Fourteen Degrees

It’s 14 degrees outside, and some very nice young gentlemen are here installing a new dishwasher.

It’s 14 degrees out, and snowing, and the first thing they asked when I opened the door was, “Do you mind if I use your shovel to clear the sidewalk?”

It’s 14 degrees out, and they’re in here laying down runners so they don’t track in snow—even though I tried to tell them that unless the Queen is coming to visit, I never clean the floors till spring.

It’s 14 degrees out, and one of them asked if he could use a mug to bring hot water over to the new model because the trap—whatever that is—is frozen.

It’s 14 degrees out, and one of them has to keep running up and down to the electrical panel in the basement to check which breaker shuts off electricity to the dishwasher because it isn’t labeled correctly.

It’s 14 degrees out, and we have a step up to the kitchen and a puppy gate in that doorway, so transporting the dishwashers over it is doubly difficult. “CAN I TAKE THE GATE DOWN FOR YOU?” I ask. “We got it,” they tell me.

It’s 14 degrees out, and I’m asking them to install pre-cut insulation behind the dishwasher after they take the old one out. LIKE A JERK.

It’s 14 degrees out, and the dogs are up in the bedroom howling. I brought some toys up, and then they started playing—which from down here sounds like two rhinoceroses tearing apart the entire second floor.

It’s 14 degrees out, and if they ONLY wanted some coffee, maybe I wouldn’t feel so guilty that this is turning out to be a difficult job.

It’s 14 degrees out, AND ONE OF THEM JUST CAME INTO THE DINING ROOM TO WIPE UP A BIT OF WATER THAT DRIPPED FROM HIS SHOES. IT’S NOW THE CLEANEST SPOT IN THE HOUSE.

It’s 14 degrees out, and when you’re trying to stop apologizing for everything, the universe sends you 14-degree weather with snow and a new dishwasher to be installed.

It’s 14 degrees out, and these guys are getting a massive tip.

Molar Vortex

It is teeth-chatteringly cold today. Not as desolate as in the midwest, where simply stepping outside could result in instant frostbite, but cold nonetheless. And frigid days like this, when all you want to do is cozy up under a thousand blankets and roll around in the fireplace, are just right for telling stories. So gather ‘round, children, to hear a Tale of Teeth:

There once lived a girl whose smile was too big for her mouth. With a such toothy, gummy grin, you’d think there’d be plenty of room for dozens of teeth—hundreds, even. Yet as her teeth grew in, they pressed and shouldered their way among each other like a game of dominoes until someone finally peered into that congested maw and said, “This will not do.”

“Some of you will need to come out,” a dentist told the teeth. “Then we’ll get things straightened out.”

So in he went with his needles and his Novocaine and his clamps and his pliers and his rusty forceps and his bone saws of various sizes, and he plucked teeth out like so many pomegranate seeds: one, two, three. The blood ran down her chin in grisly streams, yet he would not stop: four, five, six. “They use this technique in the Nacirema culture,” he murmured, a fiendish gleam in his eye: seven, eight, nine.

“There, now,” he said as he gathered the teeth together and placed them inside a small velvet bag. He handed them to a hygienist. “Please clean these carefully and put them with the others. At last…I have enough.”

The hygienist knew better than to ask what he needed them for. Hillary-Who-Used-to-Work-There asked him once. Back when she used to work there.

“Let’s close these gaps up,” the dentist said to the girl. “Your mouth is like a damp cave with stalactites and stalagmites grasping for each other in the darkness.” So he clamped her jaws in vices, which he cranked tighter once a month when the moon was full.

The hygienist tried to be kind. “Would you like me to put some festive colored bands on your mouth vice?” she whispered. “I won’t tell him. He’ll never know.”

After two years, the vice could be cranked no tighter and so was removed. The dentist filed her front teeth and made a plaster mold of her mouth. He claimed it was so he could craft a device to keep her teeth from slipping back into disorder, but the girl had her doubts. What did he do with the molds afterward? How many molds did he possess? How many rows of children’s straight, orderly teeth grinned at him from dusty glass cases on high-up shelves? Where did he keep them all?

“I can’t tell you that,” the hygienist told her. “Not after what happened to Hillary.”

The girl tried to put it all from her mind. She chewed peanut brittle and butterscotch candies with abandon and blithely ran her tongue across the smooth enamel, unencumbered by any metal impediment. Sometimes, lying awake in the dark at night, she counted the teeth still in her head. “Nine short,” she said to herself. She found she missed the teeth, missed having a smile that was too big for her mouth.

“How curious,” she said.

Soon enough, she was summoned back to the dentist.

“Step into this device,” they told her. “Wear this lead apron, lest your particles disassemble inside The Device.”

Thus attired, she stepped inside and The Device circled her once, and then again, all the while flashing lights and humming violently. She emerged to find the dentist leering at her over what she took to be images of the inside of her own head. He pointed to four teeth lurking beneath the others, like great sea creatures in the depths of the ocean.

“These will have to come out.”

This procedure took more than Novacaine and rusty plucking devices. A nurse in ominous black scrubs led her into a dimly lit room where she was given sweet-smelling gas and told to count backward from a hundred. When she woke, four more teeth had been taken from her. In their stead, someone had left small bits of white cotton—which ordinarily wouldn’t have fooled her, but the anesthesia had left her loopy and giggly and thus inattentive to such matters as impostor teeth.

“Bye, nice nurse,” she called, waving feebly. The nurse in black scrubs stood at the door and waved after her, a scalpel still clutched in his fist.

These, she vowed, were the last teeth she would ever have taken from her. The moment she turned eighteen, she packed a soft-bristled toothbrush and a jumbo roll of floss and set off on the road, an orthodontic outlaw. She used fake names and slunk into back-alley dentist chairs for periodic checkups, but she never stayed long enough for things to turn surgical.

She’d been running for nearly a decade when she found herself slowly reclining beneath an exam light in a small, dusty town. Already masked, the hygienist sat silently beside her head, placed a bib around her neck, adjusted the light, and got to work.

“Aykoo her eegy,” the girl said.

The hygienist nodded and kept scraping away at a bicuspid.

“Oo uck huniller.”

She shook her head. “Spit please,” she whispered.

But the girl knew that voice. She gripped the hygienist’s wrist and held it while she spit onto the grimy floor. “Take off your mask.”

Eyes wide and terrified, the woman slowly lowered the mask.

“It’s you,” the girl said. “After all these years. But how—”

“I’ve been searching for you for a very long time,” she said.

“What do you mean? How did you find me?”

“I heard tell of a wandering patient,” she said, “at a regional dental conference.”

“But how could you be sure it was me?”

“The x-rays, child,” she hissed. “I’d recognize those canines anywhere.”

The x-rays. She’d known it was foolish to leave records in her wake, but she couldn’t have imagined that the network of dental hygienists would be so extensive and well-organized.

“That’s not why I’m here, though.” She pulled out a small velvet bag.

“Are those…mine?” the girl asked.

The hygienist nodded. “Hillary left a secret Post-it hidden under the reception desk with a riddle on it which, once solved, revealed the location of hundreds of children’s teeth. Maybe thousands. The…the sight of them still haunts me. It was like the Catacombs of Paris, but just teeth.”

“That’s…super gross.”

“Yes. It was. But we retrieved them all. The dentist escaped with the molds, but we mean to return the teeth to any patients we can find. The rest we’ll destroy—anything to keep them out of the clutches of the dentist.”

The girl uncinched the bag. Nestled inside, like bits of milk glass, were thirteen teeth. She clutched the bag to her chest.

“Chin up,” the hygienist said.

“Thank you. That means a lot.”

“No, I mean—could you put your chin up a little bit? I can’t see your—there, just like that.”

“Oh—shar ou’ at.”

The cleaning finished, she placed her teeth one by one in a careful pile on the dusty ground. She closed her eyes, smiled a toothy, gummy smile too big for her mouth, and ground them to dust beneath her heel.

HOW TO WRITE A QUERY LETTER

Dear Prospective Literary Agent,

How are you? I am well.

Nope, that’s dumb. Forget I said that.

___

Dear Agent,

I have written a book. How, you ask? I have no idea. Life is a mystery and I am confused all of the time.

___

Dear Agent,

I don’t suppose you’d like to represent a book that I wrote, would you?

No, I thought not. It’s fine. If I were you, I wouldn’t represent it, either.

___

Dear Agent,

HOW DOES ANYONE EVEN WRITE ONE OF THESE THINGS??

___

Dear Agent,

I feel more than a little unequipped to write this letter, in part because, up till a few days ago, I thought query was pronounced like “very.” In my defense, “quee-ree” is difficult to say and it sounds ridiculous.

___

Dear Agent,

Attached please find a picture of a check that I am sending to you as we speak. Don’t think of it as a bribe; think of it as—

Nope. Bad idea. Reel it in, Muller.

___

Dear Agent,

It’s snowing today. Out of my kitchen window, I can see a little boy playing in his backyard across the alley. He’s balancing on a swing by his stomach, limbs akimbo, twisting the swing up and letting it twirl him around and around as it untwists. It’s the tired swing of a boy who’s been playing in the snow for a long time and whose range of motion is restricted by too many layers.

Watching him gives me perspective. I’m so frightened to send this book I wrote into the world to be judged—not because I think the book is irredeemably terrible, but because I’m worried I’m not good enough. I don’t have enough followers; I hate to network; I have no contacts in the publishing industry. Now that the fun part of writing is over, I’ve been doing a tired tummy swing for months now.

But you have the power to change all that. You can read this query letter, skim the first pages of the book, email me for the full manuscript, call me to discuss and make an offer of representation, pitch the book to publishers, secure a contract, and in only two to three years from now, this sad, slow, twisting swing can finally stop! WHATTAYA SAY?

___

Dear Agent,

Ever think about how weird the word “parallelogram” is? Try saying it. So weird, right?

Please represent me.

Saturn's Return

Guess who’s back.

Back again.

SATURN’S BACK.

Tell a friend.

They say it takes Saturn roughly twenty-nine years to make one revolution of the sun (“they” being scholarly scientist types). This time twenty-nine years ago, Saturn was all like, “Oh, hey, here I am in Capricorn!” and I was like, “Oh, hey, me too! Twinsies!”

Today, as I woke up at the start of my twenty-ninth year, Saturn popped in and said, “Oh hey girl, long time no see!” and I was like, “Uh, YEAH, MAN. You said you’d be back in a YEAR.”

Then Saturn was like, “It…has been a year?”

“MAYBE FOR YOU, BUD,” I said. “Did you at least bring me a present?”

“Ohhh, yeah,” Saturn said, waggling its eyebrows in a way that made me wonder whether it’s a present I’m going to like, like a gas-giant-sized wheel of cheese, or something else, like a hundred snakes woven together into a snake tapestry that I have to sleep under at night or else Saturn will be upset.

They say that when Saturn loops back around to where it was when you were born (“they” being astrological non-scientist types), it brings with it UPHEAVAL and CHANGE and CHAOS. It’s like the cosmic equivalent of a sweet sixteen, except instead of a driver’s license and a summer job, you get an existential crisis and feel like screaming all the time. Like any good friend, Saturn will push your boundaries, challenge your relationships and life decisions and sense of self, and then shove you onto a tightrope with only a net made of snakes to catch you if you fall.

“It sounds harsh, I know,” Saturn said, “but dude, you’re almost thirty. It’s time to pick a lane. Are you really doing what you want to do? Are you the person you want to be? Are you sure? But are you really sure? Okay, I get that you think you’re sure, but just to make absolutely certain, I’m going to bring up all your insecurities and fears and doubts all at once and just see what happens. ‘Kay?”

A lot of people emphatically Do Not Believe in astrology, and for them any turmoil around this time might just be a pinch point in the plot structure of life. Whether or not you believe that cosmic forces affect your life, however, it probably doesn’t hurt to take stock every few decades or so. Has your life started to feel like a habit? Have your dreams gotten dusty? Do you suspect that you’ve been wearing the wrong size underwear for a while now but you’ve been too complacent to try anything else? You don’t have to turn your life upside down, but Saturn is here to tell you to GET ON UP and FIND YOUR BEST UNDERWEAR TODAY!

I’m not sure if I believe in astrology. It’s fun to believe in, like tarot cards and fortune tellers and magic, but I don’t know if it’s real. Here’s what I do know: For people my age, Saturn’s Return lasts from December 2017 to December 2020. During that time, I’ve experienced a virtual tsunami of physical and emotional turmoil. It’s slowly getting better, and it’s going to be good for me once I slog through it, but MAN does it suck right now. That’s why tonight, I am going to eat an extra piece of cake. You know. To fortify myself for the rest of this planetary hullabaloo.

At the very least, in Saturn time, I have gotten so much done this year (not necessarily in order):

• Learned to talk

• Grew some teeth

• Graduated college

• Lost some teeth

• Read a whole bunch of Nancy Drew books

• Grew some more teeth

• Made some friends

• Had a bunch of teeth pulled out

• Sat by the ocean. A lot.

• Dyed my hair orange on accident

• Cut bangs on purpose

• Regretted the bangs immediately

• Saw Zach Woods in an airport

• Nearly mastered my gross motor skills

After all that, I think I deserve a nap. Even if this blanket is made of snakes.

NEW YEAR, SAME ME (Lower Your Expectations)

As you know, 97.3% of people who make resolutions at New Year’s abandon them by the end of the year (the rest are, of course, cheating). When I heard that, I was shocked. Shocked. I asked myself, “Self?”

“Yeah.”

“How can this be?”

“How can what be?”

“The—thing I just said.”

“What thing?”

“Weren’t you listening just now?”

“Yeah, no.”

Dropping my head to my chest, I said, “Fine, I’ll start over. So, 97.3% of people who make resolutions abandon them—”

“By the end of the year. Everyone knows that. So what?”

“Well, I was just wondering why.”

“What do you mean why?”

“I mean why can’t we keep resolutions?”

Without a moment to think, Self replied, “Because improving ourselves sucks. It’s the worst. We like to be all like, Get it, girl! You got this! but in truth, most of us don’t got this, girl, because we would prefer to wish rather than work ourselves better. I’m not saying that’s wrong. Work is dumb. It’s hard. And we do enough of it in other areas of our lives that once we get to the hard work of improving ourselves, it becomes easier and easier to decide that those changes can wait.

“Want to know why the countdown felt so anticlimactic to you this year? It’s because you spent all last year working toward goals that take much longer than a year to achieve, and now you’re facing another year of work and doubt and frustration as you slog toward those exact same goals—which you might not achieve this year, either. Sure, you made progress, but you didn’t get the shiny gold star that comes with fulfilling a resolution. And you’re tired. I get it. It’s hard to keep going in the face of something that takes so long. But that’s life. You can’t squeeze your goals down to fit into a single year. You can’t expect to achieve anything truly meaningful in the course of a couple hundred days.

“Maybe we set ourselves up for failure with resolutions. Maybe we should reserve resolutions for silly things, like I resolve to quit accidentally ‘waving’ at people on Facebook like a dummy, or I resolve to go to the eye doctor and pick up milk, or I resolve to grow three inches by September—which is impossible at my age, but what is life without a little unfounded optimism? Actually, probably the best change you could make this year would be to quit social media entirely. You don’t enjoy it, you’re bad at it, you keep accidentally ‘waving’ at people in spite of your best intentions, and it makes you feel bad about yourself. Why do you want to be on there?

“I dunno. Maybe none of this matters. Maybe it’s enough to remind yourself once a year that you are capable of better and you can try to improve. Maybe if, at the end of the year, you can say you did your best, then that’s all that matters. Who knows. Anyway. Happy New Year, buddy. Good luck.”

After that I sat quietly, slumped on the floor, for a long time. The little punk was right. I am tired. I don’t want to keep working at things that feel completely insurmountable—or at least unbearably slow. And so I went for a walk. I thought of a lot of funny resolutions to put into a New Year’s post, and I came home and wrote them down. Then I deleted them. I wrote this instead. When I was finished I gave a great, thunderous sigh, as if I’d been holding my breath for months. Progress doesn’t have a fixed deadline. Improvement doesn’t have to fit neatly within a year. Knowing that, I feel better than I have in a long time. And now I’m going to get back to the long, slow, difficult work that makes us better—mentally, physically, spiritually.

It’s gonna suck. But let’s get on with it anyway.

PS—In an effort to spend less time on social media, I am turning away from sharing posts on Facebook and relying instead on The Email List. If you’ve already signed up for the newsletter, thank you! You are great and I promise I will start sending them THIS MONTH (Probably. Hopefully. Well, maybe. By February at the latest, I swear). If you haven’t signed up for emails, please consider it! Sent monthly, they will include blog posts, any exciting news I have, maybe some interesting facts about animals, and other fun stuff. If that sounds like something you’d enjoy, please enter your email address below:

2018 Holiday Gift Guide

SO! You left all your gift shopping till the last minute. Again. Oh, you thought this year would be different. You started out with such good intentions. You found a sweater that your dad would really like back in August, and you were so surprised and pleased with yourself that you coasted on those feelings for months. But then things got busy at work, and December really snuck up on you, and you can never find anything that your mom/brother/boss really likes anyway, so you procrastinated. But now it’s Christmas Eve, and all you have is that one sweater, and you can’t give everyone pine cones again like last year. What are you gonna do?

HAVE NO FEAR! AUNTIE CARRIE IS HERE FOR YOU! Yesterday I spent hours scouring antique shops for the very best gifts for you to give to all of your loved ones. And then I spent today learning how to make a slideshow in Squarespace. I think I’m a natural!

For Your Spouse

A belt buckle with their name inlaid in turquoise.

For Your Older Brother Who Unironically Smokes a Pipe

This folksy pipe with Cyrano de Bergerac carved into it.

For Your Uncle Who Tells the Corniest Jokes

Set him up in front of this guy and he’ll be occupied for WEEKS.

For Your Neighbor the PETA Member

A carnival ostrich who has broken free of the merry-go-round, but still carries its chains in its mouth as a reminder that it will never be enslaved again.

For Your Friend Who's Always Asking for Advice

Question Girl!
She knows your answer.

For Your Small Nephew

Bear Force One’s Christmas Album. Including such perennial favorites as:

The Little Drummer Bear
Jingle Bear Rock
We Wish You a Bear-y Christmas
Santa Claws is Coming to Town
Frosty the Polar Bear
I Saw Mommy Mauling Santa Claus
O Little Town of Bearthlehem
Run, Rudolph, Run
God Rest Ye Bear-y Gentlebears
Baby, There’s Bears Outside
All I Want for Christmas is BEARS

For Your Tiny Niece

This horse that’s been loved so much it’s become REAL.

For Your Boss Who Likes Everything He Owns to Be "Multi-Use"

A fortune-telling slot machine and gumball dispenser. What can’t it do?
If you answered “Bring back his wife and children,” you…are correct.

For Your Co-Worker Who's Trying to "Change His Spots"

This cheetah, as a gentle reminder that…he can’t.

For Your Enemies

A nightmare.

For the Hosts of All Those Holiday Parties

Finally! Enough champagne to satiate every guest.

This lady knows.

For the Art Aficionado

Bead Bird.

For the Art Aficionado

Pandora got NOTHIN’ on this box o’ horrors.

For the Art Aficionado

“If you can’t kidnap your own orphans, store-bought is fine.”

For the Madwoman You Went to School With Who Super Likes Your Dogs

Like, she likes them a suspicious amount.

For Your Most Frabjous Acquaintance

“HOW CHEERFULLY HE SEEMS TO GRIN,
HOW NEATLY SPREADS HIS CLAWS,
AND WELCOMES LITTLE FISHES IN
WITH GENTLY SMILING JAWS!”

For Your Great-Aunt Who Smiles Less than Dame Maggie Smith

Something stately and severe, just like her.

For Your Daughter, a Horse Girl

Isn’t she majestic.

For Your Grandparents

His-and-Hers Bone Thrones.

For the Person Who Has Everything

They probably don’t have THIS!

For Your Child's Teacher

I mean, it’s either this or a Starbucks gift card. Might as well be creative, you know?

For Your Young Person

The Young People’s Song Book

For Your Favorite Millennial

The only house they’ll be able to afford.

For Your Younger Brother Who Still Blades

Some RULES.

For That Lady You Call "Aunt Cindy," Even Though She's Not Related to You, Who Always Smells Like Patchouli

Now she can finally pursue her dream of joining the upside-down circus!

For Your Younger Sister Who Hates Dolls

Just give her the whole display case.

For Your Younger Sister Who Hates Dolls

Ooh, this one’s a veritable GOLD MINE

For Your Younger Sister Who Hates Dolls

Here’s one that looks like a grown-up trapped in a little doll’s body.

For Your Younger Sister Who Hates Dolls

She can keep them by her bed where they can all watch over her while she sleeps.

For Your Younger Sister Who Hates Dolls

Always…watching.
Never…blinking.

For Your Younger Sister Who Hates Dolls

This one’s most definitely cursed.

And, In Case You Were Looking for Something for Me...

Beaded boots with skulls attached that probably ended up in an antique shop because of a monkey’s paw-type situation.

Next year I’ll teach you how to wrap your presents to ensure a maximum amount of glitter (there’s actually no paper involved at all; you just douse the gifts in glue and roll them in glitter—people love it!). Until then, I wish you and yours a very merry yuletide and the happiest of new years.

Update: Conundrum + Possible Giveaway

Still outside! Hangin’ out. Staying positive. Waiting for Halo to figure out how to open the door with her paws. We might go for another walk! Since the first one was such a treat. (Ah, we have fun, don’t we?) Anyway! I wanted to give you an update because I opened the package that started this whole thing, and hiding inside were…these.

Are they earrings? Are you supposed to poke that long bar into your ear? It looks painful. The bar doesn’t look thin enough for an ear hole. Are they like very small plugs? Won’t the bar dig into your skull and make your ears stick out? In any case, I didn’t order them. My ears aren’t even pierced anymore. They closed up because I am Bad at Wearing Jewelry. Should I return them? They weren’t listed on the receipt. Are they supposed to be a Free Gift with Purchase?

I found them on the website. They—oh, no. OH GOD, NO. YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO PULL THE CHAIN THROUGH YOUR EAR HOLE, TOO. NOOOOO—THAT IS TERRIBLE. WHY WOULD SOMETHING LIKE THIS EXIST? THIS IS THE MOST DISTURBING THING I’VE EVER SEEN. NO WONDER THE MODEL LOOKS SO PAINED. SHE’S BASICALLY TURNED HER EAR INTO A CEILING FAN.

via Modcloth

Okay. Sorry. There are worse things than pulling a very thin chain through your ear hole. I can’t think of any right now, but there must be something. Oh, like the fact that Stan is back, delivering the actual mail this time, and it’s too late to change out of these fancy shoes or pretend that I haven’t been sitting on the front step all this time digging through a large package that I opened with my teeth like a savage. How embarrassing. Yet, Stan is the consummate professional. Didn’t even blink, just handed me my mail: two credit card offers and a magazine.

“Thank you,” I called feebly, as June stotted off into the bushes.

So now, morally, what are my options here? Should I send the earrings back? They’re $17, currently marked down to $14.99. Not that it makes a difference how expensive they are. I’ve sent a message to the store, and I expect they’ll either respond with, “OH, thank GOD, we’ve been looking EVERYWHERE for those! Send them back posthaste, please, before Shirley in packaging loses her job!” or a dismissive, “Oh, were those gone? You can keep ‘em. We’ve got plenty. We are virtually swimming in dangly earrings over here.” If that’s the case, can I give them to someone else? Who would wear these? Would you? Should I do a giveaway?

Yes. Let’s do it.

Hello! Would you like some understated gold earrings about which one reviewer said, “Thick Posts but pretty”?

“I love a dangle earring that doesn’t try too hard,” another said. Don’t we all?

So…yeah. Some ringing endorsements there. According to the website, they are five inches long, which tells me that I am also Bad at Estimating, because I thought they were at least twice that. The hexagon is half an inch long. It doesn’t say how long the bar is, but if I had to guess, I’d say…three inches? That can’t be right. I don’t know. It’s very cold out here; I think the wind is getting in through my ears and freezing my brain.

So here’s the deal. If Modcloth lets me keep these earrings, the first person to comment saying they want them (either for yourself or someone else—the holidays are here, after all!), gets them. If Modcloth doesn’t let me keep them, then I will handcraft a pair of earrings for EVERYONE who comments and send them to you. Please let me know if you are allergic to any common crafting supplies like pipe cleaners or Grade 80 straight chain. Or, if I’m stuck out here indefinitely, they’ll probably be made of things like leaves and bits of twigs. Maybe a bug.

BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE! The holiday season has admittedly crept up on me like a ghost in the nighttime. We haven’t even decorated because we’ve been so busy, and now I have all this pent-up CHEER that needs to be released. So if you do not care about earrings, like me, and just want a homemade Christmas card from a crazy lady with nice shoes who can’t get into her own house, send me your address and you will receive a very cheery card by Valentine’s Day. Probably.

You are all the best, every one of you. Thank you for reading these silly posts all year. I love you very much.

A SLOW WALK INTO MADNESS

I didn’t sleep well last night. Not for any particular reason; but that fact is important to set the scene.

Junebug was extra antsy this morning, so I wrangled her outside for an early walk. Right as we closed the door behind us, though, the mail truck screeched to a halt in front of us.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” I said ominously.

“What’s that?” asked the mailman.

“Nothing! Sorry she’s so energetic.” For Junebug was leaping and twisting in the air like a prima ballerina. “Still a puppy, even though she’s so…large.”

He set a package carefully on the front step, jumped back in the mail truck, and we continued on our walk.

Now, I knew what was in the package: a pair of shoes for a wedding I’m going to this month. (I’m making the dress, but I bought the shoes. Only because I can’t cobble my own shoes. Yet.) These shoes are beautiful—sort of art deco-y, mustard yellow with darker mustard piping (maybe dijon?), high-but-not-too-high heels, and they fit me, which is rare. I think my feet have grown recently. Size 6 used to be a little roomy on me, like my feet were really size 5 3/4, but the last few shoes I’ve tried on have fit perfectly. So either the shoes have changed, or I have.

Maybe my feet will keep growing.

Maybe in twenty years I’ll be walking around in clown shoes.

Which actually might be okay, because I’ve always loved unusual shoes: red sneakers, furry ankle boots, metallic oxfords, sandals with balloons tied around the straps (not inflated, of course; I’m not a maniac), brocade boots that make me look like a fancy witch. In middle school I bought white running shoes for P.E. and then drew all over them in multicolored Sharpies. They were hideous and I loved them. I have this pair of blue velvet heels that wrap around my ankle like a vampire’s collar, but the heels are too high to wear out anywhere so I just clomp around my house in them sometimes. It’s like playing dress-up but much, much sadder.

Also, side note, I don’t know my mailman’s name. He’s super nice, very funny, possibly the tallest man I’ve ever met, but I don’t know his name, and now, after two years of signing for packages and waving when he whizzes by in the truck, it feels too late to ask. It’s even worse because he knows my name—although he does have an unfair advantage, given that he sees my water bill every month. But he strikes me as a Stan and so that’s what I call him in my mind.

So Stan dropped off this package with an alluring new pair of shoes inside, and I left it there to finish our walk (even though my first instinct was to SHRIEK and CLAW OPEN THE BOX to TRY them ON) because I am nothing if not dignified. And because I knew this would be a difficult walk. Junebug wants to race every car that passes us because she is as FAST as the WIND, and she’s so enthusiastic about life that she pulls at the leash for at least two blocks before she calms down, as I give quick tugs on her collar and make her wait and let forth a steady, patient refrain of “No pulling. No pulling. No pulling. NO—PULL—ING.” So I left the package because I wanted a reward to come home to.

I thought that would be it for the unexpected surprises, until Stan stopped the mail truck in front of our neighbor’s house and got out to give them a package. I didn’t know what to do. Should I stride ahead brazenly and risk Junebug jumping all over him and dirtying the mail? Should I wait respectfully until he’d finished, thus leaving more opportunity for chit-chat? Paralyzed by indecision, I stood there, probably with a face like someone had just asked me to do a back flip, until he got out and saw us.

“Oh—” I chuckled nonchalantly. “Hello again.”

He waved and got back in the truck and we resumed our walk. I thought it was over. Until he stopped again, two houses ahead.

This was too much. Sociability can only take a person so far. I considered turning around and going the other way, but decided that would be even more awkward. Instead, I ducked my head and gave Junebug some random dance commands (“Jump around! Do…the twist! Everybody clap your hands!”) until he was gone. Relieved, we continued on our way.

The streets of this town are usually empty during the day. It’s one of the things I like most about living here. Today, however, we found one corner sectioned off with men working overhead, a construction worker talking on the phone in an alcove who looked genuinely afraid of Junebug, a man painting his front steps, way more runners than there should be when it’s this cold outside, and a woman coming out of the dog groomer’s carrying the tiniest fluff ball of a dog I’ve ever seen. Expecting disaster with each new impediment, I steered Junebug out into the street to avoid the construction and the fluff and the impending catastrophe of the paint situation, but somehow we could not shake Stan. When we turned the first corner, there he was, stepping off the truck to give someone else a package.

“So many things to sniff!” he said jovially, his blue eyes twinkling.

“Uh huh!” I mumbled, hurrying Junebug along.

White flakes appeared on her coat as she stopped to sniff at a gate. I looked up to see about a dozen more flakes drifting strangely all around us. It couldn’t be snow, I thought; it seemed to be materializing in midair and not falling from the sky. “Is this dandruff?” I asked foggily. “No. That was dumb. Is it—is it ash? Is there a fire? …Am I dreaming right now?” Junebug lunged at the street, yanking me out of my reverie.

Really, none of these things—the construction, the wet paint, even the mailman—were all that dire. Had I been less tired, I would have thought them merely a string of diversions on an otherwise routine stroll. But I was tired, and so all these small things seemed to be designed to test me, like the labors of Hercules for social anxiety. I was growing edgy and paranoid, and when I whirled around to keep Junebug from cinching my feet with the leash and saw the mail truck inching along behind us, I almost lost my head.

“WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME, STAN?” I whispered, jittery and spooked. “THIS IS DEATH BY A THOUSAND TINY SOCIAL INTERACTIONS. IS THIS SOME KIND OF EXPOSURE THERAPY? HAVE YOU BEEN LYING IN WAIT ALL MORNING?”

I quickened our pace as we turned another corner. “Good girl, good girl,” I sang at Junebug, equal parts praise and hope. I looked back. Impossibly, there was the mail truck, though Stan was nowhere in sight. What if he’s not even in there anymore? I thought frantically. What if the truck left Stan behind to torture us with its slow advance?

We cut through a small parking lot and turned the last corner. Almost there. Ahead of us, a man came out of an apartment building with a vacuum and set it on the sidewalk. A vacuum. Of all the things to bring outside and leave on the sidewalk. All I could picture was Junebug attacking it like she does at home. And then, four more people, including a small child, trailed out of the apartment, reaching the sidewalk just as we reached them.

That’s when the jumping started (pup’s). And the rambling (mine).

“DOWN!—I’M SO SORRY YOU KNOW SHE’S—DOWN!—STRONGER THAN I AM ONLY A—DOWN!—PUPPY STILL LEARNING I TELL YA LOOK OUT FOR—DOWN!—STAN OR HE’LL GITCHA!”

A lady with pink hair laughed a little. “Okay.” I don’t think she knew which part to respond to, and I didn’t blame her.

“I’m sorry.” I sighed. “It’s been a strange walk.”

The vacuum man walked back to the building. “Cute dog,” he said, and stopped to pet her.

“SHE’S JUSAPPPUP—” I said, or something like that. I was quite wild by this time, frazzled and so very tired.

“Cool,” he said, obviously more alarmed by me than by an overexcited dog.

I glanced behind us. It appeared we’d shaken the mail truck. For now.

At last we made it home. The package was still there, next to the half-eaten gourds we still have by our front door from Halloween. “We’re home! We’re home!” I chanted softly to Junebug. She trotted along, unconcerned, a model walker in these last few steps. We reached the door. And obviously…well, I mean, honestly. Of course the door was locked. And naturally, I didn’t have my keys with me. But we all saw this coming, right? Stan saw it coming, my pink-haired neighbor saw it coming, even Junebug saw it coming.

I sank down onto the front step, looped the leash around my ankle, and opened the package.

The shoes are nice.

Not a bad morning.

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. 

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.

THE BRAIN WEASELS: Or, LETTING SOMEONE ELSE READ YOUR WORK

My husband has been reading The Book. Every time he laughs it feels like a hundred bees are trying to escape out of the corners of my mouth (in a good way!), but in between laughs, the brain weasels burrow their way in and set up shop in my head to dispense fears like gumballs:

• What if it’s so bad he throws up a tiny bit?

• What if it’s so bad he has to do that thing where he grits his teeth and tells me he really likes the font I used because that’s the only good thing about the book?

• What if it’s so bad he falls asleep while reading it? (This fear is not unfounded; when we were first dating he asked me to read aloud the book I wrote for my senior thesis, but every time I started, he fell asleep.)

• What if it’s so bad he has to rip up every sheet of paper and eat each individual piece to ensure a physical copy of it will no longer exist in the world? And then what if he discovers he’s developed a taste for paper and it becomes like a whole paper-eating thing?

• What if it’s so bad he divorces me?

• What if it’s not funny?

• What if it’s not funny? This one’s on here twice because that’s how strongly the fear permeates every part of my being. My dumb brain tells me that if I can’t make people laugh, then I have nothing to offer.

• What if it’s too funny, at the expense of plot?

• What if it’s so bad he straight-up dies?

• What if the pacing’s bad, the hook uninteresting, the diction uninspired, the plot confusing, the characters two-dimensional, the theme trite, the tone self-indulgent, the whole thing such an insult to the written word that the universe itself conspires to exorcise itself of this monstrosity by whisking the entire house away in a tornado that carries it 1,088 miles southeast to the Bermuda Triangle and none of us is ever heard from again? WHAT THEN?

• What if he’s lying and doesn’t actually like the font I used? It’s Book Antiqua! I just prefer it to Times New Roman! I can change it! I’ll change it right now! I’m so sorry!

I try to remind the weasels that this is very low stakes. Bill is legally required to like everything I write (and to offer me a bite of whatever he’s eating—unless it’s a banana, the devil’s fruit. It’s in our post-nup [that’s what I call the slightly rumpled paper towel to which I periodically add stipulations, such as “Bill agrees to give Carrie all the leftover Sour Patch Kids from Halloween.” I cannot overstate how poorly it would hold up in court. It’s not even signed. It’s just a list of demands from a crazy person]).

But the brain weasels are persistent, and ubiquitous. And so I would like to humbly offer a few suggestions you can use to quiet your own weasels, if only for a brief moment:

• Have you tried just not having self-doubt? You should try it sometime; it really helps.

• Recite an encouraging mantra to yourself, for instance: I AM A PERSON. WHO IS PRETTY GOOD AT SEVERAL THINGS. AND EVEN IF I AM NOT SUPER-GREAT AT ANY ONE THING, I AM STILL. A PERSON. WHO DESERVES…THINGS. You know. Something like that. Keep it light and snappy.

• Turn some music up so loud you can’t hear the brain weasels anymore. Then just scream and scream and scream.

• Try burning a weasel in effigy. Not a real one, of course—think of the smell! And the various animal cruelty, environmental, and public health violations!

• Embrace the weasel within. Get yourself one of these weasel onesies (unless you already own one), practice your weasel squeaks and trills and barks and hisses, then dig yourself a nice, cozy burrow where you can spend the whole winter warm and safe from those terrible, fearsome owls. The brain weasels will never think to look for you there.