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?

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.

Reasons I Am STILL Sitting In My Car

(Even though I pulled into this parking spot 15 minutes ago)

1. I needed to check my email. I needed to check ALL of my email.

2. It's cold out there.

3. The kids are super annoyed that we're just sitting here, in this car, and that's good, because they need to learn that the world does not revolve around them.

4. I'm waiting for it to stop being windy. 

Because I'm just so scared.

5. That guy just pulled into the spot next to me, and he'll think I'm weird if I just suddenly get out of my car right now. He needs to think I'm just chilling here for a reason. Like, maybe I'm waiting for someone, or maybe I'm checking my email, or maybe I live in this car. This man needs to believe I'm reasonable. It's important.

6. I'm an introvert.

7. The angry neighbor lady is ranting near the dumpster again, and she might be unstable. Leaving the car would be risky.

8. This NPR story is probably about to become fascinating.

9. I'm about to beat this level.

10. This song will be over in a minute.

11. That school bus just dropped off a bunch of high school kids feet away from my car. And everyone knows it's best to maintain a decent amount of distance between oneself and teenagers. 

12. There are lots of kids out riding bikes today and it would be better to stay in my car because what if my sudden presence outside of my car startled one of them and they fell, and maybe sustained head injuries and it would be ALL MY FAULT.

13. Existential crisis.

14. My house is messy, so it's better if I don't go inside of it.

15. I have to make a list.

16. The cat is mean and prone to biting. She is currently not in the car, so I am safe here.

17. It's much better for everyone if I just keep to myself...here...in this car.

18. I finally got the heater to kick on and actually work, and it would be a crying shame not to at least spend a few minutes basking in the glorious warmth.

19. You just can't be too careful these days.

20. I can't go out there looking like this.

21. Opening car doors is hard work, and it's such a very long walk to the building, and I've just worked so hard all day long, and wouldn't it be best for me to rest myself a little while?

22. Those construction workers over there might judge me for my sweatpants.

23. Those construction workers over there might accidentally drop a shingle on my head again.

24. The UPS truck is parked on our street, and it is entirely possible that it will be delivering to my house, and if I'm walking up to the house at the exact moment the UPS guy is, that would be so awkward.

25. Change is hard.

Little La and Aunty Me

The Pretty One and I were supposed to have our children at almost exactly the same time. I mean, we weren't planning on going into labor within minutes of each other, expertly coordinating the the breaking of water and cutting of umbilical cords. That would be so, so creepy. And The Pretty One and I are not creepy (in that way). But we had big plans to have kids around the same age at the same time. To practice living out this very well-coordinated future, we employed our very favorite baby dolls, Carie (yes, don't challenge the spelling, five year old Me doesn't care how it's supposed to be spelled) and La. Yes. La. (Now, don't you feel bad for making fun of my doll's name's spelling, when the Pretty One over here named her precious plastic offspring La?) I know. But she was a toddler. And the box the doll came in was labeled "La Bebe." Very French. Also, the Pretty One had a goldfish named Chuck E. Cheese, presumably because themed pizza/gaming joints were on her mind at the time. I think we can all see what kind of naming style the Pretty One has.

The Dictator, Aunty Pretty One and Me...but where oh where is La?

Anyway, Carie-with-one-R and La spent every waking minute of their baby/toddlerhoods together. Aunty Pretty One and Aunty Me took turns running the show, playing both ideal mother and indulgent aunt with deftness and grace, because we are amazing. And because our children were made of plastic. And because, in the case of The Pretty One, the child's eyes were stuck permanently closed, rendering her even more docile than the sometimes-wakeful Carie.

The Dictator and Anarchist ADORE their
Aunty Pretty One

Not that we didn't face our share of parenting challenges. Both Carie and La suffered from a rare allergy to everything but Applebits.* I know. You can't even begin to understand our struggles. But we were strong. And we had each other. Such a brilliant support network of sisters, aunts, mothers, rolled into one, feeding plastic beaded Applebits to our sightless plastic offspring with unlimited optimism and poise. I never once imagined being a parent without The Pretty One pushing a stroller at my side, my delightful hyper-allergic niece or nephew reaching into my little imp's stroller, cooing its love for its Aunty Me.

But, as we all know, grown-up life is not what we imagine in our youth. I don't know too many Ballerina-Princess-Firefighter-Doctor-Millionaires with flying ponies and a herd of well-trained kittens. Or, as young Me imagined, Female-priest/Supermom/Author/Musician/Eccentric College Professor/Woodland Cottage Dwellers with rooms full of books and a herd of well-trained llamas. It turns out certain life events happen when the time is right, whether we plan on them or not. And sometimes that means doing things without our sisters. Like having beautiful, surprising children before we've even had time to break the glass ceiling/get ordained/author life-changing literature/get a PhD and buy all those llamas. Sometimes lovely Dictators come into the world before their Aunts are ready to have beautiful babies of their own.

And so the plans were a little altered, the timing shifted a little, but some things were as we foresaw them. Some things were just a given. Although she was not made out of plastic, my Dictator was born allergic to almost everything, and, blessedly, with her eyes wide open. And the Pretty One was a fantastic Aunt, even if she did completely terrify herself by dropping a TV remote on the days-old Dictator's head. And then she was a fantastic aunt to my not-plastic Anarchist (born with her preemie eyes clamped shut).

But now I want my turn. I want to see The Pretty One be the lovely mommy I know she will be. And I want to be the indulgent Aunty Me that hands the baby back at the end of a visit, secure in the fact that I will not be the one waking up 87 times to feed it. I'm getting anxious. I want to meet real-life La Bebe.

And guess what? I'm going to super-super-soon! THE PRETTY ONE IS HAVING A BABY! I'M GOING TO BE AN AUNT!

The Pretty One is going to be, like, the bestest mommy EVER!

You guys, I'm going to be so good at this thing! It might not conform to our idyllic childhood dream of force-feeding plastic beads to oddly named, strangely well-behaved children who happen to be exactly the same age, but I think it's going to work out okay. Like, I will buy that kid all the sugary things. All of them. And I will watch it and let it stay up super-disgustingly late. And I will tell it to challenge authority. And I will probably even let the Anarchist babysit that thing! That will be one heck of an exciting social experiment. Because I have a feeling that The Pretty One is going to be such a fantastic parent, that this kid will need a dose of imperfect reality...and I am SO going to be that dose. Yippee!

Also, I get to revel in The Pretty One hopefully having a baby just like The Pretty One. Hopefully, the Pretty One's baby will take off its diaper and paint itself and its designer nursery with the contents. Hopefully. Hopefully it will scream its adorable little head off the vast majority of the time, and just at the last minute (before someone chucks it out a window), it will open its gigantic adorable eyes and melt every single heart in the room. Hopefully. Hopefully it will refuse to be held for a single split second...unless then the garbage truck is near, and then hopefully it will fling its terrified little self into the waiting arms of its loving mommy or daddy and refuse to leave until that stupid loud monster is gone. Hopefully. Hopefully, it will writhe its way out of every stroller and every high chair, and hopefully it will eat hard crushed candy off the filthy mall floor and dirt out of the garden, and convince its sibling(s) to eat Play-Doh and forbidden cookies. Hopefully.

The baby Pretty One was such a trip! Here's hoping her little
person will give her as much fun as she gave her family...

And hopefully it will be as sweet, and feisty, and charming, and full of life as its beautiful Mommy and wonderful Daddy. And most of all, more than anything, regardless of its gender or looks, I hope beyond all hopes that she will name the child La. Because that is what I will call it, both here and in real life. So she might as well go ahead and make it legal.

Because, while The Pretty One is the one of us more attached to tradition and sentiment, I can be stubborn and sentimental, too. And there are certain childhood dreams that I refuse to let die.

So, welcome, little niece/nephew La! Your Aunty Me loves you to pieces already. And she even promises not to drop a TV remote on your head. Hopefully.




*Applebits are small, colorful, plastic beads, ideal for doll allergies.

The First Noelle

Much fanfare has been made (by me) about the miraculous birth of the extremely premature Anarchist. Admittedly, her birth and subsequent thriving-ness does make a pretty good story. But every year I realize that I have once again neglected the Dictator. Her birth was, by normal standards, unremarkable. But if she's going to take over a small Central American country someday, someone is going to have to write her biography, and that someone should be me. So without further ado, the otherwise neglected birth narrative of a Dictator:

Dictator Noelle

One early Christmas Eve morning, a young, beautiful, and totally pure virgin close-enough-to-a-virgin left her small apartment for her job managing a bagel shop. It was an unromantic job, and one for which she was clearly overqualified, being that she was also a genius. But she was a hard-working martyr with aspirations of graduate, or maybe divinity school. She was also heavily addicted to bagels.

The girl was childless, and as her no-skid shoes crunched  through the new-fallen snow, she congratulated herself for staving off her maternal urges, making the wise choice to put off childbearing until after she had earned her Ph.D. and could selflessly grace the world with her many gifts. Then, she assured herself, she could move into a quaint, craftsman style home in some nice college town, and set about being probably the best and most humble mother ever. And also a genius.

It wasn't until halfway through her arduous work shift, while scraping salmon cream cheese from the side of a broken toaster, that a startling thought occurred to the girl: the time of her uncleanness was nigh. (Shut up. It's a totally natural thing. I'm allowed to put it in the story.) In fact, the time had come and gone and--what, with her work feeding orphans watching HGTV in her pajamas--she had hardly noticed.

The girl took no breaks at work, because she was a martyr and such, but paused long enough to call her humble, hardworking husband on her gigantic cell phone to request that he run an important errand for her before the many church services they were to attend that night. (No. For real. Like, we went to three or something. It was insane.) 

And so it came to pass that the noble Bureaucrat marched purposefully to the Meijer checkout line and confidently purchased a snow shovel, cat litter, tampons (shut up), and a set of inexpensive pregnancy tests. "Rough day?" asked the cashier.

Upon her return to the modest apartment, the young, beautiful genius girl of humble purity fell upon her bed, exhausted, and certain that she was mistaken about the time of her uncleanness. She was just so pure and also so good at planning things and doing everything just the right way. It was all certain to be a silly mix-up.

But curiosity got the better of the girl and she made her way into the inner sanctum of the apartment. And lo, the angel of the pee-stick came to her and said, "Greetings, confused one! You may or may not be pregnant! This little blue smudgy plus-ish sign is really difficult to read! The Lord may or may not be with you this day!"  And so the girl tried again and again. And again it came to pass that the urine yielded no clearer sign. Panicked now, the girl called her sister, the Pretty One, and screamethed unto her, "HELP!"

And so it came to pass that the Pretty One, risking her own lily white reputation, made her way to the nearest Target and bought the priciest, most top-of-the-line, fancy, gold-embossed, ridiculous pee stick money can buy. And she brought it unto the girl. And the girl peed upon it.

And the angel of the fancy pee-stick came to her and said, "Greetings, terrified one. You are totally, unambiguously pregnant. Like, you are super, obviously, clearly with child. You should be totally terrified because you have no health insurance, no respectable career, no graduate degree, and no second room for the baby to sleep in. You are totally screwed. And now you will conceive in your womb (where else?), and bear a child, and you will name it Dictator Noelle. It will be the offspring of the most underemployed. The child shall reign over everyone who crosses its path forever, and its control over its environment will have no end."

And the girl said unto the fancy pee-stick, "How can this be, since I am not yet a Ph.D.?" And the girl also said all of the expletives.

The fancy pee-stick said to her, "Were you aware that the birth control pill is only, like 99.5% effective? Statistically speaking, someone's gonna get pregnant while on it, sister! What made you think you were somehow immune? For nothing is impossible with God."

And the girl said, "Here am I, the servant of my circumstances; let it be with me according to your blinking digital "PREGNANT" indicator."

In those hours, the girl set out and went with haste to pretty much all of the church services. And in every sanctuary, a picture of another more-perfect, more-beautiful, younger, and even-purer girl was displayed. And in every sermon, the terrified genius girl was reminded that the perfect/beautiful/young/even-purer girl had to give birth in a dirty cave, with no access to health insurance, child birth classes, or clean sheets. That even though she was giving birth to  the Son of the Most High, she probably had to squeeze rocks, or bite down on twigs, or something to deal with her birth pangs. And the genius girl cried out, "Woe unto me! For I am very, very screwed!"

And, financially speaking, the girl was correct. But little miracles abound, and the girl did not have to squeeze rocks and bite twigs alone in some cave. She got insurance, and a doctor, and a hospital with clean sheets and a nice nurse who gave her morphine (don't judge). And she gave birth to her firstborn daughter and wrapped her in a hospital blanket and named her Dictator Noelle, because the girl would never forget that fateful Christmas Eve when her life changed forever, and unto her was born the most beautiful, unexpected, terrifying, wonderful gift she could ever receive. Her beautiful Dictator. The one who made her a mommy.

33 Things That Don't Suck about the Birthday Princess

Okay. On the Dictator's 8th birthday, I wrote a post detailing 8 things I liked about her. Rereading that, I thought to myself, "Gee! I should really do that for everyone in my family". I missed out on the Bureaucrat's birthday, but I will catch him the next time around. I was looking forward to doing it for the Anarchist, and then I thought, "Huh. I definitely wouldn't be able to do that for myself!"  

But then I got to thinking. I am the Birthday Princess, after all. And I am struggling to come to terms with the ceaseless march of time that has brought me to my 33rd birthday. And they do say that you should focus on the positive, the things you like about yourself. And what better, healthier, more self-helpy, and annoying way, than writing a totally non-self-deprecating blog post of all the ways I think I'm super-awesome? I'm sure I can come up with 33 things I don't hate about myself. Right guys? Right?

Deep breath. 

Here we go.

1. I am (generally) not cruel to animals. Stepping on my cat's tail is always an accident, I swear.

2. I smell like coffee sometimes. Sometimes more than I'd like. But I guess that's better than smelling like dead fish more than I'd like.

3. I know how to pronounce this word: ARTISAN. 

4. I know how to pronounce this word: ARTESIAN.

5. I know that ARTISAN and ARTESIAN are not the same words.

6. My name is "Molly," and even though that's probably the name of your golden retriever, I actually really like my name. It makes me sound like an optimistic and energetic toddler. Never mind that there is nothing energetic or optimistic about me. At least it sounds like there is.

7. Sometimes, when I  cook things, they are edible. This is better than no times. 

8. I am introspective. Do not read "introspective" to mean "self-absorbed" or "neurotic," or this will sound like a negative and I will have to come up with something else.

9. I am not super materialistic. Like...I can sit on the same, tipping over, cracked and broken, nasty plaid couch for years on end and it won't even phase me...which is good, because this couch has become a permanent fixture of my living room. 

10. I'm strong and composed. I don't cry at the drop of a hat. Unless I watch some sort of touching commercial about motherhood...or a movie with dying animals...or that part in Forrest Gump where the music swells and the stupid feather is swept into the air by the wind *sob.*

11. I have loads of empathy. I can feel your pain. I can say,"I feel your pain" in my best Bill Clinton voice and actually mean it. (It would be really great if you could only feel nice, pleasant, happy feelings around me, if it's not too much trouble. Thanks.)

12. I am not a serial killer.

13. But I can empathize with serial killers (see #11).

14. I am not even a one-time killer.

15. In fact, I have never even been arrested. 

16. Heck...the one time I was pulled over, it was for a broken tail light. 

17. I can do hard things. Like, sometimes, after I take the laundry out of the dryer, I even fold it and put it away. Sometimes.

18. Okay, this is getting really hard.

Also, I made these hilarious little people.
That counts for something, right?

19. I am polite. I say "please" and "thank you" a lot. But I say "sorry" most of all.

20. I would make an awesome Canadian (see#19). 

21. I can write really concise, really articulate impromptu essays. This really hasn't been relevant for at least 10 years, but this is getting hard, so I'm stretching, here.

22. My kids think I'm funny. You might not. My poor coworkers might not. But my kids do. At least for now. I have the sense of humor of a 7 year old. Neat.

23. I am not a fascist dictator. 

24. I have not even considered becoming a fascist dictator.

25. I am a nerd. And I actually don't hate this about myself anymore.

26. When I sing, it (usually) doesn't sound like cats dying. 

27. Speaking of which, I haven't (accidentally) killed The Fat Assassin yet. She still alive and biting my fleshy calves.

28. I am (mostly) more mature than I was ten years ago. Mostly.

29. I am clumsier than you. This makes you feel better about yourself when you are clumsy. Therefore, my clumsiness performs a service to humanity. So I can be okay with it. Right?

30. I'm never disappointed. (Never mind that this is because I expect the worst...like, the apocalyptic, we're-all-gonna-die worst. Let's just focus on the positive, shall we?)

31. I don't engage in "positive self-talk." Positive self-talk, while probably a good and beneficial thing, is the single most infuriating and obnoxious phrase known to man. Therefore, my staunch abstention from positive self-talk is actually a good thing. 

32. I can twist anything to work in my favor. 

33. I have follow-through. I made it all the way to number 33, and I didn't even have to resort to lying drivel. I just wrote down a bunch of negatives and made them positive instead. See? I'm resourceful, too!*

*I had to throw an extra positive into #33, because it turns out that #18 was not actually a valid thing I like about myself...or even a valid fake thing I like about myself. And I'm not a cheater. Ooh! Did you catch that? I threw a bonus thing into the footnotes! Do I get extra credit for that?!

Introvert Bill of (Totally Reasonable) Rights

Lately, the internet has been overrun with helpful "How to Understand Your Introvert" memes. You know the ones. They usually feature a picture of a retiring individual pulling his/her head into the neck of a sweater like a tortoise in a shell. They contain introvert-related propaganda such as, "It's not our fault we don't want to spend time with you. Please just understand that we are way smarter than you so we have much more interesting things going on inside our brains than small talk with you could ever hope to compete with. Also, we are humble."

Introverts are profound. Not aloof. We're never aloof.
We're too amazing to be aloof. And also we are humble.

With all this introvert-awareness-raising going on, it almost seems as if there's a introvert-revolution afoot. I mean, when else would an entire people defined by its hesitancy to speak audibly suddenly find a soapbox and voice its assertion of rights unless...well...there's a change a-comin', my friends. The quietest 1/3 of the population apparently no longer wants to be ignored (unless they're burnt out, socially, and then you must ignore them).

I say "they," but of course I mean "we" (as much as any group of people who refuses to socialize even within itself can be considered "we"). I am a stark-raving introvert, as is my darling little Dictator, whose stock phrases include "I just want to be left ALONE!!!," "Not a hugger!" and "Don't TALK to me!!!" As an introvert myself, and an advocate for my precious offspring, I feel compelled to join the movement. The (super duper) silent minority is ready to overthrow the extrovert-dominant system of noisy oppression. Viva la Personal Bubble!

Thusly, I hereby present an List of Demands Introvert Bill of Rights for immediate adoption by the entire human race. Listen up. I'm only going to say this once (and then I'm locking myself in my quiet room to read Neil Gaiman for two days straight, and don't even think of calling/texting/knocking).

INTROVERT BILL OF RIGHTS

1) All introverts shall hereby be granted a five foot personal bubble that shall not be violated except  in cases of grave emergency (e.g., escaping large parties, fleeing overcrowded concerts, sharing an elevator in an attempt to leave a bar/club/room full of excited toddlers).

2) In cases where an introvert holds a service/public relations/sales/customer service/other job that deals with the public, said introvert shall be limited to a 20 hour work week, but shall be paid double what an extrovert working a similar position is paid. This measure is to compensate for the fact that when an extrovert leaves such a job for the day, the extrovert goes to the gym or the bar or a party. When an introvert leaves the same job for the day, the introvert goes comatose in a dark room, rocks in a fetal position while drooling, or searches out hard drugs to dull the pain.

3) Every introvert shall be granted one of those sweet turtle neck/hooded/hide-your-whole-head sweaters that keep showing up in all those introvert memes. Said sweaters shall be snuggly and amazing.

4) All terms previously used to define introverts--however true--shall no longer be used. Dorky shall become interesting. Eccentric shall become unique. Awkward shall become either charming or endearing. Instead of aloof, introverts shall be referred to as profound. Instead of standoffish, introverts are cautious. Instead of snobbish, introverts shall be called discriminating. And shy is humble. Oh so humble. The humblest.

5) Hereafter, any extrovert wishing to be "considerate" in the direction of an introvert is forbidden from providing unasked help, company, gifts, or hugs (unless the introvert wants a hug, in which case the extrovert must read the introvert's mind and provide a hug, for in no case will an introvert initiate a hug). The introvert definition of "considerate" shall be adopted in all cases pertaining to introverts and is as follows: Considerate is defined as being careful to avoid invading the introvert's thoughts/time/space with unasked help, company, gifts or hugs (unless mind reading has indicated that hugs are actually secretly desired).

6) No party or social occasion shall last for more than three hours. No more than 5% of party attendees shall be strangers, and only 10% may be casual acquaintances. No party may contain more than 10 guests. (Parties of exclusively extroverts are exempt from these restrictions). Introverts must be notified of parties and other social events at least 2 months in advance (to give introverts time to obsess about  get used to the idea). Parties shall be free from small talk. Snuggly-awesome turtleneck head-hiding sweaters are considered appropriate party attire.

7) Introvert parents shall be granted a minimum of three hours locked in a quiet room per parenting day without repercussions (except those to society, because you know those kids are going to be going all Lord of the Flies on you).

8) The inner thoughts of an introvert are sacred and shall not be violated. A glazed-over, daydreamy, zoned-out stare is indicative that an introvert is lost in glorious, glorious thought and shall not be disturbed. Introverts shall not be held legally responsible for any physical violence or destruction of property than ensues if said glorious thought is interrupted.

9) Plans for a nice day/evening out should reach a maximum at two events. For example, dinner and a movie. The eager exclamation of, "Hey guys! Let's go to a bar or seven!" after dinner and a movie is completely unacceptable.

10) An introvert is never required to answer the phone or to return phone calls. This is asking too much. Acceptable introvert communication may include: texting, limited emailing, subtle body language, knowing looks. Please consult with introvert to determine which method will not send him/her into a state of paralysis.

11) When asked of reluctant introverts, the answer to the (often rhetorical) question, "What are you waiting for, a personal invitation?" shall always be: Yes! Yes! A thousand times, yes! And handwritten, if possible. Calligraphy would be nice, just so we know you're serious. However, the introvert should not be expected to RSVP, as this would cause far too much social exertion terror.

12) No conflict shall arise from the adoption of this Bill of Rights. Introverts totally hate conflict.

And also, you aren't allowed to think we hate you. We love you oh so much. We just have a terrible special way of showing it.

Okay. That's enough revolution for me. I'm going to go find a nice place to lose myself in my super-brilliant, highly-personal, oh-so-humble thoughts.

*pulls head to into sweater and ceases to acknowledge the rest of the world*

Cheerios, Cottonballs, and the Futility of Life

So, I've been resisting reading this book for a long time now. The title of the book is A Year of Biblical Womanhood; the subtitle is How a Liberated Woman Found Herself Sitting on Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband "Master," which makes it more palatable, I guess. The author, Rachel Held Evans, decides to explore living out, as closely as possible, the literal dictates and examples of femininity in the Bible in all their absurdity and irony. I've been avoiding it not only because it seems a bit gimmicky and because if someone found it open next to me and realized I was reading a book about "Biblical Womanhood" they might assume that I am a submissive domestic Bible-thumping type (I'm not), but because I'm a little jealous that I didn't come up with the idea to write the book first. Kind of like the "Reasons My Son is Crying" tumblr, I'm avoiding it out of jealousy. I'm a great person.

Anyway, I eventually ended up reading Evans' blog, which was witty and insightful, and as a result, decided to revisit her book, which was funny, thoughtful, and intelligently wrought. But this post is not about the book. It's actually about me, because I'm crazy narcissistic. The book, however, is essential to this post for the few moments in which Evans found herself in existential crisis for the most lovely, quaint and ridiculous reasons:

"While cooking strikes me as an essentially creative act, cleaning seems little more than an exercise in decay management, enough to trigger an existential crisis each time the ring around the toilet bowl reappears."  (27)

"My aversion to crafting goes way back to an incident in kindergarten during which, upon gluing something like the fortieth Cheerio to the inside of a giant O-shaped construction paper cut-out, I was suddenly struck by the futility of human existence." (79) 

I love these because I can relate so closely to them (I hate cleaning and gluing things). Maybe that's because these are universal moments of crisis, maybe it's because I'm a bit similar to Evans, or maybe it's because I have an especially delicate psyche and most things cause me to question the meaning and validity of human existence. I'm not sure. But it asking just what sorts of things throw people into existential crisis? I questioned a group of friends, and the general consensus was "the vastness of the cosmos." Bor-ring! I mean, isn't that kinda cliche? Not me. Bring on the entirety of infinite space and time. But these, these are the things and the moments that destroy me emotionally and psychologically. In no particular order:

• When the clouds in the sky aren't well enough defined
• Adult contemporary music
• Grocery shopping
• Being forced to listen to adult contemporary music while grocery shopping
• Driving through industrial landscapes
• Any town or city built primarily in the mid 20th century (those buildings are so freakishly small and cubicle, and where oh where are the sidewalks? DESOLATION!)
• Gluing cottonballs to anything
• Weeding the garden (nothing like playing God to mess with your neatly defined concepts of theology/theodicy)
• School buses and the accompanying school bus-y smell
• Treadmills
• 4:00 am
• Sleep deprivation
• Any repetitive, futile task, such as cleaning (as the state of my house will attest)
• Packing school lunches 
• Realizing how old I am, how many opportunities for success I had as a child, and what I actually do for a living
• Flowers with broken stems
• Roadkill
• Subdivisions and strip malls
• Any novel or movie that deals with the death of an animal
• Straight, level roads
• When I want pizza, but can't have it
• Being the new girl at work

Currently, I am the new girl at work, am surrounded by subdivisions and strip malls (through which I drive on straight, level roads), have an intense awareness of what I do for a living, pack school lunches, and write this as I gaze out into a sky full of woefully undefined clouds. So yeah, I guess you could say I'm in a good place right now. The good news is that am not listening to adult contemporary music and my grocery shopping is done. I am also not currently being forced to engage in a project employing Elmer's glue and cotton balls, so things could be worse...a lot worse. Because I hate cotton ball/glue projects with an unbridled passion...so much stickiness, stringiness, fuzziness...why was I born?! Yeah. It's like that. 

So I'm curious, what sort of things throw you into existential crisis? And whatever you do, don't say "the vastness of the cosmos." 

Coffee Shop Breakup

A week ago, I learned that I would lose my job as a bad barista at what we shall call Unnamed Coffee Shop, as Unnamed Coffee Shop would be closing its doors forever. I was surprisingly devastated because, as it turns out, I actually thoroughly enjoy underachieving, working on my feet, and serving people caffeine for a living. I really do. Also, my amazing boss, the Eternal Optimist, had managed to turn our particular location of Unnamed Coffee Shop into a lovely community. It was truly a nice place to work. Customers cried when they found out we would soon be closing our doors for good, in order to "consolidate the Unnamed Coffee Shop market" in remote and inconceivable places like the Dakotas and Iowa. Turns out we had been bought by a German investment company who also own another coffee shop corporation from the West Coast--we'll call it Stupid-Name Coffee Shop because it has a stupid name--and preferred to expand Stupid-Name Coffee Shop to the Midwest, shutting down most Unnamed Coffee Shops in Michigan and opening Stupid-Name Coffee Shops in the place of those locations that remained. (If that didn't make your brain explode, then you're a great deal smarter and more focused than I am).


Our location is closing in two days. I'm very sad about this. I feel like I just went through a terrible breakup that I didn't see coming. "It's not you. It's me. I just think...I feel like it's not working out. I don't even know who I am anymore. No. I don't think we should give it time. I think we just need to make a clean break of things. And never see each other again. Ever. Here. You can have your things back. Just...get out." I've never actually been through a terrible breakup, but that's what a breakup feels like in my imagination. I have an active imagination. Anyway, because my coffee shop broke up with me, I have been through a period of mourning including, but not limited to, binge eating, impulse shopping (Sorry, Bureaucrat!), and bouts of irritating sentimentalism. As it happens, so have my dear children.

Having only visited Unnamed Coffee Shop a grand total of, like, ten times in their lives, the Anarchist and the Dictator still feel the trauma of separation. The Anarchist has been wailing about "poor poor Unnamed Coffee Shop" all week in her most tragic mourning voice. If I can get her to rend her garments and beat her breast, I'm going to hire her out as a professional mourner (someone in this family's going to have to make some money).

The Dictator, on the other hand, has become highly interested in German investment companies and buyouts:

"A good reason Unnamed Coffee Shop is closing is because some more people can get some good things for their jobs and their families. Kind of like it's going to be like um the people who work in the new place get more money...the people that bought the company...the Germans. And it's good for their families because they can get lots of new things with all their money, but then the people that used to work there have to lose their jobs, which is a little bit bad."

I think the Dictator doesn't understand that she isn't related to the owners of the German investment company, and will thereby not stand to profit from the buyout. Or else, she understands that without a job I cannot afford groceries, but cannot hide her admiration for such a crafty money- making maneuver. She's probably plotting  her own corporate takeover as we speak, imagining the mansions full of American Girl dolls she could acquire as a result.

But even the Dictator finally participated in a brief fit of wistfulness as we attended the store closing party for my Unnamed Coffee Shop tonight. On the car ride there, both girls sang Taylor Swift's "We-ee are never, ever, everrrrr getting back together!" incessantly as a kind of funeral dirge for a coffee shop they would never see again. It was both somber and annoyingly upbeat. The Anarchist announced, "I'm going to Mommy's work and hug Mommy's work and say goodbye because it's so tragic that Mommy's work is closing. Mommy, if it turned out your work wasn't closing after all, then you could be happy again!" Because when Mommy is sad, everyone suffers.

Our customers were supposed to write happy memories on this
chalkboard. And they did. My children, on the other hand,
covered as much of the board as they could reach in tragic
frowny faces and words like "sad"...

...and "wah." As in the crying noise.
See it in the center, there? The Anarchist
really loves drama...and crying.

Both kids pretty much forgot about the horror of it all during the party, because the party had tortilla chips and a captive audience and an employee the Anarchist was intent on stalking. But afterward, the Dictator cast one last lingering glance at the place. "I wish all of this weren't really happening. I wish it was all just a dream and we would wake up and it never would have happened...and Unnamed Coffee Shop would still be open and would stay open forever. Because it's a really nice place and those are really nice people and it makes people happy." I started to explain that this is the reality of free-market capitalism and that human labor is just a depersonalized commodity and that she shouldn't be surprised that the greed of the powerful trumps the needs of individuals, and that this is why we probably won't be able to afford dance classes next year...but then I realized that I should just be glad she had paused in her plans to use a multinational corporation to take over the world long enough to see the human cost. Also, my angry jadedness had almost made me sound embarrassingly like a teenager who had just discovered Marx for the first time. Not cool. But the good news is, my jaded cynicism isn't lasting for long. Because I am totally rebounding. Unnamed Coffee Shop might have seemed perfect, but I was too good for him, anyway. I have a new coffee shop now. And he's super popular.

So if you happen to be in need of coffee and are in the area, you should definitely come visit. We're nestled between the Walmart and a shady apartment complex. Look for me. I'll be the new girl sporting an apron with a topless mermaid on it and weeping as I screw up your drink. Like I said, I'm rebounding.

Dance Moms

I know that none of you watch Lifetime Television's exploitative and hideous show Dance Moms because you're all better people than that. Good for you. I'm better than that, too. So, if this is a post about Dance Moms, I guess I have nothing more to say and you have nothing more to read, so you can all just close this page now and move on to do more important things like preparing that presentation (is that something that people with real jobs do?), caring for your children, or virtuous acts of charity. Run along. Shoo! There you go.

Okay. Are they gone? Good. To those of you real people still left reading, I feel completely free to confess that I was an avid/addicted watcher of the first two seasons of that hideous monstrosity of a show...and I loved every minute of it. Don't get me wrong, I feel guilty about it. I do. But it happened and I can't take it back so I'm' just going to embrace it: Abby Lee Miller, crying little girls, shrieking jealous harpy women and all.

I live vicariously through the Dictator...
which is awful...but notice the
complete lack of duck lips.

For those of you who are actually good people and are somehow still reading despite my clever ruse to eliminate you from my readership, Dance Moms is a "reality" show following a nasty dance studio owner with a God complex (Abby Lee Miller) who hurls insults at dancers' mothers as a motivational tool. Apparently it works, because the tiny prodigies keep winning all sorts of awards at the competitions they attend weekly (who the heck attends dance competitions weekly?!). And to be fair, if there is even a shred of reality in this show, the mothers probably deserve the insults. A few of them would have made perfect guests of the Jerry Springer Show, while others have mastered passive-aggression with an  artistry and skill that would make the meanest tween girl drool with envy. It is an awful show. I hate everything about it. And I loved it.

We find that roses, t-shirts and trophies are nicer
motivational tools than insults hurled at parents.

There are many theories as to why. There's the stated reason, of course, that I just really like to watch people dance, and there's a lot of dancing on the show. Also, there's the theory that I'm just a really awful person who likes exploitative television. Most compelling, perhaps, is the theory put forth by a psychologist I heard on NPR (yes, I also consume substantive, responsible media output), who speculated that one reason we so love these shows is that they make us feel infinitely better about our own parenting. Yes, I'm a dance mom who lives vicariously through my own child, but at least I'm not those dance moms. And I'm not.

Evidence:

Those Dance Moms: Put their daughters into the hands of a diabolical crazy woman.
This Dance Mom: Puts her daughter in the hands of a very nice group of teachers who really care about the children...and who are not crazy (I think).

Those Dance Moms: Get into dramatic, crying, screaming fights with their daughters' dance teacher and storm out of the studio on a regular basis.
This Dance Mom: Never gets into dramatic, crying, screaming fights with anyone. Usually leaves dance studio in an unstormy fashion.

Those Dance Moms: Have a special observation room in which they are filmed obsessively watching their daughters dance...because they want to assure that their precious offspring are getting the most attention.
This Dance Mom: Plasters herself to the observation window and peers annoyingly through the slats of the closed blinds in order to obsessively watch her daughter dance...because she's nosy as all sin.

Those Dance Moms: Have giant homes with massive kitchens, probably as a product of selling their lives, children and possibly souls to Lifetime Television
This Dance Mom: Has an itty bitty condo with a cramped kitchen, probably as a result of spending money on dance tuition instead of trivial things like housing.

Those Dance Moms: Dress their children in two-piece, custom-made, rhinestoned dance outfits with matching hair accessories, earrings, and full make-up for dance class.
This Dance Mom: Throws her kid in whatever black leotard may or may not happen to be clean at the moment, whichever tights happen to emerge first from beneath the pile of stuffed animals in her room, and endures the Dictator's shrill screams as she forces her ratty, unbrushed hair into a haphazard ponytail, which the Dictator will then proceed to pull out within the first ten minutes of class.

Those Dance Moms: Pitch hysterical, indignant fits when their children aren't granted multiple solos per competition.
This Dance Mom: Figures the Dictator will get a solo when she's good and ready (and to be fair, probably before that time) and isn't interested in pushing it, because solo entrance fees are really pricey and we can't even afford housing, remember?

Those Dance Moms: Get a little icked out by all the age-inappropriate raunchiness that can occur in the dance world (much to their credit...bravo, other Dance Moms!), and yet somehow still manage to put their preteen children onstage in nothing but push-up bras and booty shorts.
This Dance Mom: Is utterly disturbed by the age-inappropriate raunchiness at dance competitions which includes, but is not limited to: duck lips on preschoolers, push-up bras for costumes, eight-year-old girls making dirty sexual faces that I didn't learn to make until I was, like, 30, and choreography that, as the Bureaucrat puts it, "Would have every guy in here throwing dollar bills...if these girls were 15 years older." But they're not. They're seven. And so every man in there feels like a dirty, dirty pedophile when he accidentally wakes up from his nap/looks up from his i phone and happens to inadvertently glance at the stage full of gyrating little girls. As a result this dance mom has put her daughter in a studio that likes its children fully-clad, its dance dads unhorrified, and its choreography super-wholesome...and is happy with that, even if it means enduring more than her fair share of Disney music.

The Dictator and Anarchist with their unhorrified dance dad
after a recital in which they did NOT gyrate ANYTHING.

Those Dance Moms: Leave their husbands at home.
This Dance Mom: Wakes her husband up at 6 am so that she doesn't have to drive to all these dance things by herself. Tries to engage her husband in conversation about the dancing. Fails utterly. Takes solace in the fact that at least he's physically present, even if he's actually finishing The Hound of the Baskervilles on his Kindle and not watching the dancing at all.

Those Dance Moms: Have younger children who do not want to dance and prefer to stay home and eat chips...but dance anyway, even if only half-heartedly...while thinking of chips.
This Dance Mom: Has a younger child who actually stays home and eats chips.

The Anarchist and Dictator in last year's
dance costumes. This is the last dance
costume the Anarchist will ever own, as
she feels the dance studio gets too hot in
the summer and would thusly prefer to
stay at home and eat chips.

Those Dance Moms: Get into physical confrontations with one another over whose daughter is the apple of crazy-diabolical-dance-teacher-lady's eye.
This Dance Mom: Is well aware that her child isn't exactly the most coordinated dancer in the bunch and is just happy that she's active, part of a group, and loving the heck out of it. Also, is deathly afraid of physical confrontation.

Those Dance Moms: Live vicariously through their children (shame on them!)
This Dance Mom: Lives vicariously through her child. But feels bad about it. And tries to keep herself in check. And doesn't scream, throw tantrums, weep, or cattily talk about other moms. So...that's a start, right? Right?

Of course, right. Thank you, unethical, destructive "reality" television for validating my own view of myself and making anything I do look like super amazing good parenting, relative to anything those other moms do. And those of you who watch/have watched that glorious abomination of a television show, please take solace in the fact that it provides a useful service to self-doubting moms everywhere...and also take solace in the fact that you're not alone. But whatever you do, don't let the good, kind, wholesome-stuff-watchers of the world know what we're up to. And now I must be going. I have some Toddlers in Tiaras to catch up on Beowulf to read...and some dirty tights to salvage off the floor.

In Which I Expound Melodramatically on Esoteric Things and End Up Sounding Vaguely Like the Movie "Pay It Forward"

So...thankfulness. I promised to write about thankfulness.* Or rather, I'm going to write about how I failed at thankfulness. Because as a general rule, I really prefer to focus on my failures.

A while back, I had written a series of posts "in honor of" the Anarchist's fourth birthday. The Anarchist had been a preemie (a very premature preemie, at that), and I had written to commemorate her miraculous birth. It was all very tragic and lovely, I'm sure. You laughed, you cried. I mostly just cried blubbered. I had finished by writing about the effects of the experience on various members of my family, but had failed to properly finish the series and expound on how the Anarchist and I were doing as a result of her somewhat traumatic birth experience. I never finished writing, because at the exact moment I finished writing the last post about the Anarchist, I was done. Done writing. Forever. I had said everything I needed to say. All the neurotic turmoil inside of me...all the crazy churning beneath the shallow/sarcastic surface...all of it just stopped. I had "processed things" and achieved "closure," Oprah-style. Or so I thought/wanted to think.

I didn't need to write about myself or the Anarchist, because everything was fine. (I never told you how her birth affected me, but I think you can guess. I think you can piece together the bits of hypochondriac ranting, angry-for-no-reason tirades, guilt-laced self-loathing, and survivor's guilt and figure out that I was not okay). But now I had let it all out and I was fine. Great. I had my beautiful, living child running around barking like a puppy and trying to strangle the cat with affection, and I was glad. I was relieved. I was happy. It was nice. Just those easy, flat emotions. Glad. It doesn't even sound as much like an emotional state as it does a garbage bag, does it? But I wasn't sad, traumatized, terrorized, desolate, or any of those other painful things I had been before (that I had no right to be before because my child was fine, wasn't she?), and so everything was good and I could just move on. And I did. My kids went to school, my husband changed careers. I got a job. It was awful. I got a new job. It was good. All was well.

But for all that, I was never really thankful. I never experienced any sort of gratitude that my child was alive and well. Gratitude felt wrong. It felt selfish and awful. I would wake up in the night from nightmares in which I experienced the pain of the loss of other mothers whose children hadn't survived, who had suffered alone, who had not received care and support. And I couldn't be thankful. And I remembered a conversation I had in the hospital with Calm Doctor, and he said it must be terrible for me, and I told him that I was so glad to be cared for and safe and that I was traumatized more by the thought of all the people who didn't get to be cared for the way I did. And I remember that my prayer after that was always "God, whatever happens to us, please let something good come from this. Let someone's life be changed. Make beauty from this darkness," instead of the usual," God, whatever you do, just save my baby." Gratitude was never something I could feel without feeling guilt. So I felt "fine" and "glad" instead.

And then a few weeks ago, several things happened that got the significance junkie inside of me all worked up (and if a Literature/Religions major isn't the epitome of a significance junkie, I don't know who is). After attending church at one of our local mega-churches (yeah, we're still going there), I stopped by the bookstore with the Anarchist and the Dictator. The Dictator was sashaying around the store selecting novels while the Anarchist was playing with the toy train in the children's section and making noises akin to those made by a mating chimpanzee. And I heard a very calm "Hi!" I looked up and was startled to see Calm Doctor, the doctor who had delivered the Anarchist, standing in front of me.

Now, I had run into Calm Doctor a couple of times before and had deliberately avoided eye contact, because the mere sight of the man made me tremble and go weak with the flood of memories/emotions that his presence would trigger. This time, though, I managed to look at him, smile and respond. And it turned out, much to my utter shock, that he remembered us. Not names, or anything, but he remembered us. "Is everything going okay?" he asked, calmly, as is his way. Maybe he was inspired to ask by the screeching monkey noises coming from the Anarchist. She was not doing her best impression of a not-brain-damaged person. "Everything's great," I assured him. I'm certain that he didn't believe me. The Anarchist is not known for displaying her actual level of mental functioning. Although, I would have answered that way even if she had  been profoundly brain-damaged because there was air in her lungs and a smile on her face, and that's good enough for me. We chatted briefly. I remembered that, shortly after the Anarchist had been born, he and his family had gone to Kenya as missionaries, and had worked in the hospitals there, delivering the babies of women who would otherwise have not been cared for and safe. And he introduced me to their third child, a little boy adopted from Africa. And there was something beautiful there, in the direction his life had gone. I hadn't caused it or anything (despite what my prayers had been), but my life had been allowed to touch it, to intersect with it for a second or two, and I got to see the beauty in it, and he got to see the light in my Anarchist's eyes when she smiled and said "hello" before resuming her feral animal-like state. Somehow, that connection was beautiful, and it mattered.

Within the same week, a coworker and I had discovered that our paths had crossed years before. He had played a concert at the Bureaucrat's church, and it turned out that we owned not one, but two copies of his CD. Out of my usual insatiable curiosity, I unearthed the CD and listened once, just to see if I remembered it at all. As I listened, I was flooded with the memory of bed rest, sleepless nights and terrified nightmares, and I realized that not only had I listened to this CD before, but I had listened to it more recently, while pregnant with the Anarchist, during one of the single scariest periods of my life. I had been staying at my parents' house between long bouts at the hospital, waiting to see if the Anarchist would reach viability. Night after night, I was overcome by terror and never slept. The only thing that helped was listening to music on a little portable CD player (I am so dating myself!). The only CDs I had were those I had left at my parents' house after getting married (mostly duplicates of the ones the Bureaucrat already owned). And my coworker's CD was one of them. I had listened to it, repeatedly, because it was calm, and simple, and comforting. Beautiful (strange) connection.

And both of these coincidences had happened within the same week. And the thing I thought was over and done with, the thing that was closed and fine and great and good, the thing about which I was glad, was opened up and thrown in my face all over again. And finally, I was thankful. Because here's the thing, whether God or coincidence, all the answers to my prayers for beauty and redemption are there. All our desires to do good things that touch each other's lives are fulfilled. The beauty that we are and that we bring to the world exists, as does the meaning and the connectedness...whether we see it or not. Even if my child had not survived, even if, God forbid, there was no Anarchist in my house to eat the sunscreen, make the poop jokes, and strangle the cat, even then there would have been grace. People that I had met/would meet/would meet again would do/go on doing/continue to do beautiful things and those things would inspire other things and even in our darkest moments we would see them, and maybe forget them, and remember them again and they would change us, change the world. We affect each other. We're light for each other, and most of the time we don't even know it.

And while I'm prone to focus on all of my failures, on all the minute ways every little thing I do could harm someone, I'm forced to entertain the idea that maybe we can encounter beauty in each other, too. That maybe, without even meaning to, some little thing I say or do might actually help someone rather than irritate or bother them (just now and then...I'm a realist). And this is a scary and difficult thought for someone who feels as utterly flawed as I do. But it's possible. These things do happen. And they happen in the most imperceptible and lovely ways. And we're all better for it. And for that, I am thankful.

* Important Warning: There is absolutely NOTHING funny about this post. This post is the rough equivalent of that crappy poetry we all wrote during our dark existentialist phase in middle school (that wasn't just me, right?) that we just knew was earth-shatteringly profound, but when we found it 10 years later it made us want to commit suicide and not just because it was oh-so-profoundly about suicide.

Esquire Daddy and the Bad Barista

So Thanksgiving was this past week. Everyone was thankful for stuff. We ate turkey and mashed potatoes. We were thankful for that. Then we all went out and bought a bunch of stuff we didn't need. We were probably not as thankful for that as we should have been. Then we stopped worrying about being thankful and turned into the holiday consumers we were meant to be.

But the thing about me is that I have a tendency to be a touch slow about processing things. So while the rest of the world camped out in front of Walmart or whatever, I started having profound thoughts about thankfulness (maybe because I was at work, and hadn't slept much, and things just feel profound when you're sleep deprived). 

Wait! Work?! 

Oh, yeah. That's right. When I last left you I was desperately, but not very actively, seeking employment. I had made a snarky resume and everything. So I guess I owe you an update. I haven't written in almost a year because we've been a little busy. In case you've been living under a rock these last few years (or just don't know us that well), I should let you know that the Bureaucrat has been extra busy pursuing the pinnacle of bureaucratic careers, and is now a card-carrying (literally...he has a literal card that looks just like a health insurance card...classy) member of the Bar. Bureaucrat, Esquire. Or, as the Dictator dubbed him, "Esquire Daddy." He now is a hardworking attorney and we're all very proud.

Back Row Left to Right: Esquire Daddy, Aspiring Trophy Wife
Front Row Left to Right: Anarchy with a Blanket,  the Dictator

I, at the same time, have been actively pursuing the pinnacle of liberal ed major careers and am currently working my dream job as a (bad) barista.* It turns out that clumsiness isn't an asset when your job involves working with piping hot liquid at 5:30 in the morning. That's okay. I consider this a transition career. I am really an aspiring trophy wife, and I have the credit card debt to prove it. 

Generally, we're all very happy with this arrangement. Despite three years of a family dynamic that would have made  most marriage counselors' "What Not To Do If You're Not Interested In Divorce" lists, our family is still very much intact. Granted, most of my conversations with the Bureaucrat involved a bunch of Latin words I didn't understand (mens rea just sounds a whole awful lot like something discussed in a chapter of What's Happening to My Body?, for example). But I feigned interest while looking at the top of his head bent over a book every night of my life for three years straight. If that's not love, what is?  

And now he's graduated, I'm working, he gets the kids off to school, I pick them up from the bus stop, we see each other at night, and all is well...that is, if you consider our children going to school looking like characters from Lord of the Flies "well." It turns out the Bureaucrat, while usually having an eye for detail, fails to notice if the Anarchist has dreadlocks or the Dictator has decided that a shirt, see-through tights, and tennis shoes are a complete, school-appropriate outfit. The price we pay for success! 

The Dictator is still a good student, despite her continued lack of concern for handwriting technique. The Anarchist is a card-carrying (not literally) kindergartener. The Fat Assassin is still fat and ornery. I am still neurotic (albeit, less so). And we're all very busy. So that, of course, completely explains why I haven't written in over a year. (And also, I was trying to spare you, but I've decided I don't care anymore...tough. You're the smart one who clicked the link, and now you have to live with the consequences). 

Okay. That almost completely explains why I haven't written in over a year. As it happens, it's a little more complicated than that. It turns out that there had been something that had kept me writing, compulsively, week after week (besides, of course, the very gratifying ego-boost of watching the little graph chart all the hits each post would get...mostly from my mom, I'm sure, but gratifying nonetheless). And I thought that the something was gone/over/completed. And so I didn't need to write anymore...like...ever. But it turns out I was a little bit wrong. Things are never all the way gone. The things that happen to you reach out in a million different directions, spin off out into years and years later, touch everything and everyone you come in contact with, whether you want them to or not. You don't just get to be "done" with things. That's not how it works. And for that, I am thankful. Which is what I was originally going to write about. Which is what I'm still going to write about. Later. Maybe tomorrow. 

Right now, I'm going to be a good American and get back to my online shopping. I have my future trophy wife image to think about. 

*At what other job could I find a copy of Orthodox Psychotherapy in the men's bathroom and spend 10 minutes a day reading it? (Okay, maybe the library; but librarians don't get tips...and I like tips). Also, I should mention that you'd better not ask where I work, because I had to sign a lengthy legal-sounding document promising not to reveal too much via social media, and I have no idea what "too much" is, but I felt like I was signing on to work for the CIA, and I think that means that if I told you, I would have to kill you, so let's just pretend it's Starbucks ('cause it's not), and move on with our lives.

Application for Employment

Name:  Morton, Me

Other Names by Which You Have Gone in the Past: Hey Mo-om, Aw No Fair, Honey U. Needtogetajob

Title: See above

Did you Attend High School:  Yes.  Before you were born.

Have you attended/are you attending college?:  Yes.

I think you will find that my ability to apply compelling post colonial criticism to current works of literary fiction useful in filling customer drink orders.

Also, my familiarity with Sanskrit and Latin and linguistics will come in particular handy when explaining the difference between a latte and a cappuccino to confused customers (I find people respond well to having the entire history of Indo-European language and it's accompanying consonant shifts explained to them when they're already late for work).

Please list any certificates, awards, etc. here:

• This one time, in high school, I got a scholarship for choir camp.  I had to wear corduroy knickers, but it was worth it.   
• Also, I was a National Merit Semifinalist.  If I had been an actual finalist, I would probably be off somewhere being a nuclear-physicist or a notable author.  As it stands, I was a semifinalist, and I'm a stay at home mom, currently applying for this job
• More currently (i.e., college...like, 8 years ago), I received a departmental award for English, proving that I am literate enough to read a training manual.  
• Most recently, my eldest daughter  referred to me as "The Best Mommy Ever."  However, I have yet to receive a written record of said accomplishment.

To which position(s) are you applying?:  The positions in which  I get to multitask, work with food, have people screaming orders at me, feign patience in the face of great upheaval, listen to incessant whining, accommodate great picky-ness, never get a moment's rest, and clean up after messy people.  Otherwise I might start to miss my family.

Is there anything that might prevent you from working a certain position?:  Hairnets.  Polyester.

Please list availability below:

Monday: so early the infomercials are still on-after the Anarchist's bedtime (which has become increasingly complicated and dramatic)
Tuesday: none
Wednesday: so early the infomercials are still on-the Bureaucrat has to go to class
Thursday: none
Friday: so early the infomercials are still on-as late as you need me to, in order to make up for the fact that all the college kids who work here have requested tonight off on account of the fact that they have lives.
Saturday: 2pm-as late as you need me to, in order to make up for the fact that all the college kids, etc.
Sunday:  No, thank you.*

*Alternately, 5am-10pm or 4pm-close.  Ooh, or open availability, every other week...but only if you could guarantee me that you wouldn't pull that thing where you agree to every other week, but end up using me every single week because people keep requesting time off and I'm a doormat.  I am a doormat.  If you consider this a valuable asset, you should totally hire me.  And ignore the previous stuff about not wanting to cover everyone else every single week.  I will do it.  Because I'm a doormat.  I'm your doormat.  Unless, of course you prefer an employee who is more assertive.  In which case, I'm that.


Required Starting Wage:  Required?  That's such a strong word.  And I know that if I put something too high you might not hire me.  However, if I put something too low, you'll totally take advantage of it and I'll be working for 75 cents  an hour less than everybody else.  Which--let's face it--is not cool.  Why do you even ask this question?  Is this to test my bargaining skills?  Is this secretly a psychological assessment?  Are you trying to see if I'm delusional?  Because I'm not delusional.  Neurotic, but not delusional.  And I'm only neurotic because I'm conscientious...which is a good quality in a worker, if I do say so myself.  And, possessing such a sought after quality, I find it reasonable to inform you that I require an hourly wage of $35 an hour.  Because peoples' lives specialty coffees are in my hands.  See?  So not delusional.

Employment History

Most Recent Job/Title: Bagel Schlepper/Bagel Schlepping Trainer/Bagel Schlepping Shift Manager (say that five times fast)
Job Description: All-high multi-tasker, bagel-lover, change-counter, baked goods-baker, sandwich-assembler, coffee-brewer, table-wiper, dish-washer, inventory-taker, food-prepper, bank-dropper, maintenance call-maker, drive-thru worker (classic English major, right there), customer-soother, coworker-motivator
Date Started: That one summer when I came back from college and needed a job, and they needed help so badly that they started me on the cash register the minute I finished my interview.
Date Finished: The day, seven years later (talk about company loyalty!), when I was hospitalized while pregnant with the Anarchist.
Reason for Leaving:  I wanted to give someone else a chance to schlep bagels.  Also: bed rest.

Job/Title: Western Michigan Annual Fund Phonathon Caller
Job Description:  Demanding money from alumni at meal time.
Date Started: the day I realized there were literally no other jobs available on or off campus
Date Finished: the day I graduated and never had to ask another alumnus for $500 at dinner time again.
Reason for Leaving:  Graduation.  Also: I hate bothering people.

Job/Title: Medical Records Clerk
Job Description: Address envelopes/alphabetize files/mooch off of drug rep luncheons
Date Started: some time in high school, before you were born...we didn't even have internet yet
Date Finished: some time shortly after high school, also before you were born...we had internet by then
Reason for Leaving: Relocation.  Also:  I though it would be neato to leave a well-paying, extremely easy job and instead obtain a completely impractical education, funded by ridiculous amounts of loan money, to be paid back by working far more demeaning, far less lucrative jobs in the future.


Have you ever been convicted of a crime?  I got pulled over once for a burnt-out taillight.  I got a "warning."  The police officer was super nice.  That's all I've got, though.  If you're looking for someone with grit, I feel like I'm totally failing you, here.

Are you qualified to work in the United States:  Yup.

Employment Inventory questions to determine if you're a bad person or not:

You are doing a complex counting task when a customers interrupts because she needs help.  You:
A) Stop what you are doing, but sigh audibly so as to make her aware of just how much of an inconvenience she is.
B) Keep counting.  Pretend you are deaf.  If you ignore them, they usually go away.
C)  Have another employee take over for the cashier, have the cashier take over for you, and go help the customer, per her request.
D)  Ask your manager.

Write in response: Leave a small sticker to mark your place, and make a written record of where my counting left off.  Help the customer.  Return to inventory counting unfazed.  Alternately, see if I have a coworker that can go and help her so that I can continue counting.  Doesn't that seem like a simpler solution, Employment Inventory?  Doesn't it?

You notice that some of your coworkers are making fun of a customer.  You:
A)  Cry.  That customer is your grandmother.
B)  Point out that, while cruelty is funny, getting caught is not.  Advise them to use their whispery voices when degrading other people.
C)  Join in.  Nothing says "make fun of me, next" like not participating in the mean-fest.
*D)  Ask your manager.

You are minding your own business behind the counter when an large, angry, enraged racist lunges behind the food line and at an employee who is a racial minority, threatening to kill him if he "doesn't go back to his own country."  You:
A)  Join in.  After all, you are a card-carrying member of the KKK.
B)  Scream and throw knives.  Maybe one will hit him.
C)  Throw yourself heroically in front of the threatened employee.  Advise the racist customer to use his whispery voice when making racist threats of violence.
D)  Ask your manager.

Write-in response: Ooh!  I have experience with this exact scenario!  The correct answer is, surprisingly, not "B."  It turns out knife-throwing is some sort of liability.  Whatever.  The correct answer is to send someone to get your manager, who will then threaten to call the police if Mr. Aggressive Racist Pants won't leave the store immediately.  Meanwhile, if you can throw your Caucasian self between the threatened employee and the racist, that's usually a good move, although it's possible that he will still mow you down in his fervor to do racially-motivated violence.  Usually threats of the police work.  Also, soothing tones and soft lighting might prove effective.  Finally, if all else fails, turn to the tip for appeasing disgruntled customers that you learned in your training video: offer him a free bag of chips or a cookie.

Thank you for your interest in our company.  We look forward to ignoring you meeting with you, if your qualifications meet our needs.