THE MEANTIME

I have secured an editor for the book. Her name is SUSAN and she’s the BEST. However, handing it off to someone else leaves me without anything to tinker and obsess over, so what else is there to do in the meantime?

ANSWER: PLENTY. There is NO TIME TO WASTE.

Most of it involves marketing. PRE-MARKETING. YOU MIGHT SAY.

[Side note: I know I’m not one to hold back the caps-lock, but I’ll probably go extra heavy on it in this post because marketing is actually the WORST and I have to PSYCH MYSELF UP for it. I APOLOGIZE.]

All the articles say one of the best things you can do as an aspiring or established author is GROW YOUR PLATFORM. I wish that meant the size of your heels, as I am all about that disco look, but NO. GET A GRIP. It actually means your online presence: social media, a blog (heyo!), YouTube videos, OnlyFans—any way you can get VISIBILITY and ENTICE UNSUSPECTING READERS to PLEDGE their LOYALTY to you and BUY ALL THE BOOKS. Plus any forthcoming MERCH.

I hate it. A lot of people hate it. It feels so mercenary and inauthentic, as if I want to strip mine you for your attention and money. Writers used to have it so easy. A thousand years ago, when writing was invented, all you had to do was show up with a story in your head and a song in your heart and be like, “Gutenberg, my good man! Would you be so good as to print this little tale of mine and distribute it among the literate populace? Thanks ever so, old chap!“ Granted, most of the population consisted of illiterate peasants, but if you were friends with the monarch, you could probably get them to make it mandatory for all citizens, literate or not, to purchase your book instead of firewood to warm themselves during the long, harsh winter.

But now, it’s all HUSTLE HUSTLE HUSTLE. There are a JILLION BOOKS out there and a LIMITED NUMBER of READERS, and HALF those potential readers are already distracted by PODCASTS THESE DAYS.

Some of you have already asked me, HOW CAN I HELP? And to you darling people, I say THANK YOU A THOUSAND TIMES OVER. The honest answer is you don’t have to do anything! It’s enough that you’re reading my blog like a great friend and/or family member. And honestly, you ARE busy. You DO have podcasts to listen to. I know that. It’s sweet of you to want to support me and I appreciate you VERY MUCH.

But I guess, if you’re still insistent…here is a handy list of ways you can help your Friendly Neighborhood Writer. (Bonus: THEY ARE ALL FREE.)

  • FOLLOW ME. To the ends of the earth. Just kidding—I don’t go anywhere! Instead, you can follow me on Instagram or Twitter @carriemulleryay. If you want. No pressure.

  • SUBSCRIBE TO MY NEWSLETTER. Further instructions will await you in your inbox. This is actually one of the best free ways to support an author (aside from standing outside their house with an encouraging sign and some homemade peanut brittle) because it gives them STATS. How many subscribers do they have? How many people opened the email they sent? How many callously unsubscribed with nary a thought for their fragile emotions? How many were fake email addresses that bounced back, like seymourbuttes@aol.hotmail?

    (If you’re not sure whether you are already subscribed, just think back to earlier today. Did you find an email from me in your inbox? Did that email include a link to this post? If yes, you’re subscribed! If not, why not take a minute and subscribe now? Subscribe your friends! And your mom! And your dog! They’ll love the emails, I promise. They include a LOT of fun animal facts.)

  • TELL YOUR FRIENDS. But just, like, keep it casual, you know? Don’t make it obvious that I want them to read my stuff. Just be cool. Okay? You promise you won’t tell them I like them? DO YOU PROMISE? Okay. Just be like, yeah, this lady is alright, I guess, she’s only like changed my life and whatever. Or whatever you want to say! That’s just like, a suggestion.

  • PICKET YOUR LOCAL LIBRARY. I assume you’re doing this already, for one reason or another, but maybe add one more item to your list of grievances. Once the book comes out, it’d be COOL if your library could acquire it—that way you could read it for FREE and then maybe leave it in CONSPICUOUS PLACES AMONG THE STACKS so OTHER people will find it and read it TOO, and then you can start a BOOK CLUB TOGETHER and serve FANCY SCONES and then suddenly oh wow, LOOK AT ALL THE COOL BOOK CLUB FRIENDS YOU HAVE!

  • VOLUNTEER FOR MY LITERACY FOUNDATION. It’s called BOOK, and the logo is just a picture of a person reading a book, because…if someone can’t read, I’m not about to make it harder for them to find us. My plan is to teach illiterate peasants to read so they can enjoy all my books instead of burning them for fuel. Win-win.

  • LET ME KNOW WHAT I CAN DO FOR YOU. In all seriousness, that’s really what this is all about, for me. That’s the trade. If you are giving me your time and attention, I want to give you something you’ll love in return. What can I make or do that will bring you happiness? Maybe that’s along the lines of, Name a character after me in your next book! or, Compose a song about slugs and perform it like you’re every member of an ‘80s hair band! or, Could you put out a colorful pamphlet on the dangers of eating apple cores? I hear the seeds have cyanide in them and I’m concerned because my boyfriend likes to eat apples whole. In one bite. It’s both alarming and fascinating. He’s done this eight times a day for fourteen years. Should he already be dead?

    If it’s in my power, I want to incorporate it into my work. For you. Because I love you. And because it’s a lot more fun to make something if you know in advance someone’s going to enjoy it.

    But yeah, please tell your boyfriend to stop Gaston-ing whole apples. That’s messed up.

Obwieszczenie!

I have some news, and I thought it would be fun to tell you about it in Polish:

Thanks, Duolingo!

Thanks, Duolingo!

I know what you’re thinking: “Big whoop, Carrie. You’ve been tinkering away on one book or another for LITERALLY DECADES now. What’s the big deal this time?”

Well, first off, thanks for paying attention. Second, this time it’s different. I’m actually publishing one of these books. I would have said that in the beginning, but I haven’t learned the Polish word for “publish” yet. However, I have learned other vital phrases, like this one:

Way to go, buddy!

Way to go, buddy!

Or, try this one on for size:

The finger guns are the best part.

The finger guns are the best part.

Now, I should mention that I will be self-publishing this book.

(Are you still there? Have you fainted in disgust?)

Listen. I know. Self-publishing still has this stigma about it. Anyone can self-publish a book, people say. It’s right there. In the name. Self-publish. To which I say, Truly, you have a dizzying intellect.

But I’ve thought about this a ton (you didn’t think I spent all those years actually writing books, did you?!), and here’s the thing. All that thinking wrung out my brain and left me a useless husk of a person. So I stopped thinking and instead asked my gut, “Hey, man, what’s going on?” And my gut just croaked out, “Have you forgotten? You have anxiety. I’m no good to you, child. At this point, I’m little more than a What-If factory.” So I turned to my heart and said, “Heart? You’re my only hope. What should I do?” but I’m still waiting on a response that doesn’t sound like feral shrieking, so in the end I went and flipped a coin. But then I couldn’t decide which choice to assign heads versus tails, so next I tried some visualization. I pictured myself going the traditional publishing route, which would mean either sending out more queries to agents in a market that currently (and rightly) prioritizes other stories, or throwing out everything I have and writing for the market. God, it makes me tired just thinking about it.

Then I pictured myself publishing my own books. Not accountable to anyone. Free to put all my odd little ideas out into the world. Beholden only to mine own self.

I guess, since you already know which one I picked, there’s not much point in dragging this out.

I’m going to release my first novel in 2022.

(OOH. Anyone else get the SHIVERS? Probably not. Sorry. Never mind.)

However, as soon as I finished with all the hemming and the hawing and made up my mind for good, someone reminded me that this whole debate over traditional versus self-publishing is ultimately moot. Nobody will care who actually publishes the thing, as long as there’s an audiobook.

I’m actually really excited about this process! DIY publishing! So fun! So much to learn! So many mistakes to make! Of course I will post updates on the process here as I hire an editor, produce cover art, and complete the millions of other tasks that go into publishing a book. Like purchasing an ISBN number! Who’da thought, when I was a little girl, that someday I’d grow up to buy myself an ISBN number of my very own?

Not me, honeybee.

________________

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Ode to the Olympics

I love the Olympics. Summer, winter—doesn’t matter, I love them both. The drama, the spectacle, the superhuman feats…ever since Kerri Strug made that second vault in 1996, I’ve been hooked (and obviously I went around the rest of the summer hopping on one foot and making my family say, “You cahn do it, Carrie!” in a Romanian accent). Not many people seem to care all that much about the Olympics anymore, but I can’t get enough.

Bill just laughs good-naturedly each time I GASP DRAMATICALLY at a missed landing or an untimely fall. “My favorite sport is watching you watch the Olympics,” he says. But he is MISSING OUT.

“Uh, have you ever SEEN the KAYAK SLALOM?!” I ask him.

But now, for this year at least, they’re over. And I feel so lost. How will I spend my days, if not watching replays of every single beach volleyball prelim? Working? Like some kinda CHUMP?

Luckily, I jotted down my thoughts from an entire two weeks of nonstop coverage, so we can bask for just a while longer in the glory of the Games.

Here we go. Hold onto your butts.

Equestrian

I’M WATCHING DRESSAGE! I texted a friend, as we delighted in the variety of sports available to our greedy little eyes.

I don’t normally watch dressage. (Let’s just get this out of the way, for the sake of time: aside from the Olympics, I don’t “normally” watch any sports.) I thought it’d be a quaint, dignified, old-world show, something to clap politely at over a nice Pimm’s cup. I thought I’d be able to put on a large-brimmed sun hat and fit right in.

But then the first horse came out, and was made to canter and bob and crip walk around the ring to “Copa Cabana” and “The Girl from Ipanema.” Humiliating. Degrading. Unforgivable.

AAAND THAT’S ENOUGH OF THAT! I texted.


Gymnastics

Obviously swimming and gymnastics are the big events during the summer, so I don’t have much to add. By now you’ll have heard that the greatest gymnast of all time, Simone Biles, came down with a case of the twisties during a vault—which sounds terrifying. Getting lost in the air is an issue most people will likely never have to contemplate. If someone mentioned it out of context, I’d assume it was a problem for pilots and hang gliders, not tiny ladies who launch themselves into the air, twisting and flipping so fast I can’t even pick out individual movements, just a blur of motion and a landing.

The incident has left me a bit spooked, though. I’ve started to catch myself with minor cases of mind-body disconnect. Mindless activities like brushing my teeth or changing the laundry over to the dryer stutter to a halt as I realize my brain isn’t consciously in charge of these actions, and if that’s the case, how am I even doing them?

HOW DOES ANYONE DO ANYTHING? I’ll say, holding a spoon halfway between a bowl and my mouth. SOMEONE PLEASE REMIND ME HOW TO SPOON.

Of course, Simone came back and won bronze on the beam like it was no thang. But I’ll never again take for granted that I know how to do anything. In fact, I’ve hung a picture of her on the wall and every so often I ask, “Is this how you blink, Simone? Am I doing it right?”

She just gives a supportive smile as I squint and grimace at her.

“You cahn do it, Carrie,” she says. And you know what? She’s right. I can.


Archery

This summer I developed a sudden and ardent love for archery.

I had no idea, before now, just how dramatic yet soothing this sport could be. The expectant quiet as they set up the shot; the whoosh and thud as the arrow finds its mark. The commentator is obviously a true fan of the sport, as well, and his excitement if there’s a shoot-off or a perfect set…I want the archers to do their best just so this man will be pleased.

There’s also the matter of the squishfaces.

2021-07-28 (103).png

There are some real doozies, as archers steady the string on their…chin? I guess? On their nose? I’m not sure what they’re doing, actually—all I really know for sure is that their smooshed-up concentration faces make this the most endearing sport around (especially if you’re Steve Wijler and get this cow-eyed, moony look beneath your bucket hat before you let the arrow fly. Has there ever been anything more charming in all of SPORTS?).


Trampoline

So, I admit I’m not a regular spectator of trampoline. I like it, even when they belly-flop on the trampoline for no discernible reason, but it has me a bit worried, as well. Everyone keeps crashing onto the mat, which seems like something that should not happen so frequently at the Olympics. One man even had a foot go through the springs, so he ended up standing one-legged on the ground with his other leg cast out to the side on the trampoline.

“He could have dislocated a knee—or a hip!” the commentator said.

Is this normal?! The coaches stand on the side with mats to stop the tramps’ bounce if they seem to be in trouble—and the very fact that this is necessary is incredibly alarming.

I hate to say this, because it means I’m getting old, but now I understand why my mom didn’t want us to have a trampoline when we were kids.

(PS—I didn’t know when was a good time to pitch my idea of calling the trampoline competitors “tramps,” so I just slipped it in there to see if anyone noticed. Thoughts?)

Men’s Triathlon

First of all.

Half the contestants dove in the water only to be herded back to the platform after a false start.

“Smooth move, Ex-Lax,” I said, from the superiority of my own couch.

They figured it out eventually.

During the biking section, one guy got himself way out in front. He rode alone, pensively, like an actor giving a soliloquy, and behind him came a bobbing pack of helmets, the Greek chorus chanting in his wake.

Then, once we got to the running portion, homies just started snatching water bottles from the insistent hands of the helper people along the course, drenched themselves like they were in a subtly erotic shampoo commercial, and then tossed the empty bottles on the ground! Like animals! “Thanks for hosting us, Tokyo, here’s a MESS.”

(Although some of the handy helper people seemed to be holding handkerchiefs? Like Lydia Bennet trying to catch the eye of a militia officer.)

Question: How much do those damp unitards chafe?

The winner, as you may know, sallied across the finish line, vomited several times, and was removed from the scene in a wheelchair. I know it was humid in the city, and that hardly makes for pleasant conditions, but the finish line looked like a medical triage center after a natural disaster. Not exactly a ringing endorsement for SPORT!



Women’s Triathlon

Much the same as the men’s, only they did it in the rain (and no vomiting, as far as I can tell).

Oh! Turns out the handkerchief-lookin’ things were ice packs. The winner, Flora Duffy from Bermuda, tucked one in her bathing suit to cool down her core, and I will definitely be stealing that little life hack for the remainder of the summer heat.

Also, they never drink the water from the bottles, just pour it over themselves. As if they will absorb the water through their skin, like frogs.

One last question: When they switched from biking to running, they put on shoes. But I didn’t see any evidence of socks. Are they putting soggy feet into running shoes and taking off for a 10K run?

What a nightmare.


Rhythmic Gymnastics

Even though I’m not what anyone would call a sportswoman myself, I can at least understand how most Olympic sports are done. You run, you jump, you swim, you climb, you launch yourself and/or another object into the air.

That is not the case for this sport. I don’t understand how rhythmic gymnastics is possible at all.

The tumbling! The dexterity! The synchronization! The acrobatics! The dance! The hand-eye coordination! I could maybe be proficient in one of those areas. Back when I was in my prime (my prime being about twenty minutes of my teenage years). But these women do all of them at once during a two-minute routine. While dance-tumbling, they toss balls in the air and also catch them—with their hands, behind their heads, between their knees, under their legs…they snag them behind their backs or bounce them off the backs of their legs or catch them with one foot and pass them along while they’re doing some back-bending flip move. Sometimes they hold one ball up in the path of two other balls, and the two balls bounce off the one and back into a gymnast’s waiting knee pit.

OH DANG. THEY JUST CAME OUT IN NEW OUTFITS—WITH HOOPS AND BATONS! IMAGINE BEING ABLE TO DO A HANDSTAND IN THE EXACT SPOT SO THAT A HOOP CAN DESCEND TWENTY FEET FROM THE AIR AND RING ITSELF PERFECTLY AROUND YOU. WHAT WILL THEY BRING OUT NEXT—FLAMING TIGERS?!

Rhythmic gymnastics is beautiful chaos that I will never understand, and I love it.

Also, three of the women on the ROC team are named Anastasia, and the other two are named Angelina and Alisa, which just feels so high-school-girl-gang it hurts.

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Track & Field

What’s there to say about track and field, really? Race, race, race. Jump, jump, jump. Toss, toss, toss.

Actually, I have a lot to say about it, I guess. So let’s do this bullet point-style:

  • Every event seems to have its own style. The cross-country runners are rangy and hungry-looking; the throwers are solidly built and self-assured; the jumpers bring the most swagger. But it’s the sprinters I admire most. The women go out with their hair and nails, their lipstick and lashes, jewelry hanging off their ears and necks. Look at Christina Clemons getting ready to sprint in dangly earrings and butterfly clips. Look at her!

Incredible.

Incredible.

  • Every four years I have to look up the origin of the steeplechase, which I immediately forget the moment the race is over. It’s a tricky event; I couldn’t even spot the steeple they were chasing, so I don’t know how they manage to keep an eye on it.

  • The hammer throwers sometimes look a little disoriented after their crazy spin. The centrifugal force seems a bit discombobulating. But what if…they just never stopped turning? What if they spin that hammer around so fast they take off, like a helicopter, and fly away?

  • It just seems oppressively hot in Tokyo. Really puts the “heat” in…well, ”heat.” I guess.

  • Here’s where my SPORTS inexperience is a hindrance: Is it just cool for runners to shove each other whenever they’re in the way? Are there no FOULS if you cause a FALL in a RACE in the OLYMPICS?! What if you go on a shoving RAMPAGE leaving CARNAGE in your WAKE?

  • Actually, I’ll answer my own question with the obvious conclusion that there exists a running mafia waiting in the shadows to rupture your Achilles tendon if your pushing gets out of hand.

  • The relay also makes me nervous, as those receiving batons have to dodge the finishers from the last leg. It works so well in swimming, but for the runners…not so smooth.

  • The jumpers really like crowd support. “CLAP FOR ME, MORTALS,” they say. “YOUR CLAPPING FUELS MY JUMPING LEGS. FEED ME YOUR CLAPS.”

  • Pole vault is a total mystery to me—how is it physically possible?—but it might be the event I would most like to sport. I like the idea of soaring into the air and then landing on a giant marshmallow.

  • THESE DISTANCE MEASURERS’ JOB SEEMS FRAUGHT WITH PERIL. They are at constant risk of getting conked by a hammer or shish-kebabed by a javelin. I hope they get hazard pay.

  • The track and fielders have the most exuberant reactions of all the athletes. They run down the track, fall on the ground, scream out their adrenaline. Really, it’s the most honest reaction. Maybe it’s more seemly to give a modest wave to the crowd after finishing an event, but don’t tell me if you were in their place you wouldn’t do exactly the same. It’s the best.


Artistic Swimming

I think this sport is the literal definition of “Thanks, I hate it.”

The aggressively curled toes! The manic expressions! The hair shellac and nose plugs!

From the moment the duos throw their shoulders back, snap their heads up, and strut to the pool to pose like an alien pantomime of human femininity, they have me hooked.

It’s amazing, and awful, and I can’t stop watching it. I dole it out to myself in small doses, like a treat, lest I indulge too much and glut myself. I mete it out like a punishment, a reminder of the terror humankind has wrought.

I envy these women with their clockwork movements…and I fear them. Their routines are inspired by sharks and witches, snakes and spiders. Too many of them are actual twins. And how can you trust anyone who can keep their eyes open under the water for three minutes straight? That’s some black magic.

…Okay, the team event is somehow less creepy than the synchronized duets. Though when you have eight swimmers out there with nose plugs, they do look like a bunch of aquatic Voldemorts.

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SPORT! Climbing

New to the Olympics for 2020, this may be the perfect sport.

FIRST UP: Two climbers at a time square up to SPEED RACE UP A WALL. They look like spider monkeys scrambling up the sheer face, leaping from one hold to another. The winner is triumphant as they are lowered down to the floor; the loser falls back in their harness, limp with defeat. And if one of them should happen to slip on the way up—THE CROWD GOES WIIIILD.

NEXT: The bouldering competition. Four “problems” are set before the athletes. They must use their strength, dexterity, and cunning to reach first a “zone” and then the top of the boulder set. The fewer attempts it takes to reach these goals, the better the score.

First, the lowest-scoring climber comes out to tackle the first problem. After five minutes, they disappear to rest their arms for five minutes while the next competitor comes out for a go. But after the next switch, we see two climbers at a time, as the first moves on to the second problem. Then there are three—and then four at a time! It’s insanity! Until finally we come full-circle, with the highest-scoring climber alone out there, craning to reach the top of the final boulder problem.

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BUT THAT’S NOT ALL! THIS IS A THREE-PART SPORT! The last section is lead climbing, which is likely what most people think of when they hear “rock climbing.” This wall is scaled one at a time, in a dramatic show of derring-do that ends only with the slip of a foot or a fingertip and then a long plunge back toward the ground. (But the best part is when they clip their rope into carabiners with the most satisfying little click. [The worst part is how much chalk they use. It might be more than the gymnasts.])

Actually the truly best part is the crazy scoring system they use. You multiply your place in the speed race by your place in the bouldering, which is THEN multiplied by your place in the lead. WHICH MAKES FOR SOME GRIPPING TELEVISION AS CLIMBERS DON’T KNOW WHICH MEDAL, IF ANY, THEY WILL RECEIVE UNTIL THE VERY LAST CLIMBER FALLS OFF THE WALL AND EVERYONE DOES SOME HASTY MENTAL MULTIPLICATION!

AT LAST—THE MATHLETES GET THEIR CHANCE TO SHINE!


Commentators

We would all be at a loss were it not for these intrepid guides navigating the way through these often complex, sometimes archaic sports. Here, for your enjoyment, is a sampling of the colorful brilliance these unsung heroes bring to this Olympic experience:

  • As a diver with feet and torso heavily taped approached the springboard, the Irish commentator said, “He has the scars…to prove the commitment.”

  • Rhythmic gymnastics: “Tchaikovsky’s going to make an appearance! Well…musically.”

  • “Man mountains, these hammer throwers.” —And then she proceeded to tell horror stories about hammer throwers accidentally letting the hammer fly off-course so that it hits someone running along the track. Apparently she knows of an official who got hit and “lived to tell another tale,” which I’m afraid may imply that surviving a rogue hammer is the exception.

  • Women’s 200m sprint: “I like to say it’s half a lap, but it’s all the fun.”

  • After someone held up a “Hi, family!” note to the camera: “Where’d he pull that out of? Oh, it’s on the back of his number. He's like a magician. Oh, he pulled it out of his pocket. Could have a rabbit in there, too.”

  • Men’s individual archery final: “Oh, boy! What a cracking good arrow!”

  • Men’s long jump: “As we say in the States, if he gets to 8.50 again, the rest of these boys can go to the cabin.”
    (…Do we say that in the States?)

  • I just sort of assume that this one lady with a vaguely Australian accent does the commentary for every sport. She researches tirelessly to become an expert on the intricacies of every Olympic event as well as the competitors involved in each.

  • Also, during the discus throw, she referred to the men as “units” in the most admiring tone, so needless to say I’m a big fan of her work.

  • I assume her name is Rebecca, which she pronounces “Ribiccar.”


The Netherlands

Their jackets say “Team Ned,” and if that’s not the most adorable thing—

What Now?

The good news is we only have a year and a half til the Winter Olympics in 2022. Until then, we may content ourselves with rewatching previous Olympic events, holding up our hands to salute an imaginary panel of judges after completing such mundane events as drying the dishes, and watching this classic Charlie Brown special wherein Snoopy wears a mask to compete in the school’s Junior Olympics and nobody realizes he’s a dog.

Magnolia. Maple. Sycamore.

From my usual spot on the side porch, my view is obscured by the many neighborhood trees, their branches overlapping like layers of lace. Or, rather, the trees are the view—and I don’t mind. The magnolia, pale, with its pert, fuzzy buds. The Japanese maple, gnarled and mossy. Then our proud sycamore, stretching high above all the others.

They cut down a tree across the alley yesterday—two trees, actually. Black walnut. It was an agonizing decision for the people who live there, to cut down those ancient things. It must have seemed presumptuous to make such a choice when they only exist as a blip in the trees’ history.

But then, the walnuts grow large and fall heavy. Children play in that yard, and what an unwelcome thunk it would be if one dropped on a tiny head. Then the walnuts rot on the ground, and when their dog, Arlo, gets into them (he’s a digger), his shaggy white fur turns purple. I see their point, but I still think that’s pretty punk rock for a dog.

If you process black walnut shells with…xantham gum, maybe? you can make ink. I always meant to gather some up and try it, but I never did. They mean to plant new trees soon—tall, native ones that won’t injure their children or stain their dog. It won’t be the same, but it’s something. I appreciate it.

Yesterday, as the cranes and cherry pickers swarmed in the air like insects, delicately amputating branches which were then fed to a hungry chipper, I grew so afraid. I watched the process through the lacy branches of the trees in my yard, and suddenly they seemed so old, so fragile. The Japanese maple is already held up by wires; the sycamore is likely over two centuries old. We are a blip in their long history, and I want them to outlast our time here.

I’m not sure why it’s so important to me; maybe the trees make me feel protected—a natural fortress around my small retreat. The locust that taps on the spare room windows, the hemlocks that line the fence in a dense huddle, the blue spruce that reaches toward me beseechingly from the sidewalk. The magnolia. The maple. The sycamore.

Grocery List

I went to the store yesterday. Check out all the cool things I bought:

  • Apples

  • Butterscotch candies, 1,200-ct.

  • Cactus paddles

  • Durian

  • Elf cookies (?)

  • Fruit, general

  • German cereal (muesli)

  • Hungry Lad (the Hungry Man junior meal)

  • I Can’t Believe it’s Not Butter!

  • Juice

  • KEEBLER! That’s what the elf cookies are called! Ugh, that was making me crazy.

  • Legumes, various

  • Muesli (German cereal)

  • Not human flesh!

  • Octopus beaks

  • Peanut brittle

  • Quick-Rise Yeast

  • Really Quick-Rise Yeast

  • Super Quick-Rise Yeast

  • The Quickest Yeast in Town

  • Unbelievably Quick Yeast!

  • Very, Very Quick Yeast

  • Wow! Yeast So Quick!

  • X-TREMELY QUICK-RISE YEAST

  • Yams

  • Zis Yeast! She Is…How You Say…So Queeck!

I Made Honey Buns for a Possum So You Don't Have To

It started with a mouse.

Several mice, actually. A whole plague of them, skittering about in our pantry and nibbling at Bill’s fancy oats. Well, naturally he couldn’t let this attack on his breakfast go unanswered. He set out traps in the basement and the kitchen and we heard them go off—snap! snap! snap!—while we lay in bed, wracked with guilt. (At least, I was. Bill was filled with a spirit of RIGHTEOUS VENGEANCE.)

Undeterred by their comrades’ gruesome demise, the mice kept coming. Before long, Bill noticed larger droppings in the basement.

“Maybe a rat?” he said, and ordered larger traps.

The night he went down to set the rat traps, I was letting the dogs out when I heard a shout. Fearing the worst, I ran to the basement door.

“It’s not a rat!” he called up.

I imagined all manner of terrifying wee beasties—perhaps some frightful creature native to the region, like the turkey vulture or the Albatwitch.

“How badly are you maimed?” I shouted down the steps.

His head popped into view, thankfully with no visible gaping wounds.

“It’s a possum,” he said breathlessly. “When I saw him, he looked at me with that awkward face possums do and then just sauntered away along the pipe.”

This is the face. It says, “Oh, haaaay. You’re…usually upstairs by now. But you know what? That’s on me. That’s my bad. I’m just gonna get outta your way, then. Mmkay. You take care, now!”

This is the face. It says, “Oh, haaaay. You’re…usually upstairs by now. But you know what? That’s on me. That’s my bad. I’m just gonna get outta your way, then. Mmkay. You take care, now!”

“BURN THE HOUSE DOWN,” a friend advised.

“I mean…it’s kind of cute…” Bill replied.

“DON’T RATIONALIZE A POSSUM LIVING IN YOUR BASEMENT.”

This, of course, was good advice. Solid wisdom. Unfortunately, it was too late. We’d already grown attached to our best possum friend Patches.

Still, we could acknowledge that although this incident was almost fairy tale-like in its charm, it was neither entirely sanitary nor entirely sane to allow a possum to squat in our basement. So Bill looked up how to get rid of a possum.

They like sweet things, one article advised. Like honey buns.

When Bill told me that, I became paralyzed with delight. Because that meant I would be spending the following day baking honey buns.

For a possum.

As you do.

As you do.

All day, Bill kept trying to take one, but I would slap his hand and say, “Those are for Patches!”

“What kind of tea do possums like?” I asked later, and Bill wondered once again whether this episode was fun-quirky or mental-break-quirky.

That evening, we set out a bun on a little plate next to a cup of tea (Wind in the Willows style), propped the basement door open, and skittered away to peek out the window and see if Patches showed up.

“It feels like Christmas,” I whispered to Bill.

We didn’t see Patches again for a while, but Junebug began extending her nightly bathroom trips. When we’d finally venture out after her, we’d find her standing still in the darkness, staring into the copse of hemlock trees or under a bush.

“I think she smells Patches,” I told Bill. “He must still be lurking about for mice.”

One note about Junebug: Everyone she meets, whether human or animal, instantly becomes her best friend. Naturally, all of her best friends immediately join our pack, and she wants to make sure everyone understands her Rules of the Pack, which include:

  1. Everyone must remain together every minute of every day. FOR SAFETY. And fun.

  2. If you have to leave the house for work or errands or to go the vet or because you’re a wild animal or because you actually live somewhere else and you’re only staying here for the weekend, the rest of us must wait with our chins resting on the front windowsill and whimper until you return.

  3. Everyone sleeps in the same room. The guest room is not for guests to sleep in. That’s some silly garbage nonsense. That room is for afternoon naps when Carrie’s working. And it’s also where the inside plants live. Me and my best friends all sleep together in the big bedroom. You can share my bed on the floor. If you get bored in the morning, you can chew on this squeaky gnome. Uuuusually I like to chew on it, but we can just share. C’mon, I’ll show you where it is. You’ll love it! Follow me!

So this sweet summer child was utterly gutted that a best friend had been left outside, night after night, and wouldn’t come inside with the rest of the pack. When staring at him intently didn’t work, she tried chasing him under the porch, but he cowered under the steps. Then she tried playing with him beneath the deck, but he asked her to please go away.

“Let’s go inside,” I insisted after she let out a yip and cringed away from the grumpy possum. “Patches doesn’t want to play right now.”

“No!” she gulped at me. “Carrie! It’s my best friend, Patches! He’s…my best…friend!”

“I am not your best friend,” Patches told her. “You are not invited to my birthday party.”

“I am not your best friend,” Patches told her. “You are not invited to my birthday party.”

In any case, our mouse problem seemed to be over, and things settled back into their normal pattern.

Until.

After deep cleaning and disinfecting the pantry from all traces of mouse droppings, I woke up one morning to more. mice. droppings. in. the pantry.

Oh, the depths of my wrath, hitherto unplumbed—and it would have remained so were it not for the dung of a field mouse!

Like any calm and sensible person, I calmly and sensibly ordered a box of sixty-four mouse traps.

“I’ll bombard them,” I muttered to myself. “It’ll be a show of force. Just try to get in here, ya varmints—WELCOME TO THE THUNDERDOME.”

“That doesn’t make sense,” a mouse said, in between bites of pita.

“Well, you get the poi—HEY. CLEAR OUTTA HERE, YOU MENACE.”

Clearly, we would need to bring in the big guns.

HONEY BUNS: THE SECOND BATCH

Pro tip: As is often the case, fried honey buns are so much better than baked honey buns.

Pro tip: As is often the case, fried honey buns are so much better than baked honey buns.

So that’s how I ended up sitting outside in the muggy remains of Hurricane Laura, mosquitoes feasting upon my flesh, holding a saucer of honey buns out to the gathering darkness like an offering to some pagan god.

“Patches?” I called into the night. “Patches, would you like a little treat?”

Silence.

“Do we maybe want to think this through a little more?” Bill asked me.

"Listen,” I told him. “Our mouse problem went away when we had a possum in our basement.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Except we had a possum in our basement.”

“Exactly! A possum. Who eats mice and ticks and snakes and, yes, frogs, but that’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. And last time we didn’t even attempt to domesticate it. Maybe we can house train him. Put a little litter box down there for him. We’re on different sleep schedules—we’ll never see him. It’ll be like having a teenager.”

“And what about when Patches has babies?”

Granted, this was a distinct possibility. Growing up, whenever one of my sisters or I brought home the class pet for the weekend, it invariably had babies. Even ones we thought were male.

But I was not to be deterred. My eyes widened as I whispered, “Possum army.”

He laughed, less in amusement and more in desperate hopes that I was kidding.

“Patches would carry them all on her back for a while,” I went on, “and then we could get a bunch of leashes and walk them around town! And in winter we could hitch them up like reindeer and they could pull us around in a tiny sleigh. We’ll be the possum people!”

The look on his face was difficult to decipher in the darkness, but my guess is that he was overcome with joy over the prospect of being labeled The Possum People. I decided to make us custom t-shirts preemptively.

“What if something else comes in?” he said. “Like a snake? Or a sasquatch?”

“That’s why I’ll be waiting here. I’ll fight off any interlopers.”

“I don’t think Patches will want to come close when he smells you.”

“I’ll watch from afar.”

He still looked skeptical.

“The Great Pumpkin always comes, Charlie Brown,” I said imperiously.

We haven’t seen him yet.

Maybe he’s moved on. Other mice to eat, other homes to defend. But should he ever decide to come back here, we’ll be waiting. With plenty of mice. And a pile of honey buns.