you were two years old. Hee hee hee. WE SNEAKY!" 

OTHER, RESPONSIBLE SOUNDING DOLL (i.e., one belonging to the Dictator): Can you guys please go back into her ear?

MAGGIE, OR WHOEVER: Okay! G'BYE Chicky Poos!

PHOEBE (overwhelmed, by the singing ear wax, or her hair, or something): Can I put my clothes back on now?

RESPONSIBLE DOLL: No. We need to obtain further information.

ANARCHIST JR.: Can I sit down? My legs are killing me!

At this point, there is some sort of twinkly-ish sound effect, as yet another doll is lowered in from above the Bureaucrat's chair. We are told that she is Joy the Fairy. Just to drive the point home, She announces herself as well.

JOY THE FAIRY, who is clearly mildly insane: I am Joy the Fairy. I will give you answers. 

The other characters turn to her, expectantly. Earwax mysteries are a big deal.

JOY THE FAIRY: You will need to go to the doctor for answers, because I don't actually contain any answers. 

Oh, thanks a lot, Joy. Fat lot of good you turned out to be. Luckily an elderly doll (we are told this fact by an omniscient offstage voice) enters the scene. Her name is Doctor Brown. She has a strange, elderly person accent, rendering about half of her dialogue unintelligible. 

DOCTOR BROWN: I believe you have a severe case of the...

OTHER DOLLS (frantically): Please leave! Please leave! Please leave! It's not a good time!

(First they send the ear wax back into her ear, then they reject any attempt at a diagnosis. I'm starting to believe these other dolls don't really want  to see Phoebe cured. Jerks.)

DOCTOR BROWN: ...a severe case of the Earwax Family!

Offstage Omniscient Voice: "No, Anarchist! They're not family, they're just sisters!" 

DOCTOR BROWN: Oh yeah. Okay. Earwax Sisters. Anyway, get to an ER right now.

OTHER DOLLS: We don't have enough money to go to the ER, stupid!

These dolls must have our insurance.

DOCTOR BROWN: Here. Take all the money I have. But only spend it on the ER.

OTHER DOLLS: Okay!

ACT III

The Mall
An End Table by the Couch

DOLLS: Doctor Brown just gave us two million dollars. She won't even notice if half of it is missing. Let's go to the mall!

The aftermath of the mall trip. No one bothered
to buy Phoebe any clothes, but at least she got
a noisemaker.

The dolls proceed to "shop," decking themselves out in leis, party hats, and old New Year's noisemakers that they purchase with their ill-gotten gains.

RESPONSIBLE DOLL: We're just gonna deprive her of all her money, because that's what we do.

JOY THE FAIRY (entering noisily and without her headpiece): You need to go to the MOUNTAIN. NOW!!! You must find the TREE! FIND THE TREE! (And I need to find my headband), but you guys should FIND THE TREE!

Her voice makes me want to stab my ears out, but I sit politely, because these are my precious children.

The Anarchist and the Dictator become a flurry of activity. It appears the scene is shifting. When they settle again. Joy the Fairy is decked out in all green, and is perched atop a foot stool.

The other characters ask her where they can find the tree.

Joy smiles mysteriously and then reveals the truth.

She's the tree.

Joy's flippin' insane.

Joy the Fairy is a tree. Joy the Fairy is nuts.

ACT III

A Vomitorium?

This whole scene can be summed up in three lines. 

JOY THE FAIRY: Do you guys want answers? Then you need to barf. That's all you have to do to get answers.

PHOEBE: Who wants to eat the barf? I call the puddle of pink barf!

OTHER DOLLS: Do we all need to eat the barf, or is Phoebe the only one who needs to? To be safe, let's just all eat the barf. 

ANARCHIST JR.: Oh! My legs!

ACT IV

Scene I

A Garden Grove, on a Hillside

A  Battered Footstool

JOY THE FAIRY: I've been stupid all this time. It's time for me to actually tell you what you have to do. Journey for two hours to the forbidden sea and turn left at the unicorns.

You guys. Act III never had to happen. I could have spent the time I was using to cover my eyes and rock back and forth to self-comfort during all those barf scenes to do yoga, or commune with nature, or clean my house play word games on my phone.

Okay, so maybe Act III was really a moment of self-discovery for the dolls. Like, maybe they realized how interrelated their fates are. Or maybe they realized their carnal cravings. Maybe they will grow from here. Maybe Act III was a symbolic turning point! Probably my kids are artists. They are geniuses and this is a masterpiece. It is just too deep for my comprehension.

Anyway, the characters at some point board an invisible submarine. We know this because they mutter things about being on a submarine. Eventually, they find the unicorn.

UNICORN (in dignified tones): Go where I have spit my beautiful barf. There you will find your answers.

Artistic. Geniuses.

Scene II

The Undersea Realm of the Unicorn's Beautiful Barf

My IKEA rocking chair

The dialogue in this scene is mostly unworthy of print. But the plot really picks up here.

First, the characters discover a giant, underwater seal. I don't think that the Anarchist and Dictator had really planned on the discovery of the seal, but the Anarchist's seal just happened to be in the path of where the characters were headed in their search for unicorn barf, and it was just too imposing to ignore.

DOLLS: Oh my gosh! The Giant Seal of Answers. IT will give us answers! 

They proceed to spend a great deal of time discussing how the giant seal might do this. I proceed to spend a great deal of time wondering why they didn't just trust elderly Doctor Brown's diagnosis in the first place. I also spend a great deal of time wondering if it would be rude to get up and get myself a snack. Or maybe two snacks.

EARWAX SISTERS (who have apparently reemerged from Phoebe's ear during this odyssey): We have followed you here to get answers...oh no! The water! It isn't safe for us! We're disintegrating! DISINTEGRATING!

Okay. So my kids ARE geniuses. Joy the Fairy may have been loony as all sin, but she knew what she was up to all along. They needed to undergo this journey together. To sing together, to barf together, to ingest barf together, to search for unicorn barf together. They thought the answers were in these things, and maybe--in an indirect way--they were. The wax that clouded their ability to hear the truth could only dissolve once they had discovered that it wasn't just Phoebe, the dreadlocked pariah, who was sick. The sickness was in all of them. It was only when they underwent the trials of their quest and were plunged into the seal-infested waters of rebirth could they reemerge as self-aware dolls, connected as a community, healthy and whole.

EPILOGUE

Doctor Brown's Office

PHOEBE: Hooray! I'm better!

RESPONSIBLE DOLL: Not so fast. We just underwent a treacherous journey. We need to have you checked by the doctor again to make sure you aren't worse. Take off your clothes.

PHOEBE: Really?!

OTHER DOLLS: DO IT!!!

DOCTOR BROWN: Well, your bloody earwax is gone, but I'm afraid you have endless diarrhea. You will have to keep eating barf until you are better.

PHOEBE (defeated): When will that be?

DOCTOR BROWN: Christmas time.

PHOEBE: But...but...wait! That's a whole year!

Uproarious laughter ensues.

Phoebe is once again the naked, wild-haired social outcast. Order has been restored in the doll kingdom.

The Earwax Sisters return to the stage and sing a rousing reprise of the Earwax song.

Everyone cheers.

ANARCHIST JR. (staggering, dramatically): Owww! My poor broken leg!

The End.

You're Welcome.