A Bit of a Grumble

When you’ve been in a bad mood for some time, nothing feels better than having a bit of a grumble.

You shouldn’t make a habit of it, of course. In fact, you should probably reserve grumbling for a last resort, lest you be labeled a Grumpy Goose. But assuming you’ve tried all the usual bad mood remedies—snacking, walking, napping, journaling, angry-dancing, petting an animal, lying on your back with your heels up against the wall, and shouting at fish—if you’ve still got a dark cloud hovering about? It’s time to have a bit of a grumble.

This persistent peevishness is the most perplexing sort of bad mood, because there’s often no obvious reason for it. I experience this every time I get the hiccups. I mean, sure, they’re annoying, and they stay for so long, and they’re weirdly resonant, but that still doesn’t warrant unshakable grumpitude.

But then, the thing that tips you over the edge is never what your bad mood is really about, is it? For me, current contributing factors include: a week’s worth of writer’s block, feeling restless and listless at the same time, concern for faraway family and friends, that very specific hell of watching loved ones struggle with problems you’re powerless to help with, reading the news, reading comments after the news, and of course the low-grade undercurrent of existential panic that goes along with being a human in the world during any time period.

However, it doesn’t always help to grumble about the things that are really bothering you. For communal grumbling (which is generally found to be the most satisfying), I find it helps to pick something seemingly insignificant yet completely universal. Like when you walk into the empty kitchen, unaware that somebody was getting ice earlier and a little ice shard escaped to the floor, and you just happen to be wearing socks, and you step right in the tiny puddle of water the ice left behind.

As soon as you bring up this scenario, you and your Grumble Buddy just start kickin’ up a grumble.

“Who does water think it is, anyway?” they exclaim.

“Ooh, I’m water,” you say tauntingly. “I can exist in any state I want to because I’m sooo special.”

“I’m water,” they flounce. “I make up sixty percent of the human body and seventy percent of the earth’s surface. I’m so important you literally couldn’t exist without me!”

“I’m made of two hydrogen molecules and one oxygen molecule.” You scoff. “Who cares, right? Big whoop! Try being made of carbon, ya jerk!”

“I could have evaporated,” they say, “but instead I stayed here on the floor just waiting for you to step in me.”

“And now I’m in your sock,” you continue, “and it feels like your soul is being melted like the Wicked Witch of the West, and every step you take just reminds you of how awful and unfair the world is—”

“And your whole day is ruined!” they finish.

“Stupid water,” you say.

“Stupid cold sock water,” they agree.

You both let out a satisfied sigh. Nothing is solved, but your post-grumble mood is triumphant. Grumbling feels so productive, so cathartic. You feel steeled to make it through another day in a chaotic world.

At least until the next bout of hiccups.

Dear Summer

I concede. You win.

Not like I could put up much of a fight at this point, anyway. The fireflies have returned already, flashing like fairy lights in the gathering darkness. The days have grown thick and heavy with humidity. They swell into afternoon thunderstorms, and afterward the air feels cool and tired, each day a fever that spikes and breaks.

We’ve spent an entire season indoors. Spring was all but lost to us as we shut ourselves away to protect one another. We missed the quickening of the earth, the shy warmth of the sun—and now we begin to stir just in time for your arrival.

Usually I fuss and protest even the faintest hint of you. For years, I’ve stubbornly ignored the unpleasant fact that you are necessary. As necessary as the renewal of spring or the busy preparations of autumn—even the harsh cold of winter coaxes us inside to rest for a spell. Now, after this season of suspension, even I have to admit that the struggle and toil and endurance you demand lead to growth. We couldn’t reach the harvest without the slow, painful transformation that makes all things fruitful.

In our garden, string beans and cucumbers make their intrepid climb up bamboo trellises. The tomatoes are already flowering from their cages. Hydrangea bushes burst with color, pink and blue and violet, and the marigolds reflect the sun in brilliant orange and gold. I find myself unexpectedly grateful, mindful of all that went into such beauty.

I wish I could keep ignoring you, summer, I really do. I wish I could lounge on a fainting couch for the next three months, fanning myself with a palm frond and remaining utterly still to avoid any unpleasantness. But that’s not your purpose. It’s time I allowed myself to grow.

(Although, like, seriously? Is it really necessary to bring THAT MANY mosquitoes with you? Just seems excessive, is all.)

Sincerely,
Carrie

Bread

I’m giving in.

Since we all retreated into our homes, I’ve spent quite a bit of time baking: several loaves of banana-apple bread, countless cookies, cinnamon rolls, pizza dough, lady fingers, and a shockingly well-risen sponge cake topped with sugar-sweetened strawberries from our CSA and freshly whipped cream.

I didn’t want to give in to the bread-baking craze. I tried to hold off. But yesterday, I couldn’t take it anymore. I baked some bread.

Bread-baking is not a discipline that suits me particularly well. It requires precision and patience, which have never been my strengths. It’s finicky, and I prefer a more easy-going baked good. It does its own thing, and I prefer something I can predict, like an algebraic sum, the same result from the same formula, every time. It’s a time- and energy-intensive endeavor, and the tiniest disturbance can ruin all that effort.

I don’t care for it.

However, recently I read about someone who bakes bread once a week as a sort of devotional. A meditative and centering and almost humbling exercise. That suits me. If I can get past my own inertia, I can admit that a devotional shouldn’t be something that’s easy; it should be a practice that stretches you. Changes you. With time and effort, it should allow you…to rise.

(Do you get it? Rise? LIKE—LIKE BREAD DOUGH?! SHOULD I EXPLAIN IT AGAIN?)

Luckily, I had a jar of yeast squirreled away in the fridge before the mad run on baking supplies, so I used that to make this loaf, along with whole wheat and molasses. Despite a disappointing denseness (But why? Who knows? Could be any number of things! How do you troubleshoot bread?! Even if you can, everything will be different next time!), the crust was soft and shiny, and the wheat flour and molasses lent a sweet heartiness to the thick, warm slices which we immediately slathered in butter and stuffed into our mouths.

But now I’m so angry. Because even though I know it’s going to frustrate and annoy me, I want to do more of it. Is this what everyone is experiencing? Is this why we haven’t completely abandoned baking bread at home over the millennia? Because even though it’s basically a crap shoot as you place each loaf in the oven and cross yourself hoping it turns out all right, it still seems as though taking flour and water and turning it into bread is like feeding ourselves with magic?

Making bread feels like a practice in living: we give the best of ourselves to something that may not turn out right. Then, regardless of the results, we get up the next week, or the next day, and we do it again. Slowly, we get better. We learn. We get things wrong. We try again.

It’s infuriating. It’s stupid. It doesn’t make any sense.

But it turns out I don’t so much mind an exercise in futility. Which is why today I’m mixing up a starter to place on the window sill so it may collect the wild yeasts from the air. I will nurture and fret over it like I have in the past—but maybe this time my devotion will result in a loaf that rises into something wonderful, simply through a patient practice of offering water and wheat to the air, and placing it in the heat of a fire.

Like magic.

Burdens

Things are getting pretty spicy out there, huh?

When all this started, I wasn’t too worried about much aside from getting or spreading the virus, because I believe (foolishly, some might say) in the inherent goodness and generosity of people. What’s tripping me up today are the people who are letting strong emotions get the better of them. Fear is expected in situations like this. Anger is understandable. We’re all feeling them. But when we let fear and anger rule us, that is…a bummer.

You’re free to disagree with this, but it seems the most valuable thing in the world is not freedom; it’s love, which gives us the unnatural ability to lay down our lives for our friends (or neighbors, or countrymen). You’re not being asked to lay down your life—only to set it down at your feet for a while. All that’s being asked is that you stay at home (if you can). Just stay home. Trust in whatever gives you hope, be that God or the universe or your fellow humans. Take care of each other. Take care of yourself.

I know it’s excruciating to remain still when everything in you wants to spur you toward action. But even though you’re frustrated, you’re not powerless. If you are in need or worried about the future, plenty of people are aching to help you. You don’t have to carry the burden of worry all by yourself. If you are fortunate enough to have resources, please offer them as generously as you can. If you’re upset by one “side” or the other, do your best to look past the protest signs or the restrictive orders and see the people behind them, people who are like you: scared, angry, uncertain, and in desperate need of a hug. See if you can make one small motion toward, rather than against, them today. Even if it’s mumbling through clenched teeth, “I see you and I’m sorry you’re hurting.” Even if it’s just digging deep and admitting privately that you don’t hate them with every fiber of your being…just most of them.

This probably sounds stupid and trite. Maybe it is. I don’t know. I’m just out of any other ideas. I don’t see any other path than patience and grace and hand-washing. And, like, love or whatever.

So I’m going to stick with that. Then, when it’s safe to pick up our lives again and go on our way, we might find pride and gratitude in the way we offered what we could during the worst time in a generation.

That’s my hope, anyway.

In closing, I would like to offer you this picture of a tarsier:

Look at that guy! Look at those big eyes! He’s givin’ you a mischievous wink, the li’l devil! Aw, man. Animals are the best, right?

Anxiety Ambassador

Hello, friends.

To put it mildly, this is a challenging time. Some of you may be experiencing STRANGE FEELINGS you’ve never felt before—or at least not as intensely as you do now. Maybe you’re struggling with insomnia. Or you’re waking up several times during the night with your heart racing. Maybe you’ve been too distracted to concentrate, your mind fuzzy and dull or racing with a cacophony of spiraling thoughts. Maybe you’ve felt dizzy, or nauseated, or you’re suffering from terrible headaches and tense muscles. Maybe your appetite has disappeared, or maybe you can’t get food into your mouth fast enough.

Welp. I can tell you exactly what’s happening.

Hooray!

Don’t get me wrong—you (probably) don’t have an anxiety disorder. In this type of extreme situation, a heightened level of worry is completely normal and expected. But that doesn’t make it easy. That’s why I’m here to offer my services as your Anxiety Ambassador, ready to lend expertise gleaned from decades of experience with the physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual effects of that cruel mistress Anxiety.

You may already have an Anxiety Ambassador in your life who can demonstrate proper care and keeping of your Anxiety. If that’s the case, great! It’s always nice to let your Friendly Neighborhood Person with Anxiety know that their worries actually serve a purpose sometimes. But if you don’t have someone like this in your life, feel free to call on me any time of the day or night for all your anxiety needs.

Let’s get started, shall we?

1. ARE YA HAVIN’ A PANIC ATTACK? “How can I tell?” you might ask. Well, you know how heart attacks are depicted in movies? The person breaks into a sweat, dramatically clutches their chest, and then falls to the ground with a strangled, “Ack! Oof!”? That’s a lot what a panic attack looks like. You will likely hyperventilate. Maybe your hands will go tingly as chills course through you and your blood feels like it’s racing through your veins. Your heart will pound, your head will spin, you’ll feel as if a rhinoceros sat on your chest while you were taking a nap. “How rude!” you might say. That’s true, it is quite rude. But when these feelings fail to subside after a moment, you may grow alarmed and exclaim, “THIS IS IT. THIS IS HOW I GO. SQUASHED BY AN INVISIBLE RHINOCEROS.”
   Well, I hate to contradict what your panicked brain is telling you, but this probably isn’t your time. While you may feel like you’re dying, in reality it’s just your nervous system trying to keep you safe. It has good intentions, I promise. Even though it feels like it’s trying to off you.
   “So what should I do about it?” you’re likely asking. That’s a fine question. A sensible question. And it deserves a sensible answer. The best thing to do, in my experience, is to act out a tiger attack. Literally. What is actually happening in your body right now mirrors your ancient, inherited response to danger. Like this:
   THERE IS DANGER! says your brain. Immediately your body LEAPS into action. Digestion shuts down. Blood rushes from your head to fuel your automatic DANGER response. Your breathing gets faster so more oxygen is available for things like KICKS and SWIPES and JABS. Your vision narrows to help you focus on the threat. Adrenalin courses through you as you prepare to FIGHT or FLEE. And all this would be so great! Really helpful! Assuming the threat was something physical like a tiger, instead of this more abstract danger of your own existential fears.
   But why not PRETEND it’s a tiger, anyway? When the signs of acute anxiety start ratcheting up, and you say to yourself, “Thar she blows, boys—panic attack a-comin’!” just pretend that a tiger is stalking you from the next room. Stand up. Face your enemy boldly. Wrestle it to the ground. Try not to knock over any lamps. Or, if you are a flight-er, just run around your home for ten, fifteen minutes. Imagine the tiger chasing you through each room. There she is, poised to pounce! Were those her claws swiping at your back? Run, friend—run before she catches you and swallows you whole!
   The last, vital part of this exercise is to celebrate at the end. You’ve defeated/escaped the threat! Hoorah! Now it is time to jump up and down with your hands to the sky! Or kiss your quarantine companion passionately like in that V-J Day picture! Or, if you don’t have any quarantine companions, maybe smooch a shapely lamp! Or make yourself a milkshake! Anything to let your body know that the threat is gone and you can go back to gathering berries or whatever brought you wandering into tiger territory in the first place. Or you might want to take a nap after all that activity. Go on. You deserve it.

2. DO YA FEEL LIGHT-HEADED FROM ALL YER GOLDARNED THOUGHTS? Ongoing anxiety is more difficult to deal with than acute anxiety, because your body still responds as if it were facing a tiger, but the response goes on and on, wearing down your system and making life pretty miserable. If your thoughts won’t shut off and keep triggering your stress response, it’s best to sit down for a minute and reel those buggers back in.
   Here’s a trick you might find snappy: Put on a hat. The largest one you can find. If you don’t have a hat, wrap a towel around your head like a turban. Now imagine all your thoughts rising up out of your head and into the hat. Like water evaporating from a puddle. Now, this is the tricky part: quickly, stealthily, swipe the hat off your head and place it in a bag, or a trunk, or the freezer—anywhere your thoughts can be safely contained. Sure, they’ll likely find a way to creep back into your head, but at least for a time you can do something productive, like play your sixtieth hour of Animal Crossing. Or, again, maybe take a nap. I cannot overstate how tiring anxiety can be.

3. HAVIN’ TROUBLE SLEEPIN’? You could always go with the ol’ standard. Hand someone a rolling pin and tell ‘em to conk y’over the head with it. But here’s another practice you might find works pretty well:
   Snuggle up in your bed all cozy and warm. Got some water next to you? Need a little snack before you go to sleep? No? All set? Great. Now start thinking about everything you’ve ever had to be grateful for. This might sound trite, but I don’t mean to call you a complainer or tell you to quit whinin’ and think about everyone else who has it worse than you. Just…think about something nice you saw. Like the green of the new spring leaves on a tree. That was pretty, right? What a nice world, to offer sights like that. Or your best friend. Aren’t they a treasure? You’re pretty lucky to have them in your life—and they’re lucky to have you! Or how about cheese? Whew! Who could be upset for long when there’s cheese in the world?! (Obviously if you’re lactose intolerant or somehow inexplicably dislike cheese, substitute whatever you enjoy. Muffins! Sirloin steaks! Grape Nuts! Spam!) If stressful thoughts come up again, that’s okay. Just think, Wow! How wonderful that I have a brain that’s working so hard all the time to keep me safe! And then maybe think about how cool it is that we have helmets, so you can keep your brain safe in exchange.

4. HAVE YA BEEN CRABBIER THAN A CHESAPEAKE FISHERMAN? Listen. I get it. The world is so annoying. Your moods are totally justified. But are they fun? Many people will encourage you to start a calming practice like meditation or work your moods out through exercise. Not me. Those methods are all well and good, but they can take weeks to kick in. You need relief now! That’s why I like to keep a store of crockery for just such occasions.
   PIcture this: You’re so irritated you could rip out your own eyeballs just so you have something to throw against the wall. However, instead of blinding yourself, you head up to a high place—maybe the roof, maybe a window—and, after making sure nobody is down below, you throw down a mug and watch with satisfaction as it smashes on the ground beneath you. WHAT CATHARSIS! You throw a plate. WHAT JOY! Nothing like a little destruction to get you out of a bad mood. Plus, maybe you get out in the fresh air a little bit? Get a little sunshine? Can’t hurt.

5. ARE YA JUST FEELIN’ LISTLESS AND DULL, LIKE YOU’RE SUFFERING FROM A CASE OF THE MYSTERIOUS ENNUI BUT CAN’T QUITE FIGURE OUT WHY? This is going to sound silly, but I swear it works.
   You’re gonna need to sing it out.
   Labeling what you’re feeling does a surprising amount to help alleviate a distressing emotion, and it’s even better if you add in the absurdity of singing out loud to no one. It doesn’t have to be a grand aria. It doesn’t even have to rhyme. Just pick a little tune and musically narrate what’s going on in your Feelings and your Brain. Like this:

WELL, I FEEL MUCH BETTER.

(I undergo this humiliation to show just how much I care about you, and how seriously I take my role as Anxiety Ambassador.)

If none of these suggestions works for you, HAVE YA TRIED DISSOCIATING? When faced with stress, some people flee, some people fight. But others freeze and do their best to disappear into their heads, where it’s safe and cozy and nothing is ugly or frightening or too difficult to deal with. Obviously this isn’t an actual recommendation, because dissociating can be scary! And not necessarily helpful! But if it happens to you, it’s okay. “It’ll pass,” you can tell yourself as you close your eyes. “All of this will pass.”

Open your eyes. Has it passed yet?

Don’t worry. It will.

Whatever you have to do to cope is fine (assuming it’s not too destructive). Anxiety is tough to deal with. Even your Anxiety Ambassador with years of experience doesn’t have a total handle on it. So don’t expect yourself to be able to make it disappear in an instant, as if you are a magician and anxiety is a bird that you hide in your pocket before revealing your empty palms to an amazed, “Oooh! Aaah!” At the end of the trick, nothing’s changed; the bird’s still there, squished and disgruntled in your pocket.

If you’re feeling overwhelmed, just know that we’re all there with you. You’ll get through this time.

I promise.

This Is Just To Say

I have sent
the book
to some trusted
readers

and to
the agents
who had
requested it.

Now I sit
waiting for responses
so lonely
and so tired.

My Revise & Resubmit request is now finished and sent off to agents, who will read through it and let me know whether they would like to represent me or not. It took a few months longer than I’d hoped, but now I know for next time that I am Slow At Things and will estimate accordingly.

However, now that I’ve done as much as I can on this project, I’m having a hard time jumping into the next one. I have at least six books I would consider focusing on, all in varying states of existence. But it’s hard to go from something that is finished and as good as I can make it, to something that’s half-finished, riddled with flaws, and promises a long slog of drafts and edits before the agony of rewrites. I mean, does thinking about it fill me with a sort of nervous motivation to get started on all that work left to do? Yes. But then I open the file. I look at the sentences I wrote. I mutter, Did a toddler write this? I close the document. I pull up a list of Careers for People with No Useful Life Skills. Then I stare out the window for a little while until it’s time for lunch.

So instead of diving into something new, I’ve been keeping myself busy with little tasks here and there. You know. Baking. Sewing. Sighing heavily. Walking aimlessly through the garden while wringing my hands. I’ve also been reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone to the dogs. They’ve never read it before, and I figured it was time. They…don’t seem that into it, but we just got to Hogwarts. That’s when it really picks up, I told them.

Mostly I’ve been trying to reconcile the fact that we’ll never be able to hear all the stories from this strange, surreal time. Stories of such fear and joy and resiliency and compassion are taking place all around us, and it’s so frustrating that I can’t know them all. So I hope you’ll share some of yours. Leave a comment here, send an email, post on social media. That’s one of the ways we make sense of the things that happen to us, by cobbling them together into a story. I’m dying to hear yours. Please send them along and share them with your people. Even if your stories seem insignificant. Even if you think they don’t matter. They do.

Here’s one of mine:

A week ago, my nephew turned two. My entire family was in the same (virtual) room, which doesn’t happen often—it certainly hasn’t happened in Zade’s lifetime. And as we sang happy birthday from seven different houses across two different states, in all different keys and tempos, for a moment I couldn’t feel that heaviness that’s been hanging around for the last month. Just for a moment. And that was enough.

Tiramissteps

10:23 — IT’S BILL’S BIRTHDAY!! I won’t say how old he is, because a lady never tells (that’s what that phrase means, right?). I WILL tell you, however, that he does not want cake for his birthday. He does not want pie. He doesn’t even want rice krispie treats with rainbow sprinkles on them, which is my birthday dessert of choice. No, this fancy lad wants tiramisu, which is something I have never made before. So. Let’s get ready to…hope this turns out okay. (See, if he’d wanted an apple crumble or something, I could’ve said, “Let’s get ready to crumble!” but what kind of puns can you make with tiramisu?)

10:25 — Oh, wait. I got one.

Me: I tira-miss you!
Bill: *speechless with admiration for my punnery*
Me: I know. You tira-miss-me-tu.

11:35 — Alright, let’s ride. First we have to make ladyfingers, which seem like finicky little devils. You cook eggs and sugar together over a double boiler until they reach 160 degrees, then whip them in a stand mixer until they’re pale and fluffy. The whipped eggs are the only leavening to prompt these little guys to rise into spongy fingers, so if I don’t get it right, the cookies are ruined. NO PRESSURE, THOUGH.

11:37 — It looks like hot, foamy orange juice. Yum.

11:40 — After five minutes of stirring and scraping over a steamy pot, the temperature has reached 160, but these eggs definitely look a little scrambled. DID I RUIN IT ALREADY?

11:42 — No time to worry about it! On to the whisking. This is a CRUCIAL STAGE, the recipe says. If the eggs don’t whip into soft peaks, the ladyfingers will be FLAT and FAT. Which, as every lady knows, is a matter of deepest shame. Wherever will you find a pair of white kidskin gloves to fit over your Flat Stanley hands? You know you can’t go to a dance without gloves, Jo, and yours are all stained with lemonade!

11:43 — Wow. I really need some breakfast. Not eggs.

I wanted to take a Sad Picture with Eggs, but I forgot how much my dogs love eggs. It’s the reason I had to learn to crack eggs two at a time—they’re insatiable!

11:46 — Incidentally, my mom made me that awesome apron with Harry Potter newsprint…print. Which reminds me, where did Arthur Weasley work, again? The tira-Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office? (Boom, still got it.)

11:49 — By this point in the whipping process, the egg mixture is supposed to be foamy and quadrupled in size and able to hold soft peaks, like soft serve. Mine looks suspiciously like…cake batter? And it’s not holding any kind of peaks, soft or otherwise. It might be time for Attempt Number 2. Luckily I have a dozen and a half eggs. A sesquidozen eggs. Unfortunately, our sugar situation is less secure, so this might be our final attempt.

11:56 — Oh, jeez. I just realized I have to do this whole thing again for the mascarpone filling. THESE HOT EGGS WILL BE THE DEATH OF ME.

12:05 — Attempt No. 2 is out of the sauce pan and into the mixer. It’s in the hands of the gods now.

12:06 — Our candy thermometer has a marker for fish. I have so many questions. For instance, “Why?” and also, “How?”

12:08 — WELL, THIS ATTEMPT IS MUCH BETTER. Not perfect, but it’s at least tripled in size, and there’s a distinct fluff to the mixture. I’m gonna let it go a little longer just in case, but what a relief.

12:19 — Folding flour and cornstarch into the mixture, and the cornstarch gives it the consistency of slime. It’s very satisfying.

12:21 — Batter is twisted up in the piping bag. The recipe says to pipe them out half an inch by three inches, but since I am a lady, I shall eschew such things as rulers and use my own dainty fingers as a guide. Knobbly knuckles included. One ended up with a wart, but whatevs. We are none of us ladies perfect, after all.

12:23 — Dust generously with powdered sugar—stop shaking, hands, the worst is over—so that they will rise up and not spread out in the—whoa, not that generously—in the oven. Bake at 350 for twelve minutes.

12:25 — Breathe a quick sigh of relief. Just a quick one, though—it’s time to pipe out the other tray.

12:32 — Huh. They aren’t puffing very much. And they’re spreading quite a bit, despite the liberal dusting of powdered sugar. I mean, they’ll be fine for the recipe, probably. But I blame the eggs. Or the weather. It’s raining, and if there’s one thing I know about baking, it’s that you can blame all manner of tiramishaps on humidity, temperature, or elevation.

12:36 — The second batch had an unreasonable amount of powdered sugar on it, in a last-ditch attempt to ensure puffery.

12:38 — Alright, well, let’s move on. That first part took an hour, and I do have other things to do today, like procrastinate writing.

12:40 — I FORGOT TO START THE TIMER! Luckily, I have this handy record of when I put the second tray in. Also I tried one of the first batch, and they’re not that bad. Plus, the second batch looks to be puffing up much more than the first. We may be okay yet.

12:43 — You guys. THE COFFEE SYRUP. Later we’ll be dipping ladyfingers in this beguiling concoction of cocoa, vanilla, espresso, and a surprising dose of rum, but right now it’s just sitting on the counter, filling the kitchen with its rich, intoxicating scent. I wish I could express how good this smells. But I cannot. You’ll have to make it yourself. Or come over tonight for dessert!

1:00 — Back at it with the eggs. I should be getting better at this by now, but I guess we’ll see.

1:05 — So, I was staring out the window thinking of more tiramisu portmanteaus while I stirred, and there is a small chance the eggs scrambled a bit. WHAT A TERRIBLE TIRAMISTAKE!

1:06 — Oh, well! Into the mixer!

1:08 — OH DANG, maybe slightly scrambled is the key? Because this is definitely how the other ones were SUPPOSED to look. Is it too late to restart the ladyfingers? No, that’s crazy. Don’t even consider it. Stop now.

1:09 — Okay, but hear me out—!

1:11 — So. Let’s talk about mascarpone as it mixes into the eggs. Your eyes say “cream cheese” and your mouth says “maybe ricotta?” but OH, SWEET NELLY when you combine it with those sweet fluffy eggs, you say nothing at all because you’re too busy stuffing spoonfuls of it into your mouth. It’s so good. So fluffy and beautiful. It should enter the tira-Miss Universe pageant. It would win for SURE.

1:15 — All that’s left is to assemble. First the ladyfingers take a dip in the coffee syrup and line the bottom of the dish, then a layer of custardy mascarpone is spooned on top, followed by a dusting of cocoa. Repeat. You know. Like a lasagna. If lasagna were sweet and soft and squishy and mostly made of eggs.

1:18 — Welp, here she is, friends, the tastiest treat this side of the tira-Mississippi:

Tooth Time

Listen. I know I write about teeth a fair amount. Maybe an unhealthy amount. Am I obsessive about my dental hygiene? That’s a story for another time. The story for this time, today, right now, is about my most recent trip to the dentist.

It was raining, as it always seems to be when I go to the dentist. I shook myself off like a dog and sat down in the waiting room. I deliberately left my phone in my bag, so that the older couple in the corner would be impressed that a millennial was not attached to her phone and also knew all the words to “Footloose.” (How else do you think I could stop jiggling my foot right at the music break, old man? Try to stereotype me all you like, sir and madam—I grew up watching Lawrence Welk for FUN. COME AT ME, BOOMERS!)

However, they were not paying any attention to me. The woman stood up and crossed over to the reception desk, where she asked the receptionist, Crystal, if they were running late today.

“You’re…Brenda?” Crystal said cheerily.

“Yes.”

“She just finished up with her last patient. You’re next.”

Brenda went back and sat down. “Why bother making an appointment?” she grumbled to her husband. “Come in forty-five minutes after it’s scheduled and you’ll walk right in.”

Her husband scoffed in agreement. I made a small noise that could have been a cough or an indignant harumph.

“What time is it?” Brenda asked. “Noon?”

“Eleven-thirty,” her husband said.

“Oh,” she said. “So we’ve been waiting fifteen minutes.” This still seemed unacceptable to both Brenda and Mr. Brenda.

At that moment, her hygienist came out, and as Brenda followed her to an examination room, the hygienist said kindly, “So you’ve been waiting a while, huh?”

I didn’t envy her the rest of that conversation, but I was impressed at the apparent covert communication between her and Crystal.

Maybe she was nervous about her appointment, I thought. Fear and anger often travel together. I resumed my customary dentist-waiting-room stance: eyes wide, staring blankly, jaw clenched fingers clutching the chair arms, foot jiggling madly. For me, fear travels fast and alone.

A few moments later, I was called in by the same woman who cleaned my teeth the last time I was in, a year and a half ago. A fastidious woman (whom I will call Sheryl because I can’t remember her name), she had recommended brushing with baking soda, whitening my teeth, and wearing a mouth guard to protect my enamel and jaw, which was clicking ominously whenever I opened my mouth. With each suggestion, I’d shrunk further into my cleaning bib. I probably should have told her how sensitive I am about my teeth. How I fret over them, like a mother duck brooding over her little ducklings. But I didn’t. Partly because how could anybody hear that and not say, “You are the weirdest little weirdo in Weirdsville City, little lady”?

This time, however, she took some x-rays, glanced at the pictures, and told me I had good gums and bones and my teeth had a low decay rate. I didn’t know what that meant, but I assumed it was positive (from Context Clues!).

GOOD GUMS AND BONES. LOW DECAY RATE. I want those words emblazoned on my tombstone (which will be made, incidentally, of porcelain. Highly impractical, but stunning). Although now that I think about it, that sounds less like an epitaph and more like an advertisement for grave robbers.

“However,” she went on, “do you drink a lot of coffee or tea? Is that what’s staining these lower teeth?”

Oh, Sheryl. Sheryl, Sheryl, Sheryl. There’s that second shoe. Listen. I have given up coffee. Soda. Energy drinks. Alcohol. I brush, floss, and swish with a remineralizing mouthwash multiple times daily. What more do you want from me, Sheryl? I don’t know why my teeth don’t look better, but I have nothing left to offer you, save these tea-stained teeth in my head.

“Maybe it’s all the jelly beans I’ve been eating while I work,” I said, and immediately regretted revealing that shameful little detail of my life.

We talked about my pups and her daughter-in-law’s dog, who rolled on the grass one time and Sheryl thought he was having a seizure. Thinking of Brenda, I asked if a lot of people who come in are nervous.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “The lady before you was nearly sick.”

What a fun story, Sheryl!

“Are you nervous?” she asked. “Would you like me to put the weighted blanket back on you?”

Yes, please. It was like reclining under a cloud of calm. Like a thousand hugs condensed and assembled into a stylish, lead-lined pinafore.

“No, that’s okay,” I said, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling. “I am very brave.”

The dentist came in to examine my mouth, already wearing a mask. All I could see were her black plastic-rimmed glasses, a sleek bun of dark hair, and two impeccable black eyebrows. She looked like a beautiful cartoon hypochondriac.

“I’m going to put you down now,” she said.

Please don’t. My ego is soft and fragile, like a small rabbit.

Slowly the chair whirred backward till I was horizontal.

Oh. I see now.

“No cavities,” she pronounced after examining my x-rays and poking my teeth gently with her Spindly Tooth Poker.

“Yay!” I called feebly.

She didn’t laugh. Nothing could shake that professional facade. I should have known better than to bring weak attempts at humor into a dentist’s chair.

Sheryl finished up quickly. Suspiciously quickly. I was all, “Take me out to dinner first, Sheryl!” and she was like, “That’s not how you use that expression,” to which I replied, “I know.”

But I did not know.

I chose a pink toothbrush and followed Sheryl back out into the lobby. After I paid and scheduled another appointment, I turned to leave—and saw Brenda being escorted out by her hygienist. I’d gone in after her and gotten out before.

She must have been FURIOUS.

Even More Flirting Tips for Human People

That’s right, my bebes. It’s that time again. The most romantic time of the year. And if you’re in need of some flirting tips, as always, you’ve come to the right place. Maybe you have your eye on a special someone, but you haven’t told them yet? Well, with Valentine’s Day just a few days away, I’ve got the perfect way for you to confess your feelings.

Let’s get flirty.

1. Fill their home with oranges so that when they open the door they’ll all come rolling out. Then you pop out with a sign that says, “ORANGE you going to go out with me?” Bonus: So much vitamin C! No one’s gettin’ scurvy this year, boys!

2. Wear an interesting hat to reel them into conversation. Once you have them hooked, take off the hat to reveal “Wanna get dinner sometime?” shaved into your head.

3. Start a podcast called “Who’s My Crush?” Persuade enough listeners to leave reviews on iTunes so that the person you like will be sure to stumble across it. On each episode, have guests go through a local phone book and ask you, “Is it Miriam Abrams? Is it Jason Abromovich?” and so on. You could reveal who it is at the end of the first season, but if you have a fair number of downloads, why not stretch it to two?

4. Sit next to them with a big basket of dates. Not a cut-up calendar, Amelia Bedelia—just a plain, old Phoenix dactylifera off a common date palm tree of the family Arecaceae, grown in many tropical regions of the world. When they ask you what you have there, say, “Just some dates. Want one?” Then on your date, you can impress them with your extensive knowledge of sweet tropical fruits.

5. Just, like, have your friend tell them for you. This never backfires. People love to be wooed through a middleman. I mean, putting them on the spot and forcing them to be vulnerable in front of someone who’s not at all involved in the situation? Who wouldn’t love that?!

6. Catch them a large fish. Tell them you want to ask them out, but you’re floundering.

7. We all know that the way to a person’s heart is through their stomach. So all you have to do is make a small incision near their belly button, insert a laparoscope up past the abdominal organs and through the chest to the heart, and BOOM! You’re in.

8. Okay. Stay with me on this one. First, you apply to work at an insurance company. Wow them at the interview. Get a job in the claims department. Make friends at the office. Go out for karaoke with Beverly and The Girls from Accounting. Carpool with Doug-Who-Lives-Two-Streets-Over-From-You. Ace your quarterly performance review. Accidentally reply-all on an email from your boss. Gossip with Erica from HR about Beverly’s divorce. Celebrate your birthday with sheet cake in the break room. Force a laugh every time Doug says, “Hump day, huh, buddy?” Then, steal your special someone’s car and dump it in a lake. When they call to report the incident to their insurance company, who will be on the case but YOU, their helpful, attractive, and conveniently single claims representative!

9. Have you considered telling them with your words? From your mouth?

10. Just kidding. That’s ridiculous. YOU SHOULD GET A BOUNCE HOUSE INSTEAD, WITH A SIGN THAT SAYS, “JUMP ON INTO MY HEART!”

Thirty

I’m thirty.

I know what you’re thinking. “Hi, Thirty. I’m Dad.”

To which I say…good one. You always know how to keep it funky-fresh.

Yesterday I woke up to an existential crisis. It’s not that I’d been dreading the big 3-0, exactly. If anything, each passing year brings me closer to my eighties, which is when I really expect to thrive. Just that it was my last chance to panic. It felt foolish not to take advantage of that.

This morning was different, though. I leapt out of bed (not because of any intrinsic motivation, but because the puppy was about to have an accident in the bedroom) and put on a SKIRT and a SENSIBLE SWEATER. Now that I’m thirty, I’m all about that SUBSTITUTE TEACHER LOOK. I penguin-walked over icy sidewalks to the local cafe and did some WORK. No time for nonsense. I am a LADY in my THIRTIES, and that means…

Actually, I don’t know what it means. Which is fun, I think! It seems to be this sort of amorphous time when you’re just continuing down whatever path you’ve chosen—which, for me, falls along the lines of “eccentric hermit.” So really, I get to decide what I want this decade to look like, which is extremely freeing. For instance, instead of worrying about all the things I haven’t accomplished, I can:

• Pursue my true passions, which include recreating scenes from old MGM musicals by myself and brooding in nature

• Pick up new hobbies, like ice dancing

• Re-pierce my ears, which will be a pretty wild ride

• Finally start dressing like my style icon, Ms. Frizzle. Yesterday two teenage girls referred to me as “that lady,” so I’ve clearly passed the age where anyone cares what I look like

• Go grey early, and all at once, as if I’ve been cursed by an old crone

• Stop being afraid of everything all of the time—maybe I’ll try being afraid of only some of the things all of the time, or all of the things some of the time. Ideally, obviously, I’d only be afraid of sensible things, like badger attacks, in the appropriate setting, like when I stumble into a cete of badgers, but I’ll settle for incremental progress.

• Maybe buy an extravagant hat

The options are limitless for a woman who’s thirty and wordy and…blaving? Is that right? I think that’s how it goes.