GOOSE DAY LIVEBLOG

Today The Boy and I are celebrating our own Christmas before we go to spend the real day in California with my family. We set out cookies and milk last night (which were not eaten, because it's Fake Christmas, and Santa was not about to travel all the way out here a few days early just to enable our delusions), and this morning we opened presents and ate bacon and got ready to cook our Christmas goose.

Goose isn't really all that different from any other bird you might want to roast, but I was being vegetarian at the age when most young people really learn to cook, so I'm still a little new to the whole process and full of questions. Like, what if you have  a cut on your hand and some of the fowl germs get into your bloodstream? Will I get bird flu? Why do they cut the neck off but leave the neck skin flapping about? I know a lot of people name their birds before they roast them, but is there any contingency - maybe a subgroup of PETA - that really frowns on that? And is it really so bad to dress up an animal after it's already dead? Or is that even worse than when it's alive?

Please advise.

Love, Carrie.

PS - I really am a little worried about the goose germs getting inside me. If this turns into an epidemic of Goose AIDS - GAIDS - I'm gonna be pissed that nobody warned me about it.

Thanks, Julia Child.

2:16 - Just got back from the store, where I completely lost my head when I couldn't find any pre-mixed nuts. Instead, I bought four bags of different kinds of nuts and will mix them myself. I WILL HAVE MY NUTS MIXED BEFORE I CRACK THEM.

But seriously, we can only eat so many nuts before our nutcracker gives out and we have to break them open with large rocks, like heathens. If you know anyone in need of some mixed nuts, please leave their address in the comments, and I will leave some in their shoes on Christmas Eve. Dutch-style.

3:30 - Goose is being stuffed with citrus and onions. I'm startled and alarmed by how relaxing it is, being elbow deep inside a wet, wrinkled carcass.

That's all I plan to say on that.

3:40 - Pricking goose skin so fat can escape as it cooks. Boy, while stabbing: THUS ALWAYS FOR POULTRY.

It tried to escape. But it could not.
Also, I'm a little worried that we're actually roasting a tiny, old dinosaur man.

4:15 - The Boy just stuck his whole head into the oven to check on the goose. Then I pushed him in, pleased that now I don't have to worry about a second course anymore. What a clever hostess am I.

4:35 - Hour one of goose cookery has passed. I'm planning to start a company that sells mixed nuts - or, if you prefer, assorted sorted nuts. Some people don't like their nuts mixed, and that's okay by me. Auntie Carrie just wants you to be happy.

4:41 - Idea for a Mixed Nut Party, where everyone brings one nut to add to the mix. Party really slows down once it becomes clear that everyone brought Brazil nuts.

5:13 - There has been something of a sauce debacle. Pepper-cherry-wine-balsamic vinegar sauce may sound fancy and Christmas-y in theory, but when somebody doesn't like it at first taste and feelings are hurt, you may start to wonder whether having goose sauce is even worth it. But soldier on. Even if you don't use the sauce for dinner, there's something pleasantly cheery about popping rich, peppery cherries into your mouth while you check on the bird. And we are ALL ABOUT THE CHEER.

5:51 - The rest of dinner is not as exciting. Sauteed mushrooms, roasted asparagus, and potatoes. BUT WAIT. The potatoes are going to be fried in goose fat, which looks like this as it's being rendered:

Yum!

It's gettin' pretty Fight Club up in here, but once the potatoes are fried we'll sprinkle them with sea salt, so that should fancy them up again.

I saw a book yesterday that tests your hipster cred. I'm not sure, but I think rendering your own goose fat to make potato chips would rate fairly high on there. "Oh these?" we'll say to our guests as they marvel over our culinary triumph, "They're cooked in goose fat from our own goose. You've probably never had them before. Duck fat fries are so mainstream."

6:14 - The Boy wonders if we need "a sprig of something to decorate the goose." HE HAS SUCCUMBED TO THE CHEER.

7:52 - To sum up, our dinner:

11:06 - The goose has been et and the dishes washed. After dinner, we all played a rousing game of Snapdragon, an old Victorian parlor game where you put raisins and brandy in a bowl and then light the brandy on fire and try to snatch the raisins out of the flaming liquid.

AND A MERRY NIGHT WAS HAD BY ALL.



Images via Sarah Says Read, The Full Wiki.

Not Your Average Christmas Pageant

I don't really need this crutch, but the ladies love a cripple!

Before I switched to public school, with its Secular, Nonexclusive Holiday Pageants-That-Ensure-None-of-the-Kids-Cry-Because-They-Didn't-Have-the-Opportunity-to-Express-Their-Own-Special-Snowflake-Traditions-Through-"Songs-of-the-Winter-Holiday"-Sung-in-the-Apathetic-Drone-of-Twenty-Five-Children-in-Homemade-Costumes . . . I went to Catholic school.

Ah. Catholic school Christmas pageants.

These were not mere shows, but grand spectacles dedicated to the young baby Jesus' emergence from the womb - which I always thought they should act out in all its vivid, Technicolor glory. The nativity is all about a birth, but you never see actual labor. Of course, you might suppose that a tiny Lord and Savior would just slip quietly out, all humble and Don't worry about it, I'll just be born in a barnyard like some sort of dumb animal, but I think it would be educational for children to watch the Virgin Mary screaming and grunting in pain. Various bodily fluids spurting about. Elaborate sets of a giant birth canal. Maybe a musical number celebrating the accomplishments of the reproductive system. Then that big moment when Joseph belts out, "The King of kings is croooowning!" while all the kids are dressed as Fallopian tubes and waving umbilical cords around like wet ribbons. Could be a very effective, Pope-approved form of birth control for Catholics.

Not to mention, a theatrical triumph! A real tour de force!

Miss Anderson's first grade class proudly presents: NATIVITY! 
First five rows are the Splash Zone - GET READY to GET WET.

Image via this blog.

On the Decoration of Trees

Guten morgen!  Season's greetings!  This morning we have some helpful tips you can use to make sure you have the best and brightest Christmas tree in your neighborhood.  Unless you live in my neighborhood, in which case your tree will be second best and kind of dim, comparatively. 

1. Choosing the Right Time:

Apparently this was the weekend to decorate Christmas trees, since the weekend after Thanksgiving was, clearly, the ideal time to buy the tree.  So if you don't already have it, you should probably just wait till next year.  Or, you can convert to Judaism.  Hanukkah starts November 27 next year, and menorahs don't wilt.  Even an idiot can handle that.

Speaking of wilting, make sure you stock up on liquid cheer for watering your tree.  This will keep it fresh and glowing throughout the holiday season.  If you choose to use plain old water like some sort of jackass, your tree will end up looking like a giant turkey carcass by December 24th.

The anti-cheer.

2.  Picking Your Tree:

We all know that the worst part of decorating a Christmas tree is finagling the lights: digging them out of storage, untangling them from the chaos that has somehow destroyed last year's nice coils, and winding the strands around the tree in a sort of prickly tango. This year, buy your Christmas tree with the lights already on it.  SCIENCE has engineered a new strain of firs that grow up out of the ground with lights bulbs already on the branches, splashing colored light on the snow.  Very cheerful, no?

Yes, very cheerful, indeed.

3.  Spend approximately two hours tying the tree to the roof of your car with heavy-duty ropes.  Twine is for amateurs. 

**Note:  Somebody out there will assuredly forget to bring rope.  Maybe you thought you could just toss it in the trunk, leaning over the seats like a pair of skis or some lumber.  My response to that is not appropriate even for the internet, and especially not around Christmas time, so I will instead ask you to just leave now, and please never participate in Christmas again.  You've disappointed us all.  Just go.

4.  Spend approximately three hours untying the tree from the roof of your car, using gardening shears because you've tied the knots too tightly, and then haul it inside to set up in the stand you've placed in the living room, preferably near a window.  This will allow for natural light to illuminate your tree during the day, while giving passers-by the privilege of stealing a glimpse of the glowing vision of yuletide glory that is your tree.  Have a friend stand at one end of the room and tell you which way to tip it until your tree stands straight and proud.  If it takes longer for you to get it straight than it did for the tree to grow, your friend is messing with you.

5.  Now, all you have to do is flit around the tree like a Christmas fairy, tucking garland under branches, nestling colored glass balls among the needles.  Breathe in the pine scent; let it fill your whole being.  That is the smell of your neighbors seething, writhing, spitting with envy.  And that, after all, is what Christmas is all about.

6.  Tinsel deserves its own number.  To have a truly cheery tree, you must douse your tree in tinsel so that it looks like a glitter blizzard decimated your home.

Beautiful.

7.  Congratulations!  Your tree is truly a delight to behold.  Now, just find the perfect topper, and you'll be done.

Perfect!

BONUS:  While wandering about the internet shouting for tree pictures, I found this little gem, which will serve as the main inspiration for next year's decorations.  Christmas 2013's theme is tentatively being called "OH CHRISTMAS TWEE."  We are very excited.

"We put birds on things!"

Images via Natotela Africa! Green GOP, Just Humor Me, Technabob, Seasons for All.

It's Christmas Time in the Country

The law office where I work is a charming old farm house with narrow staircases and old plumbing and a very cold attic. Because we're out in the country, we often have Amish clients come in - I'm pretty shy naturally, but even if I were super outgoing I'd have trouble carrying on a conversation with the Amish. Plus, I always feel like they're offended by my exposed knees.

"How's the farm?" I usually shout at them, because when I get nervous I can't always control the volume of my voice.

Last Thursday word spread that I was starting to decorate the office for Christmas. Soon all the ladies were gathered in the reception area, decking the halls while one of the lawyers sang "Angels We Have Heard on High" in Latin. Our boss, the one man in the office, was all like, "O hey guys, wanna draft some documents?" And we were just like, "HELL NAW, MAN. MORE CHEER." Then we draped him merrily with tinsel.

Image of Christmas Troy via Community Things.

Things I Like

CHRISTMAS.

And alllll the preeesentssss.

Something about this time of year just makes my old Grinch heart swell to three times its normal size, and I become gleefully, giddily drunk off all the festive revelry and merriment.  And now that it's officially December 1, I don't have to feel weird about furtively turning down the all-Christmas-music radio station when I stop at traffic lights so that nobody in the other cars will know my shame.  So to celebrate the season, Suddenly She Sneezed will be dedicated to CHEER for the next twenty-four days.  Then it's on to Boxing Day, and the holiday spirit really just peters out by New Year's.



Image via Shorpy.

End of November

Well, that's it. No more NaNoWriMo; no more Movember.

Close your laptop and shave that patchy neck fuzz. And on Monday, you should probably take a shower and go to work.

Seriously, you look homeless.



Image via This is Africa.

NaNoWriMo Writing Tip of the Week #5

Soliciting Your Work

You may well ask what sort of authority I have to advise anybody on this matter. "Do you have any publishing deals?" you're no doubt asking. "Have you ever even spoken to an editor? My God - do you even have an agent? You didn't even make it past the second day of NaNoWriMo, did you?!"

Well, no. Because any motivation aside from food is wasted on me. I'm basically a small performing animal. I have, however, had stories accepted for publication - twice. Once when I was fifteen and sent an essay in to a Seventeen Magazine Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants contest, and again a few months ago at Hoot Review, where they'll soon be publishing my two-sentence story on a postcard. That's a 66.6-repeating percent success rate, which means I'm pretty much a seasoned professional by now.

Still, I'll understand if you want to take this list of My Path to Staggering Success and change the title to "How Not to Get Something Published."

1. Do your research. Prep exhaustively. The best thing about calling yourself a writer is that everything you do can be considered research. No matter what you're doing, you can claim that you have a character who does that very thing.
   
   This is especially helpful when you fancy yourself an autobiographer. "I cannot write about life unless I have first lived it!"
   
   Actually, I think Lena Dunham said that once, or something like it. And now she has a multi-million dollar book deal. But I bet most of what she did to prepare for that was probably just to do mundane things like stand around and eat cereal. In different places. Like, Chapter 4: Eatin' Cereal at the Dentist. Chapter 5: Cheerios in London!
   
   . . . Forget I said that. For Cereal is going to be the name of my memoirs. I claimed it on the interwebs, and now it is mine.
   
2. Write something. Length doesn't matter. Quality is in the eye of the beholder. So just write your heart's song. Read it aloud to your houseplants once a day for a week. Don't water them, and keep them away from sun. If they're still alive when the week is done, you'll know that it was the power of your words alone that has sustained and nourished them. If the plants are dead, however, then I'm sorry. You're just not ready.
   
3. Find a place to submit your work. Read through their submission guidelines and formatting policies, and then disregard them. Your work cannot be contained by such stifling boundaries. In fact, those guidelines are really just a test; editors want to see if you have the imagination and boldness to create your own rules. So write your story in different shades of maroon lipstick, all on one long piece of toilet paper! Mix blood and bacon grease together and paint your words on a side of beef! Tattoo each word of your story on a different person; never make the story public!
   
   . . . Wait.
   
   If you want to self publish, try slipping a copy of your story into each of your neighbors' newspapers before they wake up, or tape a copy on a phone pole like a LOST CAT sign.
   
4. Wait for the money and fame to roll in.

There were better pictures, but that coin says Nemo on the side!

Image via Channel 4.

The Day I Became a Notary (AND OTHER FUN THINGS)

Let me tell you about my job.

That wasn't a request.

I work in a law office, in an old farm house surrounded by Amish and the elderly. I'm a receptionist in name but Renaissance woman in practice: I run around the office adding language to documents and fetching files, greeting clients and changing lightbulbs. Some call me the office bitch. But I don't mind. When clients regularly deliver baked goods to my eager arms, sitting at the front desk stuffing envelopes doesn't seem so bad. Plus, then the mail is all sweet and powdered-sugary.

Today I learned how to be a notary, and as soon as I register my signature and the senator approves my appointment, I get my very own rubber stamp and can notarize any document in the state of Pennsylvania.

ANYTHING.

GIVE ME YOUR OATHS, YOUR PROTESTS, YOUR HUDDLED AFFIDAVITS YEARNING TO BE STAMPED AND RECORDED WITH THE REGISTER OF DEEDS.

At least, until I grow drunk with power and abuse my position by notarizing a fish, or a tree. The Association of Notaries takes that shit seriously. ONLY DOCUMENTS. A tree may have limbs, but it can't sign its name. It doesn't matter if what I notarize may someday be a contract that needs a certified copy - my rubber stamp would be confiscated, and they'd make me shred the tree.

You are ruining Arbor Day for us!

Now, here are some fun facts for you about notaries:

1. Notaries have seven powers. They actually use that word in the course. But I just turn to look over my shoulder with a conniving little grin and ask, "Only seven?" Then I guffaw stupidly because I've been spending all my time learning about notarizing instead of practicing any sort of evil laugh.
   
   
2. Notaries have to retake the education course every four years. If I'm still working at the law firm, I'll be twenty-six when I have to renew my certification. At that time, a new president will be waiting to be sworn in. I won't be able to use my parents' health insurance, but I will be able to rent a car. Each of my Mormon friends will have a litter of kids. By 2016, there may be a space colony on the moon, and all the different strains of root vegetables will probably have died out. Thinking about it all made me feel very wistful. "I suppose I have an old soul," I whispered somberly to the old woman in the waiting room who had fallen asleep. "This lady knows what I'm talking about." I said that last part to nobody.
   
   
3. The main duty of a notary is to identify the person who is signing the document or swearing the oath. Apparently, even if they don't have any identification, but you're with someone who knows both of you, that's good enough. For the law. But anyway, while I was taking the course, I thought, "Who is better than anyone else at recognizing things?" Robots with facial recognition software, that's who! Someday, I bet there will be robot notaries - a rotary notary for steampunk businesses - and then I will never have to take this stupid online course again. 

Nobody appreciates roboffice bitch.

Images via Zimbio, Thomasnet, Happy Worker.

NaNoWriMo Writing Tip of the Week #4

Don't write today. That's ridiculous. Do make up a haiku for each Thanksgiving food on the table.



Image via Facebook.

NaNoWriMo Writing Tip of the Week: #3

Motivation

Studies show that negative comments can be an very powerful motivational tool. Someone says, "You can't do that," but instead of puffing your chest up and telling them off, you shrug a little and mumble, "Sure I can."

Then maybe I laugh and say, "Are you kidding? Eight tracks are more valuable than you are - at least they might be worth something to some wealthy, aging hipsters someday after enough time has passed. You should probably just take up a hobby, like flipping coins - even you have to win at that sometimes. But don't try writing anymore. You can't do it."

You square your shoulders and give me a hurt look. "I can, too."

"Not if I take your pencil. And throw your laptop in the tub." And then I scamper off to do just that.

"Are these your underthings hanging over the shower door?" I call from the bathroom. "They're looking pretty ratty. You shouldn't wear these anymore."

"Oh, that is just about enou--"

"My God, what size do you wear?!"

By this point you're pretty mad, and hurt. You'd do anything to prove me wrong. In fact, you'll do whatever it takes to show me that you can do whatever the hell you want, no matter what I say.

See how well that worked?

NaNoWriMo Writing Tip of the Week #2

Let's Get Technical. 

So. It's week two of NaNoWriMo, and lots of people are bragging on Twitter about how they are ahead of their word count and thus free to lounge about gorging on bonbons and fine cheeses.

But let us not forget what happened to that braggy hare while the tortoise determinedly plugged away at his word count. The hare stared at his computer screen for two hours after work, and then gave up and went to see how many grapes he could fit in his mouth. Eventually, he wrote a harried seventy-six words before staggering, satisfied, to bed. Don't forget what happened to him - the braggy hare made technical errors. 

Here are five ways to make you stand out from those who rushed along to hit their word count:

1.  SAID IS DEAD! Try these tags instead:
   
   "I think we should get Mexican tonight," she opined. This one really lets your reader know exactly how the sentence was said, and it uses a fancy word. 
   
   "Look, Carl, a red cat!" he hissed. Get creative with your dialogue tags! This is called reverse personification/dehumanization/animification. Just because there isn't a single S in that sentence doesn't mean the speaker didn't get on the ground and wiggle like a snake. And how does a snake speak?
   
   This technique is rather controversial among the literary community. But would you say that if I grew fangs and an unkempt mane and ran around eating woodland animals, I still couldn't growl the words "What a nice fellow you are" at someone?
   
   "Sometimes I get so lonely I ride the subway all the way to the end. If I wait long enough and sit very still, maybe somebody will accidentally sit next to me," she laughed. Above all things, editors love complex, multi-dimensional characters. Make the tone contrast with the actual words, and you'll have readers drooling over your elegant treatment of your characters' psychological profile.
   
   
2. Voice:
   
   Voice is one of the most important aspects of your writing. It's what will separate the wheat from the chaff, writer-wise. So here's an exercise to try:
   
   Pick out your favorite dirty word. Make sure it's a good one - one that feels just right when you roll it around your tongue. Now go into the bathroom, where the acoustics are stellar, and say the word to yourself in the mirror. Whisper it softly by the faucet, then scream the word, but muffle the shout with a bath towel. Put a little lilt at the end of the word. Turn on the shower; find out how the word would sound if you said it under water. Maybe use a couple of accents. Know the word in any other languages? Try sounding like the opposite gender, or pretend you've smoked a pack a day since you were six.
   
   Bonus: Do this dirty word exercise at work or school, and nobody will ever make fun of you again. At least, not to your face.
   
   
   
3. Description: 
   
   If you want to be a successful writer, it's all about the details. People will tell you that the days of exhaustive description are over, having died out with Dickens. "He was being paid by the word," they'll say. "You'll be lucky if you get paid at all!"
   
   I disagree. In this stark, postmodern, minimalist literary climate, your writing will stand out only if you hearken back to the chapter-long descriptions of meals and scenery. Readers always want to know more - more back story, more motivation, more physical details about minor characters. Next time you start a scene, try asking yourself these questions, and I think you'll see a definite improvement in the quality of your writing:
   
   Write a scene in which your character is waking up in the morning. In fact, this is probably the best way to start out every chapter. How many birds are tweeting outside? Which parts of her body are achy, and which feel pretty okay? Is she hungry? Has she drooled all over her satin pillow? Has a stray animal wandered into her bed in the night? Let the reader really get inside the character's head by listing seventy-five reasons why she chose yogurt over an egg white omelet for breakfast. Really want to catch an editor's attention with your gritty realism? Detail your character's bowel movements.

Image via All Posters.

NaNoWriMo Writing Tip of the Week: The First

Set Your Writer's Table

A cluttered work space reflects a cluttered mind. A cluttered mind puts forth cluttered writing, and soon you find yourself writing nothing but threatening messages in the thick layer of dust coating every surface, your poor manuscript forgotten on the ... well, it's somewhere around here. Under a planter, in the refrigerator, lining a tiny hole as insulation for a rat's nest - who knows.

If you want your readers to feast on delicate morsels of finely-crafted sentences, then create a calm, decadent atmosphere in which to surround yourself. Light some candles. Hire a butler. Dress in your finest each time you sit down to write. Your writing will likewise become sophisticated and refined, and whoever designs your book cover will probably put a monocle on there.

Daily Exercise:  Create a meal that reflects whatever project you're working on at the moment. Set the table and reserve a place for your manuscript, as well. Pour it a glass of wine. Cut its meat for it. Then, lovingly and sensuously, smear the food you've prepared over every page you've written. Let the words absorb every particle of food; stain your writing with sauces and grease; grind any leftover crumbs into the very fibers of the paper. Once that's done, place your manuscript squarely upon your plate, cut off a corner, and eat it. Eat the whole thing. Only then can you truly become your story.

Below are the plates of authors who have successfully used this technique:

Oscar Wilde

Harper Lee

Dr. Seuss

Edward Gorey

Ernest Hemingway

Images via Tim Chester, Travel & Leisure, Kate Sears for Martha Stewart, District GPS, 30 Pounds of Apples, Clairey Hewitt.

SPOOKS 'N' STUFF

So, Happy Halloween Wednesday and all that, but I won't spend too much time on that because it's pretty much over. Tomorrow, however, is the first day of November and that means the start of NaNoWriMo! That also means the start of No-Shave November and the more gender-specific Movember. Any one of these is a harrowing experience, but for those who attempt all three, I applaud you. And good luck at Thanksgiving dinner with your concerned family.

Every week this month, I will post a different writing tip to inspire and aid those of you who will also be staggering haphazardly through the next month, but these helpful ideas aren't just for writers. They're also tips for life. Like, brush your hair from the bottom up to get a sexy, tousled look. Everybody can use that tip, but it applies specifically to writers because their success depends on cultivating a worn, disheveled image - as if the world is their bed. 

Confession: I got that hair tip from Bob Dylan, who read it in Cosmo.

Some Useful Tips to Help You Survive This Harrowing Month* begins tomorrow. 

* Working title.

Images via Kooky Kuckoo, Nine Pound Hammer.

The Rain Rain Rain Came Down Down Down

THE STORM IS GETTING WILDER, SO I'M AFRAID I'LL HAVE TO SHOUT SO YOU CAN HEAR ME. EVERYTHING IS OKAY HERE SO FAR - I HAVE OFF WORK TODAY, SO ALL I HAVE TO DO IS SIT AROUND WRITING AND BAKING AND FLIPPING LIGHT SWITCHES ON AND OFF BEFORE THE POWER HAS A CHANCE TO CUT OUT. WHILE OUTSIDE THE RAIN STREAMS DOWN AND THE WIND GOES GALUMPHING PAST.

MAYBE IT'S THE STORM, OR IT COULD BE THE CABIN FEVER, BUT SOMETHING STRANGE IS HAPPENING AS I WRITE TODAY. THIS TUMULTUOUS WEATHER SEEMS TO BE EKING INTO MY BRAIN, MAKING EVERYTHING I WRITE ALL VIOLENT AND CHAOTIC. FRANKENSTORM ISN'T JUST WREAKING HAVOC WITH OUR CITIES AND POWER; IT'S AFFECTING OUR VERY MINDS, UNLEASHING ALL THE HORRIFIC IDEAS AND CHILLING THOUGHTS WE USUALLY MANAGE TO KEEP STIFLED AND HIDDEN AWAY.

FOR INSTANCE, IN THE STORY I'M WRITING NOW, AN ELDERLY LADY JUST KILLED A MAN. THAT'S BAD ENOUGH, BUT IT WAS AT LEAST PART OF THE PLOT. I WAS IN CONTROL OF THE SITUATION. TODAY, HOWEVER, THE OLD WOMAN WENT ON A MAD SPREE, SPENDING A PAGE AND A HALF SPEWING SOME VERY INVENTIVE CURSE WORDS AT THE CORPSE WHILE LAPPING BLOOD OFF THE MURDER WEAPON. AFTER THAT, SHE WENT INTO A SPRIGHTLY RENDITION OF "PAPA DON'T PREACH" AS SHE SWERVED HER WHEELCHAIR DOWN THE HALL.

AND YOU SHOULD SEE WHAT I LOOK LIKE TODAY.

Images from Winnie the Pooh, via Vivalicious; Arrested Development via Penny Arcade.

There is Salt All Over the Floor.

Lately, things have been going really well for me. Almost too well. So well, in fact, that I've spent the last two weeks hiding out and staying very still. Nothing bad can happen to you if you stay very still.

Unless people mistake you for a chair. And sit on you.

On the other hand, I was probably due a bit of luck after those months of struggling, and the good luck came all at once. First it was the job interview that turned into a second interview. Then at the second interview I accepted and started my new job that same day. That meant money to buy actual furniture for my apartment, and then today I received an email saying I'm going to have a two-sentence story I wrote published on a postcard. I CAN DO NO WRONG.

Still, it just seems good sense to prepare for my luck's inevitable downturn. Not that I'm a pessimist or anything, but I do believe it's prudent to cram all of my ambitious endeavors into the small window of time before karma nudges me off this golden pedestal and sends me tumbling back to my normal, blundering state of mediocrity. So I'm knocking on wood and crossing my fingers and throwing salt over my shoulder, hoping for just a little more time - just one more moment in the sun.

I'll tell you about everything that's been happening as soon as I catch up on sleep. Who knew that normal working hours actually are really early. I tried to convince my boss to hire me for a night shift, but he was all like, Nobody calls to schedule meetings at three in the morning, and I told him people might if they knew he had a law firm open twenty-four hours a day, and that really, this was a niche that needed filling in the community. 

Aside from working, I've also been shopping for my apartment, which is small and a little scary, but cheap and cozy and mine. For me, though, shopping means I spend most of my time on the interwebs, stoically coming to terms with the fact that I will never be able to afford that antique, shabby-chic writing desk or the delicate little silver espresso cups that are ludicrously tiny for how expensive they are. Five dollars per cup would be fine if each cup could hold a piglet.

This particular teacup is half-off, since a pig actually has been living in it.

The rest of the time I spend looking at things like this: 

The matching pin says HUMANS CAN SUCK IT.

Images via Science, Sort Of; Books, Art & Sci Fi; and Etsy.

EMPLOYED

Aw, yeah.

Image via Dr. X.

Interview Schminterview

Yesterday morning I had another interview. I didn't mention it before because I didn't want to jinx it, but it happened. I went in for a marketing position, and I came out with a new friend.

Not really, but that would have been a really cute story.

In keeping with the whole Spooktober thing (I'll think of a better name soon), imagine that the interview took place in this creepy mansion:

But in reality, it was in a low, boxy building: the kind of place with four entrances, but only one way in. Of course, the door I needed only had a tiny parking lot outside, so I had to park in a far-off lot and dash along the rainy street, hoping that no cars drove by and splashed my neatly pressed pantsuit. Because Pennsylvania doesn't believe in sidewalks.

This was also the first place I've been to where I was required to wear one of those clip-on visitor passes with elastic so you can pull out the tag and snap it back derisively. It was very fancy. The receptionist looked just like Amy Poehler, which immediately put me at ease. She asked me to sign in, then left me alone in the waiting area to replay Parks and Rec episodes in my head until a young, friendly-looking lady came to fetch me.

We chatted and joked as she led me through a labyrinth of cubicles, and I was so delighted that this wouldn't be another interview with a middle-aged man I had no chance of connecting with . . . until she introduced me to David and left me there to flounder and die.

David was a thin, eccentric-looking man who kept intense eye contact - the sort of person who would tell you his name seven times in a row and then offer you a cherry soda before shouting, "You've got the job, you precious creature!"

Unfortunately, that didn't happen. Instead, he made a comment about the rain and then immediately started explaining the position in remarkable detail. Without any chance to build up a rapport and make some uncomfortable jokes to relieve my nerves, I fixated on my body: the way my arms were hanging, how tightly my fists were clenched, whether my mouth was doing that twitchy half-smile, how wide my eyes were open, if I really were swaying from side to side in my chair.

I stumbled my way through his questions, as he demanded I prove my competence in Microsoft Office. How can we be sure you know what you're doing in Powerpoint? Your degree is in English and you look like a twelve-year-old!

After fifteen minutes of this, I was introduced to David's boss, a capable-looking woman who quizzed me on Excel charts and looked at me like I had set the feminist movement back sixty years. Little did she know that I had bought my navy pantsuit in the little boys' section of the department store. How's that for equality, Sharon!

Interviews are the worst, but somehow I tend to forget that in the days leading up to them. I'm always really confident on the drive over, listening to Beyonce and telling myself that this time, I will articulate my qualifications and answer their questions with intelligence and poise! This time, I'll charm the pants right off 'em, but only metaphorically because I'm not that kind of girl! This time, they won't have to offer me some water halfway through because I'm so dehydrated from all the nervous sweating!

And every time, I start off strong, but each interview seems to end the same.

"Are you alright?" they ask, leaning forward with a concerned look.

Right in the middle of my story about a time I overcame an obstacle in the workplace. Rude.

"Yes?" I say.

"Oh!" They put a hand to their chests and let out a relieved laugh. "I thought you were having a stroke. Well, thanks for coming in, Cara, we'll let you know in about a week."

So I trudged back to my car and drove home in the rain, almost hitting an Amish man with my car on the way out.

Image via Shadowmill Productions.

Stroke, or a Ghost?

Since October, the spookiest month of the year, is officially upon us, I'm going to spend the weeks leading up to Halloween only posting scary things. Like this spooksy tale, which took place just last night. After reading it, let me know if you think it sounds more like a stroke or a ghost, and whichever one gets more votes is the one I'll go with.

Because I value your opinion.

You delightful thing, you.

Anyway. Last night I was watching Arrested Development while looking at internets, as ya do, when I noticed that somehow, it seemed the lower left corner of my vision had been cut off. When I glanced down at my feet, my left ankle disappeared. I looked in the bathroom mirror, and my left hand was gone. 

Almost as if . . . I were becoming invisible. 

Hipster Ghost has never felt so alive. Ironic!

My vision returned soon enough, bringing with it a pounding headache. To be honest, though, I kind of missed my wonky vision. It was sort of nice, knowing that if I ever wanted to keep a secret from myself but tell everyone else, I could just write it very small in the lower left corner of a letter. I'd never know it was there!

But that was not to be. I'll never be able to keep plans for my own surprise party secret from me.

Dejected, I started getting ready for bed. However, the eye problem was soon replaced by a tingling in my left middle finger. I thought some mouth wash had made its way under my fingernail, but by the time I was under the covers, the numbness had spread to my entire hand and jumped up to the left side of my mouth. Trying to remain calm while sweating an inordinate amount, I grabbed the nearest interwebs and looked up symptoms for a stroke; although I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't have been able to manage a Google search in the middle of an actual stroke. But this was no time for reason.

Symptoms of a Stroke 

(interspersed with my increasingly hysterical train of thought)

1. Sudden tingling or numbness of arm, leg, or face - especially on one side of the body.

Usually both my arms go numb together, like when I sleep with my arms above my head and then wake up with Kermit arms flopping about as I try to shut off my alarm clock. Although thank goodness it's only one side with a stroke, because if I have to go to the hospital, I'm going to need at least one hand to put some pants on first.

2. Sudden trouble seeing in one or both eyes.

That did happen. In one or both of my eyes! God, it's like they know me.

3. Sudden severe headache.

All of these symptoms are sudden. I should have expected a stroke today - why wasn't I more alert?! Always expect a stroke! I could have prepared for this instead of spending all day trying to figure out the actual lyrics to Red Hot Chili Peppers songs!

4. Sudden trouble walking, dizziness, loss of balance or coordination.

Wait, strokes happen to old people. The only person I've even heard of having a stroke at my age is Aubrey Plaza. But, she's okay now, and plus she's famous and really funny . . . so this could be alright - I could write a darkly comedic memoir about my stroke and then everyone will want to be just like me and have strokes! 

5. Trouble forming coherent thoughts.

As I sat up quickly to call The Boy so he could take me to the hospital, I felt something like a cold gust of air as the feeling snapped back into my arm all at once. I wiggled my fingers and looked in the mirror to make sure one side of my face didn't droop when I smiled.

Everything was normal. It was over, as suddenly as it began. As if the numbness had been expelled from my body. Or, you might say . . . exorcised from it. 

WHAT IF that tingling in my fingertips had been nothing more than a bashful ghost trying to hold my hand? And the left side of my mouth went numb at the touch of a little ghost kiss? I don't think it's such a ridiculous idea that a ghost could have a crush on a human. Ghosts are people, too. Or, they were, once.

I'd tell you how I feel about you, but . . . I'm shy.

So now, tell me what you think. Was it a blood clot, or maybe a neurological spasm, or just a little spirit who wanted to be friends?

Not that I'm trying to sway your opinion or anything, but whatever it was did leave this little gem up in Paint for me to find when I woke up. It's a little sloppy, but what can you expect from someone who doesn't have a body?

Carrie + Ghost. Foreverrrr.

Images via [theo]culture, Collider.com.

God Gave Me Mono (Because I Broke the Law)

Today I am sick.

Usually I only say that to get out of social situations, but I'm trying to cut down on that, because I fear judgment from on high.

I'll explain. In the Catholic church, each newborn baby is baptized in holy water, which I believe is actually comprised of the tears of all the martyrs and saints and Jesus, all crying together over our sins (That's canon, son - look it up). As little Catholics grow older, the guilt of every minor wrongdoing and the fear of being judged weigh heavily on them. Just like the cross did. On Jesus. 

Now, I was a good kid and had a pretty okay childhood, so my obligatory guilt had very few outlets. The worst thing that ever happened to me was the occasional illness or hurt, but as the years passed I began to notice that they were not ordinary maladies. Instead of spraining an ankle or having my tonsils out like the other kids, I would fall ill with something like pleurisy, or jungle fever (That's a real thing - look it up). The only explanation had to be that God was just waiting to smite until I had amassed a lot of little sins. Whenever I reached my quota of white lies and skipping school, he jolted me with some bizarre sickness. Boom, restless leg syndrome, sinna!

You'd probably like some real examples, I suppose.

When I was very small and still keeping my parents up all night like some thankless hussy, I had surgery on my tear duct. I couldn't shed tears, you see. Even as an infant, I was just very stoic and hard. Now I only cry tears of saltwater taffy. It's delicious, but very sticky. It also means I can't watch 101 Dalmatians anymore - that's just a mess.

I underwent my second surgery when I was eleven, this time on my foot. While running around the house, I stepped on a toothpick that  just happened to be sticking straight up out of the braided living room rug. It sank half an inch into my heel, and it was then that I realized I would never survive war. Also that I probably shouldn't have drawn makeup on my sister's Barbie in pen.

Not too long after that, I had thirteen teeth removed because my mouth was too small to fit them all. After my wisdom teeth were taken out, I had few enough teeth to legally qualify as a creepy hobo. Serves me right for passing notes in class, right?

Freshman year of high school, a friend and I were waiting in the movie theater bathroom to sneak into Batman. During a rousing game of hide-and-seek in the stalls (which was more fun than it sounds), I started feeling sharp pains in my chest. I dismissed them as heart burn, which I had never had before. Watching the Scarecrow for two hours didn't make things any better; neither did a night's sleep. The next day I was carted off to the doctor, where I was diagnosed with pleurisy, an infection of the lungs. I spent a few weeks flat on my back, unable to speak or breathe without feeling like my ribs were being ripped away from my lungs. After that, I never went movie-hopping again. The cost was too high.

When I was sixteen, I went on my first real date ever. On the way home, a truck ran a red light into my car and I broke my neck. Which was probably a bad omen for that relationship.

In college, I took a Tylenol one night, but somehow it got stuck in my throat. I was convinced that it was burning a hole in my esophagus, so after hacking and trying unsuccessfully to force myself to vomit the pill up, I spent the night in the Wellness Center, swallowing lumps of bread and Ginger Ale in an attempt to dislodge the phantom pill. The nurse and I watched MASH until the wee hours, when we were certain that the Tylenol had at least dissolved. It was a magical night, and I never took the Lord's name in vain again.

I also tend to get a lot of eye infections. But that's not really that weird. It's probably just a catch-all punishment, right? Like, every time I cut in line, I get pink eye? I'm pretty sure that's how it works.

After I started teaching kindergarten, I spent ten months sick with a continuous cold. But really, that was on me. I should have known better. Ever since I moved and escaped the general aura of germs that hung over the kids, I've only been sick once. COINCIDENCE?

Of course it's not a coincidence. That was a really dumb, overly dramatic thing to say, and I'm sorry.

Today I only have sniffles and aches. Ran a red light a few weeks ago and didn't get a ticket, nothing too serious. After work, The Boy brought me a whole roasted chicken and whipped up a hot, salty, herby, chicken-and-ricy bowl of Magic Soup from scratch. I slurped up two huge bowls, stuffing myself.

Just like that roast chicken.

I hope that when I die, someone makes me into people-noodle soup and feeds me to a sick chicken.

I don't know how to transition from that, so I just won't.

TELL US ALL ABOUT YOUR WEIRD ILLNESSES, FRIEND! And mono doesn't count. Everyone's had that. Except me, naturally. That's why I never shoplift. God will give me mono. Then I'll have to write a country song about it. I'll have to buy a dog who also has mono, because the lyrics demand it and I can't lie in a country song or I'll get rickets.

And that's how Catholicism works.



Image by Bogrim, via deviantart.

An Open Letter to Autumn

Written last year, when I was still living in California:

Dear Fall,

So, this is how you want to play it. Stop by the beach for a weekend, bringing a few crunchy leaves and hauling two solid days of rain in from the ocean, only to skip town in the night. Oh, sure, you left us some dry winds and trees that look as if they've been sprinkled with cinnamon. But where is our romantic change of seasons, our inspiring yet sobering sense that the world is turning right under our feet? Why don't we get the chance to reflect thoughtfully on our lives as a crisp, changeful wind bites at our cheeks and noses? That's some picturesque shit, Fall, and I don't think I'm being unreasonable when I say that we'd like our share of it.

Look, I understand that you're all about the East Coast. They're metropolitan and hip there; they understand you, or something. All we have to offer here are tacos. Really good tacos. Sometimes with fish in them. But you don't care. Summer ends, and you're gone. And that's fine - you can do what you want. I'm just starting to suspect that we keep doing something to chase you away every year. Is it our flippant disregard for your arrival, our inappropriate wardrobe choices, our untimely beach excursions? Whatever it is, I'm sorry. Please come back.

Maybe I could come visit you over there sometime. After all, I spent three years in Ohio during school, and we had a pretty fun time. Crunching leaves, dressing in layers. Remember the time we made caramel apples with some friends and my face felt sticky for weeks? And then the times I would walk down to the golf course and sit there in the evening dusk until the dampness from the putting green had soaked through my wool coat and jeans, chilling my unmentionables... Those were some good times, right?

But really, Fall, if I'm completely honest, that's just not me, brah. I was born a Californian and I'll always be a Californian, no matter where I go. The dry heat and the winter winds are in my bones. Even if I moved back East, I wouldn't know what to do with all that autumn. I'd suffer a sensory overload from all the colors and the heady scent of spices and bonfires constantly in the air. I just have to accept that I am woefully unfit for Real Weather. And I think you knew that. Somehow, you could just tell that two days of autumn are all I can handle.

An umbrella - how quaint! I've only seen them in pictures. And look, it keeps the sky-water off their heads much better than this silly hood! P'raps I should buy one for my poodle.

I made some hot apple cider the other day. It was out of a package, so it tasted a little watery and the flavor granules never did dissolve completely. I miss you.

Please come back,
Carrie

*          *          *

Dear Past Carrie,

Now we have REAL FALL again! I bought a gourd at the grocery store the other day, and I've started storing all of my apples in a tub so I have to bob for them every time I want a snack. IT'S THE BEST. YOU REALLY FIT IN HERE.

Fond regards,
Present Carrie



Image via Isn't It Lovely?

First Day of Fall

It's that time again. Decorative Gourd Season.

Hope you're ready.

Image via kaboodle.

Have You Seen this Spider?

I have adopted a pet.

Or did he adopt me? You know what I mean!

He's a spider named Peter, but I don't actually own him, of course. Nobody could own such a majestic creature. He was squatting outside the kitchen window for months in his little shanty-web, but lately he's been making himself scarce. I woke up this morning with a song on my lips and a smile in my heart, ready to greet the shiny, new world after the thunderous maelstrom we had yesterday.

But no Peter did I find. Just an empty web.

I put up signs in all the bushes and trees, underneath park benches, in between the monkey bars on jungle gyms - anywhere a lost spider might have wandered. I printed one set in large font for people to read, and another in the smallest font I could find, for the spider-folk:

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS SPIDER? HIS NAME IS PETER BUT HE DOES NOT RESPOND TO THAT BECAUSE HE'S A SPIDER SO HE'S VERY QUIET AND MAYBE A LITTLE SNOBBY. 

Then I had to draw a picture of him because I didn't have a photo, but I'm not a very good artist so I just sort of drew a fuzzy-looking circle.

I don't actually know very much about spiders - like how many legs they have, for instance - and I got a little carried away. Anyway, it was almost effective: dozens of spiders showed up all day long claiming to be Peter, but I had to turn each of the lonely, homeless things away with a sad shake of my head.

It's been hours now. I just keep sighing wistfully out the kitchen window where his abandoned web bobs about in the breeze. No friendly stretch of a leg. No helpless bug struggling for life as Peter flits about in his dance of death. No sign of him at all.

I just hope he's alright out there. The weather's growing colder, and he's always been sort of small and spindly compared to the other spiders.

But you know, despite all that, he's pretty resourceful. Maybe he'll find another window where he can build an even better web. One with lasers, maybe, and a hot tub where he can bring all the lady spiders.

Yeah, he'll be okay. He's a pretty amazing spider, man.



(Yep, that whole post for just one line. But seriously, if you see a spider who fits that description, tell him Carrie misses him.)

Image via Pynk Celebrity.

Prep Time

The most important part of an interview is preparation. Practice a firm handshake. Practice smiling-without-looking-like-a-serial-killer. Practice willing your sweat glands to shut off. All of these are vital skills in the interview process.

Since I have an interview tomorrow morning, I took some time off from today's original schedule, which consisted of watching 30 Rock and eating chips, to prepare so that all I have to worry about during the actual interview is the volume of my voice and whether that musty smell is me. I've also been practicing not laughing so much during everyday conversations. Apparently it comes off a little insane when people ask your name and you let out a long, piercing giggle before saying, "But seriously, Angie, I'm Carrie?"

So in an effort to make myself a little more presentable, I went to the mall this afternoon to buy a reasonably-priced blazer and some neutral heels that weren't stained with punch circa Winter Formal '07. My fancy pants are all hemmed, and I plan to iron AND lint roll them tonight. I also looked up the most common interview questions on a career website so I could think up some articulate responses in advance. For example:

• Why do you want to work at this company?
• Red Robin isn't hiring right now.
• My agency just tells me what to do and I do it. Shall I tell you about my strong leadership skills?
• I heard you don't give drug tests.
  
• What are your weaknesses?
• "Some people say I'm too nice?"
• Cheese - melted, grilled, string, block, wedge, wheel, ball, wrapped in puff pastry, or fried on a stick.
• A good-lookin' man in a suit. Or out of one, if y'know what I mean.
  
• Tell me about a time when you...completed a large project/overcame an obstacle/resolved a conflict at work.
• It was a dark and stormy night. (Wait expectantly for next question.)

Easy peasy.