Call the Doctor

I have anxiety.

SURPRISE!

I keep telling myself that TODAY! is the DAY! that I will FINALLY! CALL! and MAKE AN APPOINTMENT with a THERAPIST! 

But today comes and goes, and I find myself still with zero appointments and all the anxiety. Not because I'm lazy, although there's that, too. It's because, as you may know, when you have anxiety, you don't just pick up the phone and make a call. To a person. It's a whole process. And it goes a little somethin' like this:

1. Find the number of the person or business you wish to call.
2. Check if you can text them instead of call.
3. Plug the number into your phone.
4. Rehearse what you're going to say.
5. Stare at your phone for two full minutes. Do not press call.
6. Hide the phone in the couch cushions.
7. Make a sandwich.
8. Refine what you're going to say. Rehearse until it feels natural. 
9. Sit on the couch. Berate yourself, quietly or out loud, for not being able to do this. You can DO THIS. This is FINE and NOT AT ALL SCARY. JUST--DO IT.
10. Fish your phone triumphantly out of the couch.
11. Plug the number in again. 
12. Press call.
13. HANG UP. HANG UP IMMEDIATELY. YOU DIDN'T REHEARSE ONE LAST TIME, YOU FOOL
14. Take a shower because man, you've been sweating SO MUCH.
15. While in the shower, try to think of every possible response the person on the other end of the phone could have when they answer and after you reel off your rehearsed spiel, and then plan out how you will handle it (Hint: you will not handle it well).
16. Realize you've been in the shower for three hours. Look at your hands. They're shaking and pruney. The water's gone cold. You didn't notice.
17. Get out of the shower.
18. Glance at your phone.
19. Go take a nap. It's been a long day.
20. Repeat this process for twelve consecutive days.
21. Decide you don't need to see a doctor after all. How sick could you really be, anyway? Look at all these sandwiches you made! You're fine.

So there you go. Twenty-one easy steps and the problem is solved, all without those pesky medical bills.

However, the time has come. TOMORROW! is the DAY! when I am GOING to DO IT! 

And by it, I mean find a place where I can make an appointment online. 

Stay tuned for the harrowing tale of my Very Embarrassing Visit to the Doctor. I mean, it hasn't happened yet, so I don't KNOW it's going to be very embarrassing, but...I think we can assume.

Writing Contest

“The Youth’s Friend has accepted a little sketch I sent them a fortnight ago,” said Anne, trying hard to speak as if she were accustomed to having sketches accepted every mail, but not quite succeeding.

“Anne Shirley! How glorious! What was it? When is it to be published? Did they pay you for it?”

“Yes; they’ve sent a check for ten dollars, and the editor writes that he would like to see more of my work. Dear man, he shall. It was an old sketch I found in my box. I re-wrote it and sent it in—but I never really thought it could be accepted because it had no plot,” said Anne, recalling the bitter experience of Averil’s Atonement.

“What are you going to do with that ten dollars, Anne? Let’s all go up town and get drunk,” suggested Phil.

-Anne of the Island, L.M. Montgomery

O HEY! The Write Practice and Short Fiction Break have chosen my story, The Cidery, as the grand prize winner of their 2017 fall short story contest. HOORAY! 

I would like to say that the honor is prize enough for me. I would like to say that. But I cannot. Because writing, my friends, is not an art form that lends itself to making a living quickly or easily. If I wanted to make an entry-level salary from writing alone, I'd have to win 79 more contests like this one. So far, I have won...one. So even though I should be content to be recognized and satisfied with the validation that I'm not a talentless hack, I'm afraid that the allure of feeling a check in my greedy little paws again is stirring something inside me, some shameful lust for filthy lucre.

What am I going to do with my winnings? I could spend it practically. We need...lamps, and things. But I am not known for my practicality. Alternatively, I could buy:

• 400 donuts
• Seven and a half hours of karaoke
• 24 copies of John Green's Turtles All the Way Down, which comes out today (with enough left over to buy half a dozen Reading Donuts!)
• A 15-foot trampoline with mesh Don't-Kill-Yourself-Enclosure (for some reason I thought trampolines cost so much more--what a lovely surprise!)
• One hour of an Elvis impersonator's time
• Enough balls to make the attic into a ball pit, thereby achieving The Dream
• 1/36th of a trip to swim with narwhals
• Two sets of these taxidermy bride and groom minks (since it's our two-year wedding anniversary today and I've been struggling to find the perfect gift for Bill)

But I think I know what I want to buy. It's a secret wish I've harbored for years, something very special and close to my heart which will bring me (and others, perhaps) joy for years to come.

...HOW MUCH DO YOU THINK THIS BAD BOY WOULD COST?

via

HALLOWEEN IS COMING

Halloween is my favorite holiday. AND IT'S ALMOST HERE. I would say it's the best holiday, but I don't want to upset all the misguided Christmas fanatics. Mostly I love dressing up, and the fact that it's spooky makes Halloween EVEN BETTER. Of course, we're dressing up for Christmas this year, too (more on that in a couple months), and eventually we'll probably have costumes and parties for even the most minor holiday (tune in next summer for our First Annual Dress as Your Favorite Founding Father Party. I'm already planning my Richard Henry Lee outfit).

Bill and I like to do couples costumes, but not typical ones, like salt and pepper. Last year we went as Rasputin and Bartok:

We went trick-or-treating with our friends and their tiny son and their other parent friends and their kids. We were the only adults dressed up. We were not given any candy.

Another year we were BoJack Horseman and Charlotte the deer:

Again, we went out to a bar with some friends and the four of us were the only ones dressed up - although our one friend went as Notorious RBG, which makes up for everyone else being lame..

This year we've already gone through four different costume ideas:

1. Man of Green Gables and HuckleCarrie Finn. This one has been on our costume shortlist for years, and I still want to do it at some point. Something about the idea of Bill in a skimpy wincey dress with a beard and copper-toed boots is just so precious to me. And sort of gross. Plus, I wanted an excuse to buy some overalls.
2. Fleetwood Mac's Rumours album cover. But for some reason, since he's running for borough council, Bill doesn't fancy the idea of his neighbors seeing him with the clacky balls dangling between his legs. Personally, I think it might get him more votes, but...
3. "America" by Simon and Garfunkel. I would be Kathy, Bill would be the Man in the Gabardine Suit, and pup would be the greyhound bus. I even bought a copy of the March 1968 issue of Life magazine (Bookends was released in April 1968. THIS IS HOW DEDICATED I AM TO COSTUME DETAILS). Barbarella's on the cover. Even though we decided against this costume, I'm still pretty pumped to have the Barbarella issue.
4. Bill and the Conjunction Junction conductor from the Schoolhouse Rock videos. This is the one we're actually going with. Bill's been involved with Fair Districts PA, which is trying to end gerrymandering in Pennsylvania, and he wants to wear the costume to one of their events. Plus...he IS just a Bill. I'm going to pull a row of tiny conjunction train cars with behind me, and we're going to fasten a sign on pup that says "D.C. or Bust." It's gonna be hella cute. And you know I don't use the word "hella" lightly.

Should I have waited until after Halloween so that I'd have pictures to accompany this post? Probably. I'M JUST TOO EXCITED. I JUMPED THE GUN. JUMPED RIGHT ON IT. Over it? Away from it? I don't actually know what that expression means.

Anyway.

Now that we have our costumes figured out (hopefully we don't change our minds again over the next month and a half...), I am tasked with decorating the house. From scratch. All we brought with us from our little apartment are an autumn wreath (which sort of got contaminated in the basement this spring) and a porcelain jack-o-lantern Bill calls Mr. Spooks. Since we have a lot going on and a whole bunch of expenses this year, I just want something simple: maybe black velvet bunting under the windows to make the house look like it's in mourning, a spooky wreath, some ravens on the boxwoods, and some black and white pumpkins. The spiders are obligingly crafting cobwebs everywhere they can, so we just haven't cleaned them up for three months. It's not laziness; it's passive decorating. Plus we always carve turnips, which is what they used to do in the Olden Dayes. They are SO MUCH CREEPIER than pumpkins, and now we have a tree out front to hang them from. Like the scariest ornaments you can imagine.

How do you decorate for Halloween? What are some ideas I can steal from you? What are your costume ideas? I want to be nice and say you can borrow any of ours, but...I love them too much to share. I am a costume idea miser. I'm going to make Bill be Man of Green Gables next year, and there's NOTHING HE CAN DO ABOUT IT. 

P.S. - Is it weird that this is turning into sort of a domestic blog? I started out thinking I'd post about writing, but I'm not good at writing about writing unless I'm frustrated by it, and I haven't been frustrated enough lately to generate enough material for a post. I'll work on that.

P.P.S. - I looked it up, and jumping the gun is about starting a race. That's kind of a let down. Especially compared to, say, jumping the shark.

P.P.P.S. - Bonus shot of that time Bill dressed up as Gene from Wet Hot American Summer:

Magnificent.

Gooseberry Pie

We have a small farmer's market in town every other Saturday -- only about seven vendors, one of whom just sells garlic. But last week when we came across a produce vendor selling, among other things, a single carton of gooseberries, this ran through my head:

I'd never seen a gooseberry. I'd never eaten a gooseberry. I'd never heard of a gooseberry except in the context of Snow White. When I was a small child, I watched this scene and a connection forged in my mind: If you feed people, they will love you.

This is the key to acceptance, I thought as I stared at the gooseberries. I've searched for this all my life, and here it is just waiting for me at this humble farmer's market. 

"WE'LL TAKE THEM ALL," I said, and spirited them away back home.

If you've never seen a gooseberry before, it looks like the fish version of a grape, in that you can see all of its veins:

Plus they can breathe underwater and flop all over the place when you catch them.

Although I'm not convinced the plural of gooseberry isn't geeseberry.

I don't have any funny stories about the actual baking of the pie. It went pretty smoothly, especially since I broke down and started making pie crusts in the food processor. I bet Ms. White would have too, if she'd had the option. Although she did have the the help of her little woodland friends. Time-saving, but SO UNSANITARY.

(...If you think I didn't sing that song over and over in the same tremulous falsetto while assembling the pie, then YOU ARE MISTAKEN.)

You cook the berries like cranberries with a whole bunch of sugar until they pop and you are left with this lovely pink and green mush. It's not quite millennial pink, but it's pretty close.

Now, before I show you how the pie ended up, I should tell you that I practice what I like to call Make-Do Cookery. Under this system, when you don't have a pie tin like you thought you did, you use a cake pan. And when the filling leaks, you say OH WELL and slurp it up with a straw. And when you remember that you don't have any photography skills and realize that now the combined forces of Bakers and Photographers of the Internet will descend upon you with double shaming for the poor lighting and the terrible image resolution and the cake pan, you shrug and put the picture up anyway.

Don't worry about the leaks. DON'T WORRY ABOUT THEM. THE CAKE PAN WORKED OUT FINE.

To play gooseberry is an old-timey term for a third wheel, usually an older, unwanted, and presumably sour-faced chaperone. But dudes, I don't think that expression applies here, because GOOSEBERRY PIE IS SO DANG GOOD. I would happily take it on any date. I would take it AS my date, and let Bill be the third wheel. The gooseberries are intensely tart, but the sugar makes the filling taste like sour candy. Candy pie. In fact, I don't even think the crust is necessary. Next time I get my grubby little paws on a carton of gooseberries, I'm just gonna cook 'em up and eat them with a spoon.

We're looking into growing gooseberry plants in our garden next year. Hopefully no geese come along and snatch them right off the vine (bush? tree? Do they grow underground like tubers?). When they're ripe you must all come over -- once I buy a real pie tin -- and I shall feed you gooseberry pie.

"Hooray!" you will say. "She stays!"

And then you will love me. At last.

UPDATE: JUST FOUND OUT YOU CAN GROW RAINBOW-COLORED GOOSEBERRIES SO I GUESS THAT'S OUR ENTIRE BACKYARD ACCOUNTED FOR

Hot Buttered Biscuits: Or, Carrie's Very Hot Day

We're having our electrical panel upgraded to 200 amps today.

The temperature is supposed to reach 98 with thunderstorms on the way.

The upgrade will require cutting the power for seven hours, which means:

1. No air conditioning
2. No Wi-Fi
3. All of our food will slowly rot

HOUR 1: It's 7:40, a good hour before I would normally even consider waking up. The two electricians arrived before schedule, which I take as a good sign. They came in and went straight to the electrical panel, then out to whatever electrical thing they're working on outside. I haven't seen them since. They are kindly waiting to cut the power until I finish making my oatmeal. Although that's just how their schedule worked out; I didn't ask them to wait. Because I think it's impolite to use the word oatmeal in mixed company.

I'm kinda bummed that they sent two men to do the work. When will I ever get to refer to someone as Madam Electricienne?

On the one hand, I'm excited to have a super productive, internet-less day, with the added excuse not to paint any more trim because the house is slowly becoming a crockpot and I need to remain as still as possible in order not to become cooked. Like I'm Maggie Pollitt. 

They'll never see you sweat if you never move. But if those no-neck little monsters start chucking hot buttered biscuits, duck.

On the other hand, I might become cooked.

There aren't a lot of places I can go to cool down and also bring the pup. Bill is leaving us the car, so at least we can sit out there with the AC on if it gets bad. But I'd like to avoid that if possible. Becoming the eccentric couple in an already eccentric small town is quite a feat, and we want to achieve it gradually.

Then again, this is my chance to eat everything in the fridge and not feel bad about it. I am nothing if not an optimist.

HOUR 2: It's 8:34 – AND ALL'S WELL. No power cut yet. Bill had to run an errand downtown and he's bringing back donuts, so Best Spouse award goes to him.

DONUT UPDATE: "Bad news," Bill said when he got home. "No donuts. But I got you this giant muffin, which should feed you for four or five days."

POWER UPDATE: Off, as of 8:38. 

And so it begins.

8:40 – GOD NO I’M BECOMING COOKED

HOUR 3: Bill left for work and I instantly fell asleep on the couch. Already turning into one of my most productive days all month!

I’m keeping a close eye on pup, though, just in case these guys are secretly pullin’ a Horace ‘n’ Jasper.

OOH THEY’RE DRILLING SOMETHING OUTSIDE. SOUNDS EXCITING. I feel bad, though, because as much as I’m complaining inside, they have to do this all the time outside in the heat. 

There’s a lot of chit chat right outside. I am shamelessly eavesdropping. One of these guys once had to drill through GRANITE. Took him TWO. DAYS. TWO. FULL DAYS. TWO DAYS.

Two.

I was wrong. They are not drilling. They are attacking the house with some sort of HORROR DEVICE that grinds and keens and shakes the entire building. IT IS VERY ALARMING. But at least it won’t take TWO. FULL. DAYS. At least, I hope it won’t.

It sort of sounds like the house has been transformed into a giant motorcycle and these electricians are revving the motor. Continuously. For sixteen minutes now.

HOUR 4: Have begun nuzzling up against walls and furniture to leach some of the cool from their surfaces. It’s surprisingly effective.

Word through the floorboards is that they might have to stay longer than expected. “It’s all good. Not like it’s Friday or anything,” one of them said on the phone. Or maybe he’s talking about another job. I shouldn’t be so self-centered.

NOW HE’S TALKING ABOUT THE WATER LINE. This is sounding positively treacherous. Who knows when it will end!

Anyway. THIS IS MY NIGHTMAAAARE

Alright, pup and I are retreating from the living room to the dining room, which is where the window unit and ceiling fan live, and presumably where the last wisps of cold air linger. I’m abandoning all pretense of getting work done and instead reading Harry Potter all day to distract myself.

It’s Christmas at Hogwarts.

The snow is falling down….

11:20 – Silence. Did they leave?

After some investigation, yes. One of the vans (they brought two, not a fleet as you might imagine) has peaced. Presumably with both electricians inside it. No idea where they’re going or when they’ll be back, but let’s hope they bring donuts, because this muffin is all healthy and filled with dried fruits. Not what I’m looking for AT ALL.

In other news, my effort to enclose cold air in the two rooms upstairs for later enjoyment has failed miserably.

HOUR 5: Pup has this trick of lying on the wood floor when we come in from a walk. I am trying it out. Is quite cool down here. Pup is wise beyond her years (she’s almost four). The panting doesn’t do much for me, though.

I hope the electricians don’t come up from the basement unexpectedly to find me lolling about on the ground muttering, “Cool…cooool…”

HOUR 6: Cloud cover! Which means if the world were an oven, right now it would be baking instead of broiling us. If I have scienced correctly.

Only two more hours to go, assuming they do in fact turn the power back on around 3. At the risk of sounding overconfident, I think we can make it. Pup is a Rhodesian Ridgeback, a lion hunter who prefers to hang out in the attic most days because it’s carpeted and straight-up scorching on the third floor. And according to the weather, the solar noon is in nine minutes, WHICH MEANS IT’LL ONLY GET COOLER FROM HERE, RIGHT?

In the meantime, I have been regularly sweeping water down my arms and legs and daubing it on my face, a trick I learned from my mom. It’s like insta-sweat but less sticky and cools you down as you walk around, reverse-engineering a breeze. I also have a wet paper towel wrapped around the back of my neck and one on my chest. Gotta keep that core temperature down, right?

[I would also like to state for the record that I know many people live without air conditioning, and have done so for LITERALLY MILLENNIA. The Amish are doing it right now - BY CHOICE. Still, you may find yourself enraged with my dramatic lack of fortitude and feel an overwhelming need to call me spoiled and entitled, among other things. That may not be entirely unjustified, but I hope you will ignore this urge and instead join me in donating to Dollar Energy, a nonprofit that helps cover utility bills for those facing hardship – the elderly in particular are especially susceptible to heat stroke. If you find yourself similarly inclined, please donate. It’s a super cool (ha!) program.]

Ooh! The “Feels Like” temperature is down to 95 outside! I may go put on a sweater.

HOUR 7: Conundrum: Bill suggested we walk down to the river trail because it’ll be a good couple degrees cooler in the shaded walkway. However, we’d have to walk there and back in the near-hundred-degree weather and return to a hot house. Are a few minutes of minor relief worth it? UNKNOWN.

You know what’s cool? Porcelain. Know what’s made of porcelain? Bathtubs. You know what would be cooler than lounging in a cool porcelain bathtub? Lounging in a cool porcelain bathtub filled with ice cubes. That’s the dream.

Which could be a reality – or at least I could fill it with cold water – but I would want to remain dressed in case the electricians need something like an ambulance and I have to dash down the stairs all sopping wet, at which point they’d ask why my clothes are drenched and I’d have to say IT’S HOT WHAT’S THE EMERGENCY and they’d just think I was that sweaty.

HOUR 8: It’s 2:38 pm. No word from these electro-punks how long they’ll be. But it’s now been almost a full work day. I think, however, that I’m starting to crumble. “It’s so…hot,” I moan. “So hot. When are you going to turn the power on? Just turn the power on. C’mon. Be a pal. Turn it on. Just turn the power. Back on. Please.”

But they never do.

2:41 – WELL BLOW ME OVER THE POWER’S BACK ON

Prime Day

I treated Amazon Prime Day like it was Treat Yo Self 2017.

We miss you, Parks and Reeec (via)

I don't buy a lot of things. I don't like to go shopping in physical stores, and I online shop by finding something I like, stuffing it in my virtual cart, and leaving it there - returning furtively to stare at it for hours every day - until eventually I find out it's out of stock and have a reaction way out of proportion to my actual attachment to whatever it was I was looking at.

That's why Prime Day was so strange.

I wasn't going to browse Amazon at all, until Bill told me, "Just check and see if any of the things we need for the house are on sale."

OH, I said. AND BY "THINGS WE NEED FOR THE HOUSE," I ASSUME YOU MEAN A FOG MACHINE.

So we bought a fog machine. 

Here are some other things we almost bought:

- HUMAN PHEROMONES. Extra Strength. Just 'cause, like, WHAT IF THEY ACTUALLY WORK?

Only 7% claimed. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?! 

"Effective in attracting men, but also smells amazing." Bonus!

Remember to allow time for the Pheromones to Attract Men.

- HEART-SHAPED FLOWERING TEA. Because I'm a fancy lady from Fancy Town.

- STAR-SHAPED CONFETTI! It's sold by Confetti Momma, so...I mean, how could I not?

- A SICK PAIR OF SUNNIES.

- RIP VAN WAFELS COOKIES. Yum-o!

- THIS CHILDREN'S BOOK, I WILL SURPRISE MY FRIEND!

Lookit those sneaky friends.

Also: I'm a total Gerald. Which sneaky friend are you?

I did buy one other thing. Since it's Treat Yo Self day, I bought the most luxurious, indulgent thing I could think of:  

Bill doesn't know. Wait till he comes home to find me COVERED IN GOLD. 

(via)

HELLO AGAIN.

Welp, after a month of GETTING FOCUSED and PLANNING THINGS, I find myself no better prepared for writing this blog than I was in May, so I might as well jump in, since I don't see the situation changing anytime soon.

I've decided that any temperature above 80 is too hot for yard work, or any kind of work, really, which means I'm sitting inside scouring the internet for the perfect dining room chairs for our Federal style house.

The problem is that my personal taste fits more with the Baroque or Rococo aesthetic. Even Victorian is a little too staid for me. Which means that, in my mind, these chairs are Totally Reasonable for a dining room in an 1812 house in small-town Pennsylvania:

You are allowed to disagree with me, but keep in mind that you are wrong.

Is it totally reasonable to pay $1,750 for them? PROBABLY NOT, but the listing did remind me that whatever chairs we do end up buying, I can smother them in gold leaf and drape them in brocade and live out all of my overwrought fantasies.

(I also want to gold leaf most if not all of my attic workshop. Walls, ceiling, carpet -- all of it gold leaf.)

(But that's another post for another time.)

UPDATE:

I LIED. THESE ARE OUR NEW DINING ROOM CHAIRS:

I'm going to host a weekly brunch and call it Pancakes and Pedicures. You're invited. YOU'RE ALL INVITED!

Also, while we're at it, let's talk about outside dining. We have a very long backyard and a long walk-out basement, perfect for storing Very Long Things that We Will Only Use Approximately Once a Year. Our friend makes these amazing farmhouse tables, and I want to have him make a super-long one, then buy old church pews to place on either side and invite everyone we know for a Dr. Seuss-esque feast. Of course, if you're sitting in the middle and want to get up for any reason, you'll either have to climb over people's laps or back flip out of your seat.

Still, I think it's worth it. FOR THE DRAMA.

HOLD YER HORSES.

I JUST GOT THIS WEBSITE FINISHED AND I THINK IT'S A LITTLE UNREASONABLE TO EXPECT ME TO ALREADY HAVE SOME CONTENT UP AND READY FOR YOU TO CONSUME. I MEAN THAT'S JUST -- THAT -- I'M ONLY ONE PERSON. IT'S JUST ME, IN THIS TINY ROOM, WITH ONE OVERHEAD LIGHT SWINGING FROM THE CEILING, CASTING MAD SHADOWS OVER THE WALLS. THE LIGHT WILL NOT STOP SWINGING, NO MATTER WHAT I DO. IT'S MAKING ME DIZZY. AND EVERY TIME IT REACHES THE APEX OF ITS SLOW SWING, MY SHADOW LOOKS LIKE A MONSTER THAT'S RUNNING FROM ONE SIDE OF THE ROOM TO THE OTHER, WHICH IS AN ENTIRELY UNPLEASANT THING WHEN ONE IS TRYING TO WORK.

So. I mean, you can see. Clearly I have some pretty urgent stuff going on here right now. What with the light and all.

Come back tomorrow. Maybe I'll have things figured out. But I wouldn't count on it if I were you.