Thanksgiving Mega-Post

[DISCLAIMER: This guide is neither brief nor does it describe a stress-free holiday.]

 SATURDAY BEFORE THANKSGIVING.

Here's something that took me three years of marriage to find out: my husband is the Clark Griswold of Thanksgiving.

"Carrie," he said to me, after informing me that, since we're hosting Thanksgiving for the first time this year, he wants to buy a fresh turkey that costs roughly as much as a diamond tiara, "this is the only holiday where all you have to do is eat. I was born for this."

He also wants to spatchcock it. If you're afraid to Google that term because you don't want anyone to see it in your search history and think you're some sort of pervert, I'll explain: 

How to Spatchcock a Turkey
(Or, I Suppose, Any Other Bird You Choose to Eat. Not Here to Judge.) 

  1. Find yourself a bird. Lay it on its tummy. (I like to use cutesy, humanizing words when talking about something so dehumanizing. REALLY PUTS ME IN THE HOLIDAY SPIRIT.)

  2. Cut out its backbone. Now it won't be able to fight back. Although, fair warning, its spirit will haunt you for eighty years. But like, so will the tenderness and flavor of the meat when you cook it this way? So it sort of evens out.

  3. Turn the turkey over onto what was, until a moment ago, an innocent and upstanding back, and, with both of your bloodstained palms, press its poor little chest down until its ribs crack and the turkey lies still as the grave and flatter than Stanley.

  4. Dry brine and roast!

"I'd rather use those grocery store points I think are still valid for a free frozen turkey, and then buy a diamond tiara," I said. "I'll let you wear it, and you can be the QUEEN of THANKSGIVING!"

However, he was not to be swayed. So we have ordered a fresh turkey, which will be spatchcocked and brined while I take a long walk and think about how my life got to this point.

  SUNDAY: THE GREAT SHOPPING TRIP.

While I stayed home and got a little loopy off silver-polishing fumes (Um, yeah. We polished our silver. What are we, SAVAGES?), Bill took a carefully timed trip to the grocery store to get everything we need. 

"If I go on a weekend evening," he reasoned, "I'll probably avoid most of the crowds. But there will probably be more things out of stock." He was right on both counts. He came back bearing three great armloads of shopping bags filled with mixed nuts and mini marshmallows and pumpkin pie filling and just about all of the onions left in the free world.

"They'd been cleaned out of herbs already," he said as he collapsed on a chair. I was halfway through a Claymation Christmas Special refrain of "WHAT are we gonna DO?!" before I remembered that it is not Thanksgiving Eve. Grocery stores are open tomorrow. And the next day. And even the next. 

When he had recovered, he eyed me across the table where I was industriously buffing away at a large spoon. "Did you find those cloths in the basement?"  he asked.

"YOU MEAN THEEESE?" I said with a lopsided grin as I held up an orange cloth stained black from its mysterious silver-polishing properties ("The polish is in the cloth!" the bag proudly proclaimed. "The blacker it gets, the better it works!" ). 

"Yeah, we should definitely throw those out," he said. "They're from the '60s at least."

"The bag says it's safe!" I told him. "I believe the bag!" My voice dropped to a low growl. "And only the bag, from now on."

Bill took the cloth from my hand and walked me outside for some air. After that I switched to a silver cleaner and a plain, humble rag, and I sat on the porch singing my little silver polishing songs and pretending I was a butler in a big, fancy house. 

 MONDAY.

I have made schedules. Not just one, but several. I have my schedule for Thanksgiving Day which directs me when and where to put all of the foods in various places, and then I have another one detailing the days leading up to Thanksgiving. This second one mostly consists of a gut-clenching whirlwind of cleaning and cooking whatever can be prepared before the actual day.

Like the cranberry sauce. 

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Cranberry sauce is wonderful because it's so easy to make yet so delicious, and because the cranberries burst when they cook with a little pop! that makes the kitchen sounds so cheery, even though it's sort of like the berries are dying before your very ears. But at least they get to die in a simmering bath of sugar, orange zest, and cinnamon. It's how I'd like to go. Exploding in a hot fruit stew.

With this first official dish of Thanksgiving cooling on the stove, I'd like to take a moment to preach the good news of Serious Eats. Over the past six months or so, we have noticed that the very best recipes we’ve tried have come from Serious Eats. It makes sense. They use SCIENCE to test all their recipes, and explain at the top of each recipe why their method works so well. Last week I made General Tso’s that was super crispy and the only kind I’ve ever eaten that I didn’t need to put Sriracha on. So when Bill found their guide to all of the holiday dishes we could possibly want, I stopped worrying about hunting down the best recipe for glazed carrots and stuffing, for this was to be A Very Serious Eats Thanksgiving!

We are all very excited.

LATER MONDAY.

My mother-in-law is sick. 

It's all I can think about as I clean the house. As the stress bears down upon me like a great block of cement. As I read over the schedule that has me dusting, sweeping, vacuuming, mopping, laundering, cleaning the bathrooms, AND wrestling a duvet into submission, all over the next ten hours. Because I am a masochist.

"Thaaat's cute, Carrie," I tell myself aloud as I scan the list.  "When we both know you're going to abandon this list by dinnertime when you find yourself sobbing on the floor with three out of your four limbs twisted up in the duvet and the house somehow dirtier than when you started.”

But back to the sickness. There's so much dust in the air, clogging my sinuses. So many cleaner fumes entering my lungs to compromise their functioning. So much stress dampening my immune system.

It’s going to happen. I shall fall to the virus. It will have me in its clutches by Wednesday.

My fate is assured.

For today, however, I will carry on. I will take a short nap right there on the floor, just a quick snooze, all tangled up in the damnable duvet, and then I will get up and sweep the floor beneath my feet. Sweep it clean of the dust which doth offend so.

I am not afraid.

I was born to do this.

 TUESDAY.

"Can we name the turkey Beauregard?" I asked Bill this morning. For today is Turkey Fetching Day, which means he goes to the farmers market on his lunch break and picks up the turkey from the butcher. So it’s really less of a whole big day and more a midday errand. But it’s exciting to me nonetheless.  

The rest of the conversation went thusly: 

He still hasn’t come up with a better name. Too busy making memes out of our disagreements, I guess.

TUESDAY NIGHT.

“How about Turkule Poirot?” I said as we tweezed pin feathers from the turkey’s flesh.

“Turkules,” he suggested as we patted the turkey dry and laid it gently on its breast.

“Chris Turkeyton.” He paused his kitchen shears and looked at me blankly. “From Scrubs!”

“Joseph Gobbles,” he said as he finally ripped the spine from the turkey’s carcass and held it in the air. “This time he goes in the oven!”

We settled on Allen Ginsbird. We were going to name it Ruth Bader Ginsbird, but this was right before he cracked the turkey’s ribs. It felt a little too on the nose.

WEDNESDAY.

It’s HIGH TIME for PIE TIME!

Here is the thing. The very thing. I wanted to make the pies yesterday. Truly, I did. But our TAPIOCA STARCH—which I had to order SPECIALLY for the APPLE pie because Serious Eats SAYS so and I am a DISCIPLE of that WEBsite now—didn’t get here till today.

DID YOU EVAH?

And the in-laws arrive this very aftahnewn, and me with mah little ol’ hands all full of punkin pie fillin’, and tapioca starch all in mah hair makin’ me look like an old, old lady! And me only a girl of eight-and-twenny!

Oh, god. I apologize. I don’t know what’s happening right now. Is this panic? It feels like panic. But you know, I don’t know why I should be panicking, in all honesty. There’s not really all that much that I have to do today. I’m just unraveling.

Back to the pies. We are making three: pumpkin in a gluten-free crust, pecan in a regular crust, and apple in a crust made only of tapioca starch and the spirit of friendship.

Now, pecan pie is, I feel, incorrectly named. If we were being honest, it would be called Sugar Pie: Now with Nuts! But even though I can feel my arteries congealing as the pie bakes, I can’t resist Sugar Pie. The weird, curdly custard…the way the pecans magically rise to the top…the sugar. As you are aware, this was the original pie in the window that so tempted the very first hobo to snatch a pie cooling on a windowsill. No one can resist that sugary goodness—no one.

Then there’s the apple pie. Uniform apple slices bathe in ginger, cloves, cinnamon, nutmeg, and salt until they release all their stresses and toxins and juices and then you take all that and make it into pie. These babies macerate for three hours, and then you mix in the tapioca starch and pop the whole mess into the flakiest crust there ever was or ever will be.

Pumpkin…is just pumpkin. I just use the recipe off the Libby’s can. A classic.

WEDNESDAY NIGHT.

Family is here. So it begins.

THURSDAY.

8:32 - I didn’t sleep last night. I mean…I slept some. A little. I don’t want to exaggerate. I slept a minimal amount. But not much. I was too excited. And also the dogs were snoring. But mostly…the excitement.

10:46 - It’s breakfast time and I am ITCHING to GET STARTED. But there’s only so much you can do in the morning if you aren’t stuffing and roasting a turkey the traditional way. Roasting a spatchcocked bird only takes a few hours, even when you unexpectedly find yourself with a twenty-two-pound bird for five people. This gobbler is a king among poultry. We are swimming in turkey.

…Or—wait, no. That’s not what I—never mind.

11:53: Did you know that the red wiggly skin flap thing that hangs over the turkey’s beak like a deflated nose is called a snood? Stay tuned for more Fun Thanksgiving Facts.

12:42 - Pro tip: When you are toasting bread for stuffing, try cutting it into cubes BEFORE you put it in the oven. It really cuts down on crumbs. Which…are…everywhere, now.

2:10 - STUFFING IS MADE. STUFFING—IS—MADE. FIRST DISH OF THE DAY IS A GO. IT’S HAPPENING, FRIENDS. IT’S ALL HAPPENING.

2:11 - I need to CALM DOWN.

2:30 - Collecting leaves to decorate the table. Junebug is advising me, as she is an expert on All Thing Leaves. “You’re doing it wrong!” she says. “Forget this basket thing. You’re supposed to CHOMP the leaves, Carrie. Chomp them. Like this. See?”

2:31 - Have chomped my first leaf. Not bad.

3:34 - The turkey juuust fits in the oven, legs all akimbo, nestled snugly among the aromatics. The table is set. The vegetables are being peeled and chopped. I’m dressed like a pilgrim. Let’s do this thing.

4:10 - OH WOW. OH, HOLY WOW. WE HAD A BAKING SHEET WITH WATER ON IT TO CATCH THE DRIPPINGS FROM THE DRUMSTICKS BECAUSE THIS BIRD CAN’T BE CONTAINED EVEN BY THE GIANT BROILER SHEET. BUT WHEN WE BASTED IT, WE FLIPPED THE BIRD AROUND AND DIDN’T SWITCH THE PAN OVER AND NOW THE ENTIRE HOUSE IS FILLED WITH SMOKE. HAPPY THANKSGIVING TO US ALL.

4:13 - Oh, and also one of the stuffings is burnt to a crisp. It is gluten-free stuffing, so some might say burning it improves the flavor, but it’s still not what we were going for.

4:22 - The rolls are not rising. I don’t know why. I put the dough in a warm place. Well, a very warm place. Well, I put it on top of the stove. Which is set at 450 degrees. And it was only when I whirled around to see that the dough was sort of…steaming? that I realized the stove top might be a BIT TOO WARM.

4:35 - You know when you’re watching a cooking competition, and the contestants make one stupid mistake after another and you’re like, PUT THE THING IN THE THING, YOU MORON! Today I am that moron.

4:49 - Yeah, these rolls are dead. I used to be the queen of rolls when I was younger. Now that title has passed to my sister, an actual baker, and I am the queen of steamed dough blobs. Not the worst thing I’ve ever been called, but still.

5:08 - BUG. A BUG IS HERE. IN THE KITCHEN. IT’S HUGE AND IT’S FLYING AROUND AND IT IS GOING TO LAND IN THE GRAVY, I KNOW IT.

5:09 - The bug is gone. Nobody knows where. Either it flew out when we turned off all the lights and opened the door and crouched down like the A-bomb was really coming this time, or it’s lying in wait until we let our guard down. A sense of foreboding settles over the room as we return cautiously to our work.

5:22 - The stock that I made from the spine, neck, and giblets of the turkey has gelled so much that, when I went to pour it into the pan, it bounced like a Bumble and looked like it was going to keep on bouncing right out of the pan and onto the floor. Luckily, it didn’t. Calamity avoided.

5:43 - I’m taking a moment. So far, the day has been pretty smooth, with all the help I’ve been given. But we’re about to hit crunch time, when the sad, flat rolls need to go in the oven, the carrots need to be glazed, the yams need to warm, and the gravy needs to thicken. Brussels sprouts and turnips need to be watched, the turkey needs to be carved, and wine needs to be poured. Everything needs to happen at once, and these types of high-pressure situations are ones in which I notoriously crack. I haven’t veered toward panic yet, and God willing I shall remain panic-less. I will swallow this fear and wash it down with a hearty glass of milk, because women under thirty need to make sure to get enough calcium daily to stave off osteoporosis when they get older (have I mentioned I tend to ramble when I get nervous?). I will carry on, my wayward son. I am a warrior. Let us proceed.

5:44 - OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD OH GOD—

6:25 - THE GRAVY ISN’T THICKENING. OHHH NO. OHHH ME. OHHH MY. IT’S PANIC TIME. EVERYTHING ELSE IS READY BUT THE GRAVY AND WHAT IS EVEN THE POINT OF THANKSGIVING IF THERE IS. NO. GRAVY?!

6:26 - Okay. I put…well, a lot of corn starch in. Possibly too much corn starch. But it instantly thickened, and I am in DISTRESS MODE, so right now thick is all I care about.

6:27 - (You don’t have to make the joke. I saw it. Just let this one go. For Thanksgiving.)

6:31 - Everything is ready. It all came together. The spatchcocked, diamond-tiara-turkey is unbelievably tasty, the stuffing is out of control, the cranberry sauce is deliciously spiced, and even though the gravy is congealing and the rolls truly did fall flat, our Very Serious Eats Thanksgiving! is, I think, overall a great success.

I am exhausted. And stuffed. I’ll be ready for pie in approximately ten months.

Like every year, we went around the table and said what we were thankful for. This has been a difficult year in a lot of ways, but because of that, I feel more resilient and open. So I’m thankful of course for all of the normal things like family and friends and good fortune, but I’m also grateful for growth, for our ability to look back this time of year and see how we’ve changed for the better. And that, to quote Cousin Eddie, is “the gift that keeps on givin’ the whooole year.”

That it is, Edward. That it is, indeed.


FRIDAY MORNING.

WE FOUND THE BUG. IN A CUPBOARD, ON TOP OF A CUP. I THOUGHT IT WAS DEAD, BUT THEN IT MOVED A LEG, LIKE MRS. ROBINSON IN THAT MOVIE THE GRADUATE. BILL HAS TRAPPED IT WITH ANOTHER CUP, SO THAT IT’S LIKE A CUP TOTEM POLE, AND HE’S TAKING IT OUTSIDE WHERE IT WILL LIKELY FREEZE TO DEATH IN THE COLDEST THANKSGIVING WEEKEND IN A HUNDRED YEARS.

It’s the pilgrim way.

Puppy Town

I’ve watched a lot of sunrises lately.

In the past, if I’ve seen a sunrise it’s been because I couldn’t manage to get to sleep, and I would frown and shake my fist as the sun clawed its way over the horizon. Or maybe I was talking with friends or working all night and the sunrise arrived unexpectedly, like the hiccups. 

I have not become a “morning person,” whatever that is. These days, we’ve been hanging out with a fourteen-week-old puppy, Junebug, whose waking hours skew about four hours earlier than mine.

PRIME LEAF HUNTING HOURS ARE BEFORE DAWN, she reminds me daily. EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT, LADY. EVERYBODY. WHO EVEN TAUGHT YOU HOW TO HUNT LEAVES?

PRIME LEAF HUNTING HOURS ARE BEFORE DAWN, she reminds me daily. EVERYBODY KNOWS THAT, LADY. EVERYBODY. WHO EVEN TAUGHT YOU HOW TO HUNT LEAVES?

It’s not so bad, though, this morning thing. Every day Junebug and I stumble downstairs, have a nice little chat over coffee, maybe piddle on the rug, take a walk and stop to marvel at every car that passes, and then once a week I trim her nails while she helps me out by clawing all of the skin off my face and neck. If I leave her alone for too long while I get dressed, she keens like I have died and she’s the only creature left in this cold, harsh world.

By this point it’s about 8:00.

She eats a hearty breakfast of raw salmon and politely offers me a bite, which I appreciate but emphatically decline. Outside, she tears through the yard like a gremlin, stopping only to hunt for worms and eat scat from whatever mystery animal prowls through our garden at night. A feral cat? A mischievous groundhog? Who knows. But it would seem that its poop tastes delicious. She offers me some of that, too.

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say. “I just ate…um…a beetle. Right over there. You didn’t see it, because of…the poop. But yeah, I’m all set.”

You sure? she asks.

“Yup,” I say, clutching at her collar as she strains to get back behind the trees for seconds.

Okay, weirdo.

Junebug has more than doubled in size since we took her home. I’m no mathemateer, but if my calculations are correct, we will have a Clifford situation on our hands by Christmas. Sometimes Bill and I will shake our heads over the size of her paws and whisper, horrified, Think of all the salmon.

Most of the day she spends playing with our other dog (her mama), which means she jumps on top of her and gnaws her ears and jowls until Halo knocks her to the floor with one giant paw. Then they clash together and begin to sing like two seals, their mouths wide open, their teeth clacking eerily. It is truly a sight to behold. And a sound to behear. Especially when I'm working.

Sometimes I'll read a section aloud to them over the ruckus. "How does that sound, ladies?" I ask them. 

But they just sing and sing. Without even a word as to whether the dialogue sounds contrived.

The dogs don’t call us Mom and Dad, instead referring to us as Monsieur and The Lady (their idea, not ours). Per their request, we in turn use the formal Sie whenever we speak to them in German.

They are very proper puppers.

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Getting up early wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t also wear myself out emotionally by laying all these cripplingly high expectations on myself. For instance, all the dog training books and articles and podcasts suggest that as long as you never let the dog pee in the house, you will have a perfectly house trained puppy in no time! Of course, I took that to mean that if she had even a single accident, I was Doing Something Wrong.

“If the experts with decades of experience can do it in a week,” I said, “then surely I, a first-time puppy owner, can do it just as fast! After all, I’ve read the books.”

Two hundred thirty-seven clean-ups later, I’m beginning to reconsider.

But each accident sets her back a week in training! I warbled weepily to no one. According to the literature! In my sleep-deprived state, I was convinced I’d be cleaning up after this dog ten times a day for the rest of my life or hers, whichever came first. Yet here we are — after a month and a half of belly rubs and puppy breath and head tilts and floppy ears and big yawns and clumsy limbs and almost unbearable sweetness — and somehow, everything has worked out fine. She still has the occasional accident, but at this point, for a pup her age, it’s Good Enough.

Good Enough is not an easy concept for perfectionists to grasp, but I think I understand the theory. It’s like when I cook: I start out making a certain recipe, and if we don’t have a couple ingredients I make some substitutions, and maybe I'm tired so I take a few shortcuts, and before you know it we end up with something that looks less like the original recipe and more like a bowl of rice and beans, maybe with a little cheese on top.

“Gooood enough!” I say, and I drench it in hot sauce and dig in while Bill thumbs wistfully through our many cookbooks.

It’s more difficult to apply this to creative projects. The book I’ve been working on for years now is done. I’ve spent almost a year editing, and I could go on editing it for decades longer, but after all these months of fiddling and tweaking and deleting and rearranging and messing with the font size, I think it’s time to stop. Tomorrow I am going…to let…another human…read it. Even though…it’s not…perfect. Even though it is only…Good Enough.

Oh, wow. I clenched my jaw so hard there I think I broke a tooth. Huh.

Maybe tomorrow Junie and I will wake up, stumble outside with our coffee, have a little chat, and then I’ll settle in to work on any one of the other twenty-six projects I’ve started, while she chomps sticks and the sun rises like an earnest promise over the trees.

Either that or I’ll just skim the book one more time, just real quick. Make sure, like, the voice is consistent or whatever. No big deal. It’s fine. I can stop any time I want!

Why YA?

Sometimes I still feel a little embarrassed to tell people that I'm writing a young adult book. 

"Oh!" they say. "That sounds...easy."

Does it? I want to say. Well it's NOT. Teenage audiences are VERY. DISCERNING. They have their favorite things which they adore and they think everything else is GARBAGE. And I cannot try for even ONE SECOND to be cool because they will see RIGHT THROUGH IT. It is a MINUSCULE LINE between being RELEVANT and being a JOKE. WHERE MY HIGH SCHOOL TEACHERS AT? YOU GET IT. YOU UNDERSTAND. YOU'RE THE REAL HEROES. 

But I don't say any of that out loud. Obviously. I don't want people to think I'm an insane person. Instead, next time someone asks why I write what I write instead of "real novels," I can point them to this handy list to explain WHY YA:

  1. DRAMA. There's a reason why Romeo and Juliet are teenagers--because who else would pretend not to be biting their thumbs at each other even though they totally were; fall in love with someone else when they were seriously JUST making out with poor Rosaline; disregard their families' weird blood feud or whatever; speak only in iambic pentameter; get married in secret after five minutes; and then, like, LITERALLY DIE, except not, except then yes? Teenage life is all tension. It's visceral and terrible and magnificent, expanding and contracting all at once. When we're young we feel everything, even if we don't understand or want to feel it, and all this internal struggle makes for some real compelling characters. I don't mean drama in a negative sense here, either; I think great stories feature people who care deeply (which is why The Catcher in the Rye can sod right off). Young adults care deeply about the world, their friends, their passions. Maybe it's easy for older people to dismiss young adults because we think they're hormone-addled nut jobs who will eventually grow out of their idealism and look back on their teenage years in shame and horror, just like the rest of us. Or maybe we're embarrassed to remember how tragic and foolish we seemed at that age. Despite how brutal and messy those years can be, however, it's a mistake not to respect teenagers--their lives, their stories, their potential, their eminent worth. Their problems are real. Their stories are important. They deserve to hear that.
     
  2. SELF-REFLECTION. I spent all of my teenage years (plus most-to-all of my twenties) intensely confused--about what I wanted, who I was, and pretty much everything about the world around me. The lessons teenagers are supposed to learn are so complex that I (and most adults I know) still struggle to internalize them--universal lessons like how to become a decent human being, or how to recognize your own worth, or what to do when the bassist of your band, Snakes for Feet, is fighting with the lead singer, and it looks like the band might break up but you really just don't have time to deal with this right now because you have to give a speech tomorrow for which you are wildly unprepared. Much of contemporary YA fiction features characters with a HOOK: they're dying, or their friend is dying, or they have to solve a murder mystery in space. Much of it deals with Very Serious Topics like bullying, or drugs, or pregnancy, or violence, or bullying pregnant girls into doing drugs but then they hit you. This makes for vital, gripping fiction that gets young people excited about reading and helps them deal with big issues, which is obviously SO GREAT. However, there's also the kid over there who looks sleepy and a little lost, and he's all like, "So I woke up today...and I have all these feelings...and I don't think I'm emotionally equipped to handle...well, much of anything, really. I certainly couldn't solve a murder mystery, even if it happened on Earth. I just want to be able to eat a taco at lunch on Tuesday without spilling the taco fixings all down my front." Them's m'people. Your concerns are valid, too, and I write for you, you sweet, awkward, confused, little chipmunks. Please teach me all the new slang, and in return I promise to use at least seventy percent of it wrong so you can laugh at me forever.
     
  3. FRIENDSHIP. Let me tell ya, there is nothing goofier, funnier, or more formidable than a group of teenage friends. I'm obsessed with the way teenagers use and change language, and the quality of their friendships feels unique within society: So supportive! So expressive! So chock-full of stupid jokes and dumb ideas, like "Wanna see me try to do a front flip over this railing?" Friends I made in high school (middle school, really, but that's a different genre of books) are still some of my closest people, so writing about teenage friendships feels a little like hanging out with them again. So do I write YA because I'm lonely? I'd prefer not to answer that!
     
  4. INSPIRATION. The other night at an event I met a fifteen-year-old girl who is spending her summer helping out at the campaign of a congressional candidate she believes in. She wants to take a semester off school to keep helping them through November (she is of course the only one who thinks this is a good idea). Let me repeat: she's fifteen. When I was fifteen, I was trying to memorize all the words to "One Week" by Barenaked Ladies (side note: I succeeded! It's good to keep your dreams attainable, friends). My youngest sister just graduated high school, and she gives speeches. In public. To people. She's a talented writer with an inspiring blog, and she (unsurprisingly) wants a career that will let her help people. Every teenager I talk to is so smart, so self-assured and focused and shockingly mature. They seem to all want to change the world, work hard, and help others--and what's more, they already have a plan to achieve their goals. They're not waiting until they're older; they're starting now. So, of course I admire young adults. They're funny and smart and creative and enthusiastic and sad and messy and way overly dramatic--why would anyone not want to write stories about such an awesome group of humans?

Flirting Tips for Human People

FRIENDS. I realize that up till now I may have given the impression that I am more or less a misanthropic recluse who would rather chew my own leg off than spend time with other human people. This is mostly true. HOWEVER--as much as I fear and loathe social interaction, I do love watching other people interact with each other. In fact, through my observations, I've become something of an expert in the matter of flirting. The following represents the sum of my knowledge on the subject.

You are so very welcome.

Our scene is a party. Passed apps--something wrapped in rice paper, heavy on the cucumbers. Summer aperitifs--lightly fizzy, with a single red raspberry bobbing like a jewel among the bubbles. Human people--talking, laughing, mingling. The scene is ripe for romance.

You are there, a little sweaty, but not too sweaty, not like anyone will look you up and down and be like, "It wasn't supposed to rain today! I left the sunroof open on my Hyundai Sonata! Why does this always happen to me?" You're wearing that new outfit you bought the other day because the salesperson told you it made you look older. "Like twenty-five," she said. So, yeah, you're feeling pretty good. Your hair isn't doing that weird thing. You've managed not to drip any of the dipping sauce from those cucumber things on your shirt. AND, as if that's not enough, an exceedingly cute human person has made eye contact with you four times in the past seven minutes.

It's go time. This is your moment. Time to shine.

Remember: First impressions are EVERYTHING. And they happen before you say a single word to each other. So go ahead and give 'em The Look from across the room. You know the one:

Make or find animated gifs like World's most shocked owl goes viral after hilarious TV appearance which stunned the audience on gifs.com

Now that things are heating up, saunter on over and begin the flirting.

  1. There's no point in striking up a flirtation unless you have something to offer to the other person. Are you smart? Funny? Good-looking? If so, these tips are not for you. Surely you've got enough going on. You can go ahead and keep doing what you're doing, which I assume consists of leaning in doorways and looking aloof yet wry.
  2. The rest of us will need some interesting or valuable skills to snare the attention of that special someone. Can you do impressions? Or parallel park on the first try? Are you an accomplished bow hunter who could provide for them if you were stranded together in the wilderness? Do yourself a favor and drop your credentials into the conversation as soon as possible, e.g. "GOOD EVENING MY NAME IS MILTON HAVE I MENTIONED I HAVE A BLACK BELT IN THE DELICATE ART OF FOLDING TABLE NAPKINS?"
  3. Don't neglect your personality, though. If you have a good one, it'll shine right through and you have nothing else to worry about. Proceed to Step 5.
  4. If, however, you have a bad personality, you're gonna need to do some work (ask your friends if you're not sure, and if you don't have friends, there's your answer). If this is you, leave the party now. Go home and have a long think about your life. But save that outfit. You really do look great in it.
  5. Contrary to popular belief, you do not need a seek out a magic opening line. You don't have to engineer a meet cute or finagle a fake chance meeting. You don't need to do anything. If it's meant to be--and I think it is--you will simply find yourself, suddenly and mysteriously, in deep and scintillating conversation. There, wasn't that easy?
  6. Keep things playful. Creep up behind them, pull a burlap sack over their head, and whisper, "Guess who?" If they scream and elbow you in the gut, it just means they like you. Honestly.
  7. Mirror their body language. This tip is backed up by SCIENCE, which says that humans love looking at themselves, so the more you can trick them into thinking they're actually looking in a mirror, the more they'll like you. We're like birds that way. In fact, I see no reason not to follow that out to its logical conclusion: Go ahead and style your hair like theirs. Show up in the same outfit. Make a plaster mold of their face. Retreat to the bathroom to finish crafting your mask. They won't be able to resist you once you look exactly like them. Ignore the shouts of the other party-goers as they pound impatiently on the door. Their bladders will have to wait. Love is on the line.
  8. Speaking of body language, make sure yours is open, inviting, and confident. Like a starfish. Spread your limbs out to all sides so that you look like a giant X. If you feel comfortable taking it to the next level, dribble your drink into your mouth from high in the air, like you're a reverse fountain. Hey, look at you! You're flirting! 
  9. Not sure what to talk about? Ask a question you can connect over, like, "Should I get bangs?" This is a great one because it makes the other person focus on your forehead, which we all know is the sexiest part of the human form.
  10. Excuse yourself to go to the restroom, and as you pass by them, slap 'em on the butt like a football player. If they protest, say, "Whoops! I thought that was my butt!"
  11. Actually, don't do that. It's weird. Keep your hands to yourself. Forever. In fact, stand way over on the other side of the room and do a little close-up magic. If that doesn't entice them over, then it's time to move on, friend.
  12. Some people will tell you that the ideal amount of eye contact in normal human conversations is 60/40; roughly, that translates to three seconds on, two seconds off (HOORAY FRACTIONS!). But I would posit a ratio of 100/0. I mean, can you really have too much eye contact? Caaan yooou? 
  13. No. You cannot.
  14. If there's music playing, get that sucka out on the dance floor and bust every one of your very best moves. Really put on a show. You are a bird of paradise, flaunting your glorious plumage! You are a sage-grouse puffing your chest up with air until it pops! You are a hooded seal proudly inflating your face balloon! Communicate only with your body--your twirls and shimmies and shakes--that your entire life has been leading up to this moment, this one right now, with the flashing lights and the thundering bass and the sweat of a thousand strangers soaring through the air like so much confetti. OH, ISN'T IT MAGICAL!
  15. Before you part ways for the night, it's polite to offer your flirtee an offering of some sort. Sashay up to them, take their wrist gently, and drop the dead mouse you've been carrying in your mouth right into their palm. They will be overcome by your generosity, and from that moment on they will be yours.

Ah, well done. Congratulations, friend, on doing a flirt.

I DON'T MEAN TO RAIN ON ANYONE'S PARADE, BUT...

At last.

The summer solstice has come and gone. Today we commence a steady march toward darkness, the descent after a long, heady rise. Labor Day creeps toward us as the summer days slip away like beads from a necklace.

Every day, a little less sunlight.

Every night, a phantom chill in the air, lurking at the edges of your patriotic barbecues and your beach bonfires.

The Sweaty Season has barely begun, with its blinding, glaring sunshine and its thick, heavy air and its bugs - all those bugs! - yet it will meet its end all too soon. 

So catch your fireflies, summer children; hold them in a jar. Drink your margaritas, you sunshine-addled darlings. Wring the sweat from your clothes before snapping your post-hike selfies, you masochistic lunatics. Tell me you're having a good time as you sniffle and sneeze and the ragweed dances around you in a midsummer nightmare. Go on. Tell me.

As for me, I will abide. I will pick the gnats from my teeth and smile. I will slather my body in calamine lotion till I look like a newborn rat. I will shave my legs and watch with satisfaction as the blood flows down my calf when I inevitably nick my kneecap. I will wait this season out without complaint because I know that soon, autumn will be here, that elegant lady richly adorned in cinnamon velvet and fire, to take you in her arms and soothe your fevered body, your heavy limbs. 

The most dramatic season is coming, my little nectarines.

And then we shall be queens.

EXCUSES (A Conversation Between Me and Me)

ME: Yo. Do I REALLY need more friends?

ALSO ME: Yes.

ME: Really?

ALSO ME: Yes!

ME: But, like...it's so much work. I'd have to put on pants...and have conversations...and do something with my hair. Have you SEEN how much hair I have? 

ALSO ME: Don't care. You need friends. You're like a sad, wilting house plant without them.

ME: But, I mean, I already have at least seven people I would consider close-if-not-best friends. That seems like enough, right?

ALSO ME: Best friends who you're afraid to call?

ME: Um, first of all, it's whom? And I'm not afraid to call them. It's all the talking once they pick up that scares me.

ALSO ME: You know, that "whom" thing might be why you don't have more friends. Now go talk to people. And quit correcting their grammar, ya goober.

ME: Okay, but what if they don't like me?

ALSO ME: Oh, you delicate flower. I think you'll survive, somehow.

ME: What if they just put up with me because they like spending time with Bill? He's a delight! Whereas I just sit there quietly observing people like a spooky cat. And sometimes my face makes weird expressions that I don't mean for it to have! How can I navigate new social situations if I don't even know what my face is doing?!

ALSO ME: Your face is fine. Well...it's good enough. I mean, it's not awful. That is, I'm sure there are worse faces. And other people are weird and awkward, too. Quit worrying.

ME: Quit worrying? Hi, yeah, have you met me?

ALSO ME: Your excuses are pitifully flimsy. Go talk to other humans. HUMANS. If you come home saying you made ten new friends and it turns out they're all neighborhood dogs again...

ME: That was ONE TIME.

ALSO ME: Once is too many times.

ME: Okay. All right. Look. Here's the thing. It takes 50 hours to go from acquaintance to friend. That means if I see someone an hour a week (which, let's be honest, is pretty generous), that's an entire year before the scientific community would consider them a friend. Then another 40 hours on top of that to become a close friend. AND 200 HOURS TOTAL FOR BEST FRIENDSHIP. 

ALSO ME: Better get started, then.

ME: I dunno. It still seems risky.

ALSO ME: How? From where I'm sitting, you only have something to gain.

ME: Well, switch seats with me, then, because it is scary. Sure, it'd be great to have local friends. I know some people, and I'd almost consider them friends, but something in me, deep in some dark, oddly muggy pit in my gut, keeps whispering that they don't actually want to be my friend. That I don't have anything to offer. That I shouldn't impose on them. That I'm not wanted and never will be.

ALSO ME: Oh, yeah. The gut pit voice. What a jerk. But you don't really believe that, do you?

ME: ...

ALSO ME: Oh, come on!

ME: Gut Pit Voice is very convincing! You don't know.

ALSO ME: Look, I hate to be blunt--

ME: You love to be blunt!

ALSO ME: --but you're not special. You don't get to be the one person in the universe who is exempt from the horrors of vulnerability. If you heard someone else saying all the things you're saying, what would you tell them?

ME: That they are very wise.

ALSO ME: ...I kinda walked into that one.

ME: I don't have enough interests yet. How will I connect with people? First I have to learn everything about music, books, obscure cinema, art, philosophy, sports, international cuisine, world events, and falconry. 

ALSO ME: Why falconr--you know what? I don't want to know. These are terrible excuses!

ME: Okay, well, how about the fact that there are no karaoke bars in the entire county? How am I supposed to spark a friendship if not over a moving rendition of "Tubthumping"? It is impossible. Plus, I need new clothes. All my shoes are literally falling apart and I still wear shirts I bought in eighth grade. And I need a haircut. Maybe if I get bangs, people will like me.

ALSO ME: Your clothes are fine, you should definitely NOT get bangs, and maybe you could buy your own karaoke machine. You've always wanted one. And you already have a smoke machine. 

ME: That's true.... Ooh, and I could make the attic into a ball pit! And maybe we could get a slip 'n' slide!

ALSO ME: Yes! Do it!

ME: AND A FALCON!

ALSO ME: Y--what? Hold up--

ME: Wait, but then how would I know whether people actually liked me or if they just wanted to slip and/or slide?

ALSO ME: Oh, good lord.

ME: Better not risk it.

ALSO ME: ...I...just...okay. You win. You can make dog friends. For now.

ME: Ha-HA! SUCCESS!

ALSO ME: ...Why are you like this.

How to Survive Your High School Reunion

My ten-year high school reunion is coming up. 

Just writing those words makes me want to throw up a little bit. 

It's not that I hated high school. I wasn't popular or anything, but nobody stuffed me in a locker, either. Nobody turned my backpack inside out or stole my clothes out of my gym locker or stuck magnets to my back. Still, that didn't stop me from spending the majority of my high school years like this:

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You know how sometimes you regress when you visit family or see your friends from childhood? What I regress to is a shy, anxious, uncomfortable weirdo who played slow jams way too loudly in my car and skipped class to spend foggy mornings at the beach by myself and sewed my own prom dress and cut my own hair and sometimes wrote poetry. I also used humor to avoid getting close to people, which was great for me when I was sixteen and constantly, secretly freaking out during every interaction with a human person. I mean, great in a self-destructive-defense-mechanism way. Not so much in the making-genuine-connections way. 

Honestly, though, probably everyone felt like an uncomfortable weirdo as a teenager, and now we just want to be ourselves. We're all of us older, hopefully wiser, presumably kinder. So is there really any reason to be afraid of former classmates now?

Yes. The answer is yes. Because every conversation will inevitably go the same way: "You seem familiar," I'll say, trying to play it cool, a queasy smile fastened to my face. "Did we have a class together?" And they'll be like, "Nope," even though um, yeah, bud, I sat behind you in French class for four years. You copied my homework every day. That is froid comme la glace, dude.

In any case, I'm not going to my reunion. But you might, at some point, go to yours, and I wouldn't want to leave you without a long (very long...maybe too long...) list of questionable advice for How to Survive (And Maybe Even Enjoy) Your High School Reunion:

  1. Go with a buddy. Michele walked into her reunion without Romy, and look how that went for them. It was only after they teamed up again that they were able to perform that magnificent routine to "Time After Time" and fly away in Sandy Frink's helicopter.

  2. If you're like me and not that many people knew you in high school, count all the different ways they will get around not knowing your name, e.g. How's it goin', buddy? or Hey, you! Fill out a Bingo card and see how long it takes to get five in a row.

  3. Dress the way you did in high school. For me, that means tank tops in every color of the rainbow and too-long jeans with the back hems all chewed up from walking on them, plus a bra that definitely does not fit me right. For you, it might mean head-to-toe Tillys and Avril Lavigne hair, or jean skirts and flowy maternity tops for days and days. Did you wear Uggs in 2008? DID YOU? Of course you did. Put them on at once and feel ashamed, you monster.

  4. If you really want people to recognize you, get the same haircut you had in your yearbook photo. Have braces put on temporarily, if applicable. Ditch your contacts for those old wire-frame glasses. Draw that funky S symbol on your wrist in Sharpie. Paint your nails with Wite-Out. Then fashion a white frame with a dingy blue background around yourself so that people can get the full effect and recognize you right away. "You haven't changed a bit!" they'll shriek. And you'll be like, That's the point, Deborah. "What a scream!" Deborah will say. What a scream, indeed. 

  5. Do a lap. See if there's anyone you actually want to talk to. Act like you have somewhere extremely important to be right now, but tell them to come find you later. This makes you seem mysterious. DO NOT ASK ANYONE WHAT THEY'VE BEEN UP TO SINCE YOU LAST SAW THEM. What a crappy question to answer thirty times in one night, especially if your answer is "Not much, you?"

  6. But because you will definitely be asked that question thirty times in one night, bring a stack of brochures featuring your Personal and Professional Highlights of the Past Decade. If you're anything like everyone else there, your brochure will list about three items: an international trip or two, your most interesting job so far, any advanced degrees you're still working on, and maybe a cool celebrity sighting. Plus maybe you got married. But only mention your spouse if they have an interesting job or also count as your celebrity sighting. Do not mention your kids. Seriously, we're all on Facebook. We know all we need to about your kids, Trevor.

  7. Or just make stuff up. That's always fun. And then you'll be that mysterious person everyone gossips about afterward, like, I heard she was legally dead for fourteen minutes and then found out that the doctor who revived her was her long-lost sister. Or, Well, she told me she's taken vows of poverty, chastity, AND silence. Had to write it all down on a cocktail napkin. Or, WELL I HEARD SHE HAS THREE THUMBS BUT THE THIRD ONE'S NOT WHERE YOU'D EXPECT. 

  8. Alternatively, just tell them the truth about your life. "I sometimes stay in my pajamas for weeks at a time," you'll say. "Last week," they'll reply, "my boss asked me to go to her house and pick up her dog's poop because she had guests coming. And I did it." High five over your mutual misery. Then move on to making fun of your former chem teacher, just like the old days.

  9. Should you find yourself with a lull in the conversation, try some of these interesting ice breaker questions:

    1. So which teacher did you have a crush on in high school?

    2. Do you feel like you missed out on any opportunities while you were here that would have changed the course of your entire life? Please be specific.

    3. What do you regret most about the way your life is right now?

    4. How do you suspect you will die?

    5. I am bored with you now. (Not actually a question, but useful if someone tricks you and starts talking about how CrossFit has changed their life.)

  10. Alternatively, spend some time with all the lonely, left-out plus-ones and make up outlandish stories about what their dates were like in high school.

  11. Find the person who came with a PURPOSE. There's always at least one, someone who's hoping for a second chance with their long-time crush, or someone who was wronged and is looking for vengeance. You'll recognize this person by the hyper-alert scan they make of the room every twenty seconds, waiting for their target to arrive. This is where the drama's at. That is the person to watch.

  12. I should have mentioned this earlier, but make sure you develop a Reunion Voice in advance. Something that conveys confidence and success, but is still blandly approachable. Mine falls somewhere between Suburban Mom at Book Club and Kristen Wiig as The Target Lady. Keep your eyes open wide and never blink. Blinking's for nerds, which you are not. Not anymore, Kyle. Not...any...more.  

  13. Take up smoking. Or, if you already smoke, keep smoking. It is impossible to have anything resembling a real conversation in the midst of an event like this, so if you actually want to talk to people, just tell them you need a smoke and ask if they want to come with. (This is a useful excuse for any situation you might wish to escape. Sometimes if I'm feeling anxious, I'll say I'm going outside to smoke and then just stand there doing nothing. It's weirdly comforting.) But be forewarned -- you are obligated to say things like, "God, I hated this place," and "Why did I come back here?" and stare off into the distance for a while. But then after that you can have like a normal conversation or whatever. 

  14. Okay, enough with the coping mechanisms. Time to TAKE CHARGE (the way you never did in high school, so that Becky R. was always the one in charge of your group projects in history and she made everyone else do all the work while putting herself in charge of the frickin' bibliography. ARE YOU KIDDING ME, BECKY? THE BIBLIOGRAPHY?!! YOU DIDN'T EVEN CITE YOUR SOURCES IN MLA FORMAT AND WE ALL GOT A B- BECAUSE OF IT! GET THE HELL OUTTA HERE). It all starts with a game. Just three or four people sitting around a table playing a game: Never Have I Ever, Truth or Dare, Would You Rather, Two Truths and a Lie (which I think is especially appropriate for a reunion), etc. Do not bring an actual game. That means no Risk, no Settlers of Catan -- not even Cards Against Humanity. Those games have their place, and that place is Not at a High School Reunion. (Seriously, I'd rather listen to What's-Her-Name's husband Chad try to sell me life insurance for an hour and a half. Harsh, maybe, but if you walk out of your reunion thinking, "You know, that was fun, but it would've been more fun if we had played a strategy-based board game," then this post is probably useless to you, anyway. But good on you for being who you are.)

  15. As things get rowdier, more people will leave their boring conversations and join you at The Fun Table. In fact, it might get so crowded that you have to expand to sitting on the floor, and what naturally happens whenever a bunch of people sit on the floor in a circle? 

  16. That's right. Duck, Duck, Goose. The flirtiest rainy-day classroom game. Aside from Heads Up, Seven Up. Obviously. 

  17. Down By the Banks can also be fun for circle time. Or Spin the Bottle, I guess (but if anyone shouts, "What happens at the reunion stays at the reunion!" the game is over).

  18. By this point, people should be loose enough to dance, and this is where it really starts to feel like high school again. You'll have couples making out in bathroom stalls, four different people crying for no reason, and you will discover who has learned to breakdance over the past decade, and who thinks they can still breakdance even though they haven't tried since they were eighteen. It will all seem strangely exciting, yet you will feel oddly detached. Maybe you're just growing up. Try not to think about it too much. This is no time to be introspective. You should have gotten that out of the way on your smoke break.

  19. If things get a little too crazy for you, go up on the roof with your closest high school friends (I'm assuming, of course, that you are somewhere with a roof and that you can access it [and also that you had friends]). Reminisce about the old days. Resolve to see each other more often. Maybe send handwritten letters. You might follow through; you might not. But it's nice to talk about, either way.

  20. Know when to leave. You don't want to be standing there all alone after everyone else has left. Not like prom night. Not again. Depending on your personality and how the night has gone, this may involve pulling an Irish Goodbye with a couple friends, or crowd-surfing to the exit and leading a parade of nostalgic twenty-somethings out of the venue and over to a karaoke bar where the night will continue. Whatever you decide, get out of there early. "Later, jabronis!" you will shout, as you squeal out of the parking lot. "See you in another ten years!"

Numismatrimony

"What does your husband do?" people ask me.

This is how it starts.

"He's a numismatist," I tell them, with a knowing smile that says, Don't worry. Nobody else knows what that means, either.

"A wot?" they say.

"He catalogs ancient Greek and Roman coins for an auction firm."

And suddenly, as if my words have put them under a spell, they could not be more fascinated. I have never met someone who didn't think Bill's job was sooo innn-teresting. No one's ever like, "A-HAAA, WHAT A NERD." (Except me, obviously. I can't let him get a swelled head. I don't think he realized how cool people would find his career, like he's a mix between Indiana Jones and Scrooge McDuck. If he ever figures it out, he'll drop me for sure!)

This happens all the time -- in airports, at the park, in the grocery store checkout line. Even this morning, while I was cringing through a gynecology exam, my doctor told me about the time she and her family took a trip to Jordan, and the people there were just digging things up out of the ground and selling them, so she bought some ancient coins. 

"They're probably not valuable," she said, "but maybe I should ask your husband about them!"

I didn't want to tell her that, more than likely, her coins were fakes. I really like my doctor, and I didn't want to disappoint her. Plus, she had me in a bit of an uncomfortable position, and I was irrationally worried that she'd take my clothes and run off. Not that those gowns aren't flattering (and so freeing!), but it's 38 degrees outside.

"If I give you his email," I said, "could we maybe get back to the exam? It's...well, it's a little cold in here."

Then, desperate to change the subject, I asked what she did for a living and she was like, "...This." So all in all, one of my top three gynecology exams ever.