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.