Like a Peach

For years, I’ve cultivated a reputation as an intractable summer hater. No amount of sun-drenched-lilac-scented-firefly-magic nonsense can make up for the heat, the humidity, the bugs. And I won’t claim that anything has changed this year, either. Not really. Rather, I find myself undeniably connected to the season in a way I’ve never been before.

Eight months pregnant with my first child on this first day of summer, I newly understand the very roundness of the season. The visceral fullness. The great inhale of a fertile land as it swells into ripeness—that’s what I feel in my body these days (in theory, anyway). My experience is not nearly so poetic, of course, as I sweat and ache and flop about in irritation. But maybe that goes on under the surface of the earth, as well. We see thickets of plump berries dripping off their vines; it doesn’t occur to us the struggle that went into their development. Is each afternoon thunderstorm actually the groaning and sobbing of another laboring mother?

It isn’t lost on me that I’ve resisted the painful parts of summer all these years. How proud, how strong the earth must feel each year when she sets forth her bounty through her efforts alone. Meanwhile, the dread of discomfort marks me as a weak and feeble coward who will grouse and crawl my way into that lauded state of motherhood. I can’t help but feel out of my depth, unprepared, and frightened. Nature has shaped me soft and heavy as any fruit tree, but I can’t seem to figure out how to set my feet sturdily beneath the ground.

Maybe the earth would understand, though. How must it have been for her that first summer, with no midwife to coax her through that terrible, pulsing abundance…as sunshine and water stirred to life the potential in her belly, as the seeds buried inside her cracked and flowered into something new and beautiful, useful and needy and alive? How confusing, how frightening, how painful and transformative.

I’m romanticizing all of this, I know. My brief, well-medicated stint in a sterile hospital room will be nothing like the slow ripening of even a single peach. I may, after all, sink into motherhood only after labor is long over, with a warm sigh like a branch resettling after harvest. Maybe I’ll even come to appreciate the season as I watch my own sweet summer child blossom year after year. It’s possible, anyway.

As long as the damn mosquitoes stay out of my way.

Les Jeux Olympiques

WELP, ANOTHER OLYMPICS HAS COME AND GONE. It’s certainly been an eventful one, spawning memes by the truckload, from everyone’s favorite Pommel Horse Hero to the Turkish silver-medal sharpshooter to the pole vaulter with the troublesome…pole. But let’s begin at the beginning.

paris

What can you really say about the City of Light? It’s a haven for hunchbacks and phantoms and sad singing revolutionaries. The Seine is dirty because it’s filled with cigarettes and ennui. Everyone’s just…eating cheese and…wearing stripes. Bein’ snooty. Noshin’ baguette.

The Opening Ceremonies received mixed reviews, but I suspect that’s partly due to cultural differences. Ze French are more…well, French than we are. You know what I mean. You know.

Now, I didn’t see the Contentious Drag Queen Display because I was Distracted by the Fashion and the Boats and the Mysterious Parkour Person. But even later, when I saw pictures of Papa Smurf slung over a banquet table, I wasn’t bothered. It was weird, but it’s art. And artists trying to be edgy are fueled by the public’s outrage. So if you don’t like what they’re doing, just ignore them. It is the cruelest revenge to the soul of a poor iconoclast.

What really ghasted my flabbers, however, was the video with the three people book-flirting (THE MOST POTENT FORM OF FLIRTING!) in a library before flitting off to un appartement si chic for a bit of…how you say…rrrromping. I wasn’t upset because it was a ménage à trois—after all, by Parisian standards, isn’t that considered a bit tame?—but because it was a ménage à trois arranged in a library. We here in the States have suffered too much library-related drama already. Now if people get it into their heads that public libraries are a breeding ground for…well, breeding…. I shudder to think what the Concerned Mothers Groups are already plotting after that display. Will they try to ban all French books? Install chaperones to make sure no one’s getting too handsy in the stacks? Seize the dictionaries to censor terms like “double entendre” and “amuse-bouche”? France, what are you trying to do to us?!

Despite the objectionable bits, there was so much to enjoy about this spectacle. The athletes riding on boats. The headless Maries Antoinette singing with a French heavy metal band. Kelly Clarkson gushing about the rainy ambience and getting choked up over Celine Dion’s appearance. The hot-air balloon Olympic cauldron that floated over Paris before settling in the Jardin des Tuileries. It was all very dramatic.

But NONE of that is what the OLYMPICS are aBOUT. They’re about SPORT! So let’s get to it.

[NOTE: I already commented on many of my favorite events during the last Olympics; if you care to read about those, you can find that post HERE.]

TABLE TENNIS

Watching this sport was stressful. Possibly because they showed four games at once.

Of course, I didn’t help things. In my determination to watch as many events as I physically could, I frequently found myself streaming up to a dozen different games, matches, battles, and rounds at a time. To be honest, it started to feel like a job. Or—no, more like an internship. I definitely wasn’t getting paid, but I could potentially make it sound like valuable experience on a resume.

Anyway.

As the finals neared and they started showing only one match-up at a time, we really got to see the players in action: standing five feet back from the table in front of a silent crowd and whipping the ball back and forth—I could not begin to keep track of it as it moved, but I found the clicky-clack of its movement very soothing. Also the players liked to bob on their toes between rallies like happy little ducklings, which added some much-needed levity to a tense competition.

One fun little factoid I learned about table tennis is that the person serving has to show the ball to their opponent before they serve. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about the moment they reveal it there on their palm, like a precious little egg over which they’ve been brooding so carefully. Right before they SLAM it with a paddle.

How whimsical the Olympics can be!

SURFING

Despite growing up in Southern California, a mere half-hour from the beach, I never learned to surf. I don’t know why. It honestly never occurred to me.

But I do love the ocean, and watching surfers bob on their boards off the coast of Tahiti was wonderfully relaxing. I learned all about the “spit” and the “rail” and “carving a line.” And, while watching German surfer Tim Elter, I learned one other thing:

If you’re going to surf, and especially if your surfing will be recorded for broadcast around the world, you should make sure that your swimsuit is secure.

Oh, buddy. So trägt man keine Badehose.

RACE-WALKING

I was really just in awe of the choices at play here. First, these men and women chose to participate in a sport that we would be justified, I feel, in describing as competitive hastening. Second, some of the men chose to wear these little swishy shorts? For a style of movement that already emphasizes the hips? Just delightful. Overall there was the sense that everyone had just exited the metro and was anxiously hurrying home for tea and cakes.

It’s a good thing I wasn’t watching this event in person. If I’d been on the sidelines, I’d have made trouble by shouting, “That guy’s running! I saw him! Both feet were off the ground at the same time—judges!!” I mean, obviously I still shouted that, from my couch across the Atlantic, but the officials take that sort of complaint much less seriously.

Additional footage of the race-walkers:

ARCHERY

At first I was afraid the smoosh-faces wouldn’t be as good as they were last time. But I needn’t have feared. If anything, the faces this year were even smooshier than in Tokyo.

I love the variety of smoosh-faces on display in this sport: the focused, the wry, the inexplicably puckered. The American man had this way of twitching his moustache each time he prepared a shot that sent me into fits of delighted giggles. This sport is nothing short of an absolute treat.

You may have noticed, however, that the last man in the slideshow does not in fact have a smoosh-face. So why, you might ask, is he included in a compilation of Olympic smoosh-faces when he shoots with the strong jaw and even features of Apollo the Archer himself come down to Earth? Well, simply put, I think this arrow-wielding Adonis deserves some recognition for his ability to shoot so handsomely. He’s like a dang Disney character. He’s Li Shang come to life. And I think that deserves our respect.

Speaking of respect…

BREAKING

Breaking didn’t do many things right, but this boom-box background was GENIUS. Though I do wonder if some of the younger competitors even knew what it was.

New to the Olympics this year, breaking was met with both skepticism and excitement. I tried to reserve judgment, but I quickly became disillusioned when I saw the two deejays:

“Oh, boy,” I said. “This is…this is happening.” And I remembered that there would be b-girls and b-boys from all over the world competing. Eastern Europeans. Scandinavians. The French. I fully admit to my hasty judgment, and I stand by it. There’s a reason breaking will not be included in the 2028 Olympics. Aside from the Afghan refugee with the cape who was eliminated in a pre-competition round, and Jeffro—a charming American b-boy who was CHEATED OUT OF A PODIUM SPOT, YOU CAN FIGHT ME ABOUT IT—I MAY NOT KNOW MUCH ABOUT BREAKING BUT I KNOW STAR QUALITY WHEN I SEE IT AND BOY DID THIS KID HAVE THE OL’ JE NE SAIS QUOI—this felt like a social experiment wherein we, the viewers, were competing to see how much we could watch without dying of second-hand embarrassment.

(Am I being too harsh? I don’t mean to be harsh. The athleticism was truly impressive. I said “whoa” out loud several times. My husband compared it to earlier Games when athletes competed in poetry. It seems reasonable to suppose that a lot of those poems were probably pretty cringy, too. Expressing oneself, unfortunately, often is.)

To kick things off, Snoop Dogg Crip Walked out to perform the coup de baton, which made me feel a bit better. If Snoop gave his blessing, how bad could it be? I would have liked a picture-in-picture of his reactions during each of the battles, but he left after only a few of the women’s qualifying rounds, off to grace another event with his presence, that busy little…pupp.

Anyway. I think more sports should be judged based on vibes. It adds some nice chaos to what can be an otherwise rigid process.

Can you picture Monsieur Dom-K judging based on anything but vibes?

B-boy Ronnie and Kid David tried to explain the elements of breaking (uprock, downrock, freezes, floorwork, transitions, etc.), but mostly they pointed out when someone was “really listening to the music” and talked about how important it is to show your “voCABulary” of moves.

NOW. By this point, I’m sure you have all seen the clips of Rachael “Raygun” Gunn’s creative approach to breaking. First off, let’s all just admit that she was bestowed with a perfect name to make into some sort of nickname. She had two choices in life: become a superhero or a b-girl. And clearly she said, “Porque no los dos?” (Except she would’ve said it with an Australian accent, which is hard to imagine but I have to assume it’s something like, “Paurquiy naur laurs daurs?”)

Because what could be a better cover for a superhero than a 36-year-old university professor whose doctoral thesis explored deterritorializing the gender dynamics of the Australian breaking scene? Ask yourself: Why did she perform so bizarrely compared to the other b-girls? Much like the Turkish assass—er, sharpshooter, she could not reveal her true abilities. If anyone found out she was capable of hypnotizing evil-doers with her floorwork, that would be the end of Raygun’s quest to rid the continent of crime.

“But Carrie,” you might be saying, “if she wants to keep her identity a secret, why would she use the same name for breaking and superheroing? Isn’t that a bit of a giveaway?”

Well, maybe I’m wrong and she just made some odd choices. Or maybe it’s like my husband said, and the athletes from the Southern Hemisphere were at a disadvantage because their breaking spins in the opposite direction down there (like their toilets) and they had to adjust to an entirely different rotation for the competition. Regardless, can you even imagine the strength of character it takes to come out on stage and perform like that in front of God and everyone? In front of Snoop Dogg? No one knows for sure what was going through the woman’s head, what her aims were, but how many of us could do even as much as she did? (I couldn’t. I know. I tried it immediately. The fact that she can perform the Kangaroo at age 36 is impressive in itself.)

In truth, Raygun has done nothing to deserve our scorn. Are not the Olympic Games meant to instill a sense of compassion and understanding across lines of nationality? Furthermore, how can we expect Oceanic breaking to compare in any way with the rest of the world’s when their hip-hop scene is dominated by the legendary Hiphopopotamus and the mother-flippin’ Rhymenoceros? It’s a different beast entirely.

Now watch Raygun’s routine again. Think of yourself and what you would do if you were rocking in the middle of a circle of street youths and the rapper suddenly hit you with this line: “They call me the Hiphopopotamus, my lyrics are bottomless”—followed by several bars of silence! How does one transmute that type of existential horror through their body without turning to surrealist pantomime?

I guess what I’m saying is, put yourself in Raygun’s shoes. Her bright white trainers. Put on her cap. Tuck your polo shirt into her pants. See what it feels like to slide a mile on her head. You’ve had hurt feelings before, haven’t you? You know what it’s like. Give the woman a break.

Let’s put some respect on Raygun’s name. And as the Hiphopopotamus says, “Be more constructive with your feedback…please.”

THIS GUY

The Cap Catcher performed his task admirably, with unparalleled style and panache. 10/10. No notes.

LOOKING AHEAD

Before we know it, a year and a half will have passed and we’ll be in Italy for the Winter Olympics. And then it’ll be off to LA in the summer of 2028. The Closing Ceremonies offered a little taste—an amuse-bouche, if it’s not to risque to say—of what that will be like, with performances by Snoop, Billie Eilish, and, of course, the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

More like the Red Hot Ghost Peppers.

While we can’t know what the organizers will dream up over the coming four years, I get the sense it’s gonna be, like, a super chill hang. We’re gonna surf some gnarly waves, play some beach v-ball, and sit in the 405 parking lot to eat some In-N-Out as the sun sets over the City of Angels.

The gymnastics will be suuuuper rad.

Everyone goes home with a free seagull.

That Norwegian swimmer gets obsessed with a roadside taquería.

A California grizzly bear carries the Olympic torch to light the cauldron.

Ah—how am I not already on the planning committee?! Absurd.

Heat Wave

As much of the nation trudges toward another summer equinox, caught in the stifling embrace of a triple-digit heatwave, I can’t help but wistfully check the weather forecast for my hometown in Southern California, where they have been enjoying temperatures of a balmy 80 degrees.

Running a finger down my laptop screen, I take a gulp of damp air and whimper, “It’s a dry heat.”

(As with all things, I handle the heat with quiet dignity.)

I was thinking, though, about how I write these summer posts every year, yet I have hitherto failed to come up with a permanent, workable solution for my soul-withering heat rage.

That’s about to change.

I’m here to introduce a brand-new concept that will revolutionize the warmer months for millions of people worldwide:

SUMMER HIBERNATION.

Listen, I get why the wild animals want to do their hibernating in winter. That’s fine. Whatever. They can do their own thing. But I am a domesticated animal. I buy my food at the grocery store. I am not subject to the whims of Mother Nature. I can control my own destiny.

And I feel, in my heart, that my destiny is to become the first human to be cryogenically frozen in order to escape icky weather.

Now, you might be wondering, “Is it completely necessary to go to the trouble and expense of freezing yourself for three months? Can’t you just sit in front of a fan or something?”

Well, pardner, you’re right. I could do that. Or any number of other tricks to cope with the heat. And I have, throughout the years. Hell, I used to be tough. Or at least I thought I was tough. But over time I have come to understand that I’m not tough at all; I’m the kind of person who flounces into the kitchen on a hot day and shouts, “Ah, zut! Ze baguettes ‘ave ovehrprrrroofed!” (Oh, right. I should mention I’m doing a whole baguette thing this year, but that’s another story.) And then I swoon onto a velvet chaise, which is a terrible choice because velvet holds the humidity like crazy.

That type of person is not made for the long, harsh summer. That type of person thrives in the cold. I am a plump little dumpling, hearty and compact and insulated with blubber like a walrus. But when it comes to the heat, there’s only so much you can do. You can’t spend your whole day in an ice bath. You can’t walk around naked except for a misting fan you’ve fashioned into a hat. Nope—it’s no use. I’ve gone over all the options. It’s either freeze myself or peel off my skin to avoid the agony of another broiling summer. I think we can all agree which is preferable.

Now, admittedly, I haven’t done the research. All this is still theoretical. That’s why I need YOUR HELP. Out of the dozen or so people who will read this, ONE of you HAS to know someone in cryogenics. IT’S JUST STATISTICS.

Wake me up when the fall rolls in. When the trees turn colors and the cicadas have faded away. Trust me; we’ll all be happier this way.

I await your response.

Warm regards,
Carrie Muller

A Flirting Interlude: Aunt Edna Returns

Usually on Valentine’s Day I post a comprehensive list of extremely useful and meticulously researched Flirting Tips for Human People. You’ve probably heard of the series. It is widely acclaimed.

However, I’ve decided to go in a different direction this year—and this year only—by touching on what comes AFTER a fruitful flirt. As the great poet once said,

“First comes love / Then comes marriage.”

(That’s not the rhyming bit. Just so you know. I didn’t want you to think it was just like…a bad poem.)

You might have noticed the poet neglected to mention flirting, which you may think was a mere oversight, but not so. I suspect this poet was an agent of the State. Which State? Doesn’t matter. They’ve all got the same objective: MARRIAGE. MARRIAGE FOR EVERY CITIZEN. The agents want everyone matched up and paired off and hitched away because they love the Cha-Cha Slide and aside from a seventh-grade school dance the only place they can hear it is at a WEDDING.

And do you really think that a State agent whose favorite song is the Cha-Cha Slide knows anything about flirting? Of course not. They haven’t even made the connection between flirting and marriage. That’s why I’m here (but more on that subject next year). I lay the foundation of flirtation. Excavate the site. Dig footings. Install rebar. Mix the banter up with water in the banter mixer until it’s smooth and ready to pour. Let it harden for a good 48 hours. You’re familiar with the process.

But that’s where my job ends. After I clear out, a one-woman crew comes in to build the bridge from flirtation…to love…to marriage. (It’s one of those rare bridges that has a stop in the middle.) And the name of the woman who makes up that one-woman crew is AUNT EDNA.

I can personally attest to her skills. Ten years ago, after I got engaged, right around the time the shadowy agents of the State started leaving vaguely threatening bolts of tulle outside my door, it was Aunt Enda who showed up and sorted me out. She guided me down the aisle with grace and wisdom and a line of little colorful sweets like a witch in a fairy tale. And here I am, a decade later, fully hitched and slingin’ flirting tips to the next generation of human people. And the cycle continues.

So if you happen to find yourself this Valentine’s Day WAY past the sweetly temperate realm of flirtation and well along the shaky bridge to MARRIAGEVILLE, I invite you to bask in the comforting (if musty) presence of Aunt Edna.

---

AUNT EDNA’S GUIDE TO WEDDINGS AND FALCONRY
(an excerpt)

When I first saw her, I thought she was a corpse. All slumped in a pile next to a massive steamer trunk just outside my apartment door. Exactly where I hadn’t left a corpse that morning.

Just as I got a good loud shriek worked up, the pile stirred, which cut the shriek off in my throat.

“Whooo are you?!” I shouted. I tried to assume a fighting stance, which for me meant jumping in the air and bicycling my legs.

“Whoa, whoa—whoa, girl! Hold it!” The bundle coughed raspily and lurched up to a seat.

“IDENTIFY YOURSELF!” I cried.

She tipped back a dusty green felt hat and I saw her face. It had been six years since I’d seen her last, but she looked the same. Her pale blue eyes were red-rimmed and droopy with sleep, her frown little more than a puddle of wrinkles above her collar.

“Aunt Edna!” I nearly dropped to the ground with relief. “I thought you were dead!” (I realize now this was not a polite thing to say to an elderly woman.)

“Not yet!” she mumbled. “They haven’t got me yet.”

“How long have you been waiting here?” I asked.

“Oh, not long, dear, not long.”

“Well, what—what are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, it’s just—”

As she stretched her limbs, they popped with a sound like a thumb running over a comb’s teeth, and I took in how thin she was under her layers of clothing.

“Just passing through,” she said.

“Well,” I said dazedly, “come inside.”

Together, we shoved her steamer trunk just past the door frame, and I managed to close the door behind it. She gazed around with a critical eye.

“Can I take your coat?”

She handed me her hat and shrugged out of the oversized military coat she wore. Thick, curly hair, the sort of color they call dun, spilled off her head like scrambled eggs. Her eyes darted warily in their sunken sockets. While I made coffee, she prowled around the place, silently scrutinizing pictures on the wall and peering behind furniture and running her fingers across every book on the shelves. She perked up a bit, though, after I settled her down on the sofa and placed a mug of coffee directly into her hand.

“Tell me about your young man,” she mumbled as her face sank into the cup.

“Bill? Oh, well, we met at college, and—”

She waved her hand. “Not that. Tell me about him.”

“He works as a numisma…”

“Not his job.” She spat on the ground in frustration. “When was he born?”

“Um…” I laughed nervously. “He’s a Pisces if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“Oh, he’s a Pisces, is he? Of course that’s not what I mean! Use your head, girl. What day of the week was he born?”

“I don’t…you know, Aunt Edna, off the top of my head, I’m not sure.”

She scoffed. “And this is the man you’re supposedly going to marry, hmm?”

“I’ll have to look it up,” I said. “But why do you ask?”

“The old rhyme,” she said. “You know it. Monday’s child, fair of face, Tuesday’s child full of grace…and so on. By the way, you’re a Monday child, so you oughta start acting like it and put on some sunscreen once in a while. Monday’s child freckle-faced, more like.”

I smiled stiffly.

“Thursday!” I announced after consulting my phone’s calendar. “He’s a Thursday child.”

“Thursday, hey?” She raised her chin imperiously. “Thursday’s child has far to go.”

“What day of the week were you born, Aunt Edna?”

She barked out a laugh. “Impertinent.”

“Oh, come on. Are you a Saturday child, curls and bows? Or a Sunday child…knobbly…toes?”

A slow smile parted the wrinkles on either side of her mouth like a curtain. “I’ll never tell.”

Probably she was born before days of week were invented and couldn’t tell me.

“Oh, fine,” I said. “At least tell me where you’ve been all this time.”

“All this time? When was the last time I visited? Was it this century? Yes, I think…it’s only been a few years, dear. I saw you before you went off to college.”

“That was six years ago, Aunt Edna.”

“Right. Hardly any time at all. This is good coffee, dear.” She seemed mildly surprised.

We sat sharing silence for a moment, until I worked up the nerve to say, “I hope this doesn’t seem rude—because I am very happy to see you, of course—but can you tell me again what you’re doing here?”

She smacked her lips and gave me a long stare. “I heard about your wedding, and I wanted to congratulate you.”

“Who…I mean, how did you hear about it?” As far as I knew, no one in my family had a reliable way to contact Aunt Edna. She showed up when she pleased, and between-times she made herself a mystery.

She chortled. “O-ho, thought you could keep it a secret from me, hey? Well, girl, you have to wake up pretty early in the morning to fool old Edna. I’ve had this visit marked on my calendar for years. Now—” She set her mug down so forcefully some coffee sloshed over the side. “Let’s get to work, shall we?”

“Oh, that’s—”

“How much do you have planned already?”

I looked at her, trying to pick some words from the ether to string together into an answer. But I couldn’t. I opened my mouth, but instead of words, this squeaky wailing sound came out.

“Carrie?” she said.

The noise went on and on. I felt my cheeks with my fingertips, but my eyes were dry. If I wasn’t crying, I didn’t know what this outburst was. Hunger? Was it the sound of abject appetite?

“Oh—my girl…now, that’s not a good noise.”

She moved over to sit next to me. Pulling me into a crushing hug, she patted my hair and made small cooing noises. She smelled like pipe tobacco and tumbleweeds.

Once I quieted down, she said, “Now, tell me what’s going on, dear. Tell me true. Don’t try to placate me with pretty lies and excuses. Just lay it on me, no matter how shameful or embarrassing it is.”

I took a deep breath. “It’s nothing, really—” Aunt Edna raised an eyebrow. “Well, it’s just that I feel so…so…”

“Skeered?”

I nodded. “Yes. I am scared. It’s just…it’s like…I mean, you know? Like, it’s forever. Forever-ever.”

She gave my elbow a stiff pat. “You’ll be alright, dear. Everyone gets nervous before they get married. I’d think you a simpleton if you weren’t frightened.” She pressed her lips into a pitying smile. “Why don’t you go take a nap, dear?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Don’t argue with me, girl,” she said. “And don’t worry about keeping me entertained. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”

She steered me into the bedroom, guided me under the covers, and tucked me in. I closed my eyes. A faint breeze met my face.

“Aunt Edna,” I said, “what’re you doing?”

The breeze stopped for a moment. “It’s easier to sleep when you’re cool.” Then the breeze resumed. It smelled of coffee and moth balls.

She was right.

---

There’s more. Much more. You haven’t even met the falcon yet.

But all that will have to wait. I tell the whole story in a little-lauded Wedding Book that’s been forthcoming for a decade now. It’ll probably still be forthcoming in another decade, so in the meantime we’ll get back to what we human people do best:

A GREAT AND TERRIBLE FLIRT.

See you next Valentine’s Day.

Someone's Got a Case of the Summer-Grumps!

Welp, summertime is here again and I…am…furious. I’m gonna fight the first firefly I see.

Then again, it’s not like the other seasons have been so great this year. Winter—at least here, in central Pennsylvania—gave a lackluster performance, without a single day of snow sticking to the ground. Spring was okay; everything bloomed beautifully and the squirrels were all twitterpated and whatnot. But in April a bird died on our sidewalk, so then there was a funeral to arrange, and it’s so hard to get back on track after that.

Now it’s summer, and I can’t say my hopes are high.

It’s just such a sticky season. Why must it be so sticky? Between ice cream and sunscreen, sweat and humidity, bug spray and lemonade, it’s three long months of peeling things off other things: your thighs off a seat, a coaster off the bottom of your glass, the rind off of…an orange.

Wow. I really thought that list would turn out better.

Anyway.

That being said, I’m tired of doing nothing but complaining every summer. The season refuses to change its attitude, but I CAN. It’s time to be the bigger person and make the best of things. To that end, this year we’re going to do some THEMED SUMMER READING. (Indoors. Obviously. In the air conditioning.)

And what is the best type of character to read about when you’re trying to make the best of something? That’s right: a plucky, imaginative, outdoorsy girl with no parents! (Be honest, did you say Ivan Denisovich? Close. Very close. That’s a good guess.) Buckle up, buds—it’s WHOLESOME HEROINE SEASON: Or, the Summer of the Whimsical Orphan! Featuring our most beloved and charming literary ragamuffins:

• Anne of Green Gables!

• Pippi Longstocking!

• Pollyanna!

• Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm!

• Heidi!

• Mary Lennox! (Just kidding. NO ONE LIKES MARY. But we’re reading The Secret Garden, anyway!)

• AND MANY MORE!

[N.B.: Not all of the characters we’ll read about are technically orphans, like Matilda and Harriet the Spy. But their parents are pretty neglectful—not to mention they’re both SO precocious—so I’d say it counts.]

Surely the summer heat will seem but a mere trifle if we spend the season minding goats in the Alps and baking pepparkakor at Villa Villekulla and fishing with our wolf friend on San Nicolas Island! Surely the pathological optimism of these parentless poppets will chase the summer-grumps away lickety-split!

If you’d like to join, rustle up a library card and get to readin’! First up is the ultimate whimsical orphan, PIPPI LONGSTOCKING by Astrid Lindgren. Or, if perchance you’re not all that interested in these SILLY ORPHAN BOOKS, tell me in the comments what you are reading this summer! Gimme the deets, señoreets. There’s nothing I like talking about more than books. And then, at the end of the summer, we can all have a BOOK IT! party with personal pan pizzas for everyone!

PERSONAL. PAN. PIZZAS.

Need I say more?

Follow along on Instagram @carriemulleryay! Happy reading, friends.

IT'S BABY-SNATCHIN' SEASON

Spring has unfolded in waves of purple and white. The scent of it nearly overwhelmed me when I went out to gather some violets for a floral tart I planned to bake. Clouds churned past the sun, casting shadows as I picked, but my glass jar was pretty well full by the time the first plump, round raindrops began to fall.

As I ran back to the shelter of the porch, a thought sprang unbidden to my mind: This isn’t quite right. There should be a child here. A tiny human should be scampering for cover alongside me, mossy stones and clover soft under bare feet.

It was a strange thought, because I don’t have any children. My nieces and nephews live far away, as do any close friends who would let me borrow their littl’uns for a spring afternoon.

And all that is fine, normally. Just that the rainy garden, all green and fragrant, seemed to cry out for a small creature with wide eyes to really appreciate it all: the ferns unfurling in the gully; the violets bashful along the path; the lilacs that the bumblebees so love all in heady bloom. There should have been an audience gathered ‘round the shaded patch of lilies-of-the-valley, where rain had set the delicate bells to tinkling.

“This is how May smells,” I would have said if there were someone there to hear it. “Perfume and petrichor.” But there was no one, and it felt like a crime.

Now, I am quite small and can be childlike in my own way, but my creaky joints and cynicism make a poor substitute for the innocent absorption of an actual child. The blossoms, I could hear, wondered what they’d gotten all dressed up for if not to inspire a youthful imagination.

“What shall I do?” I asked the plants. As if in answer, another thought popped into my head:

Why, go out a-snatchin’, of course.

And at that moment I saw clearly who I was, who I’d always been. I was the old woman in the forest, the fairytale witch with the lopsided smile and long scraggly hair who welcomes stray children into her garden. This reclusive crone is always assumed to have sinister intentions—why would she want to fatten up strange children if not to gobble them up?—but that isn’t it at all. She’s simply tapped into nature’s wild plumpening instincts so particularly potent in spring.

Glut yourself on honey and blossoms! Spring says. It’s been a long winter—roll in the grass with the worms and soothe your bee stings with chewed plantain leaves! Scratch strange glyphs into bits of sycamore bark with a pointy stick! And peel off those socks this instant!

How could every child know that dandelions turn into wishes if not for the wild old woman? Who taught the first child to coax a whistle from a blade of grass or chain a daisy? Who discovered that snapdragons could talk? Why, the solitary crone made giddy with spring, of course. (Though who first taught her remains an eternal mystery.) And every year she lurks behind gnarled mossy tree trunks, eager to share what she knows with the curious little bairns.

So watch out, all you careful parents. Auntie Carrie is coming to snatch up your wee ones. I’ll spirit them away to eat dill-pickle sandwiches in green-bean teepees and crouch on rocks at the edge of the river, investigating the tadpoles. Small hands and toes were made for mud puddles, and Auntie Carrie is happy to facilitate while pouring pink lemonade into cracked teacups for a blanket picnic, grinningly piling violet tartlets onto her best china platter.

Not forever, though, of course. I’ll send them home eventually, with crumbs in their pockets and snails in their hair and fingers sticky with jam, waving a beribboned animal skull fastened on the end of a stick.

If you didn’t know any better, you might not even know I’d been up to any baby-snatching at all. You might think this gorgeous pink-cheeked soaking-in of youthful glories had been merely the influence of the spring, the flowers, the rain.

Fraud

Listen. We like to have fun around here. We kid, we joke, we embellish and hyperbolize and mix a few metaphors, all in the name of telling a good story.

But I assure you the following is 100% true. The names have NOT been changed to protect the innocent. I couldn’t make these up if I tried. There are limits to creativity.

That said, please enjoy this story of my small misfortune.

---

You know it’s going to be a rough day when you wake up to a text from your credit card company:

Did you make this purchase from Yves Saint Laurent for $725?

I imagined the suspicious credit card fraud person flagging the charge. They must have gasped and shouted, “What’s all this? Carrie, shopping at Yves Saint Laurent? But she still buys sunglasses at the gas station!” Then they probably turned slowly to their neighbor and said in a low voice, “Some mischief is afoot.”

I quickly checked my email and yes, there was an email from YSL asking me to activate my account.

"Wot?” I said aloud, still quite groggy. “Did I go sleep-shopping last night?”

If so, it must have been quite a spree, for there were other emails. Dozens of them.

Please confirm your account at Damn Near Kilt ‘Em, one said.

And another: Congrats! Your account has been created at MadGerbilUK!

And then: Thank you for signing up to support the San Francisco Ballet.

“What happened last night?” I asked no one in particular.

The accounts were made in nondescript male names: JacobSamuel1 was confirmed at a shop called Just BB Guns, MichaelJosh was all set to start shopping at DreamHorses.com, and Thomas86340 (the jetsetter of the group, apparently) had opened accounts with several German and Russian sites.

However, as I read through the emails, I started to think of this mystery…individual? team of miscreants? as Alternate Carrie. The Carrie I might have been if I’d indulged all of my slightest, most trifling whims. Each email gave another little clue as to Alternate Carrie’s interests. She likes to garden (Vermont Bean Seed Company). She appreciates model trains (Legacy Station). She’s an avid vaper (AvidVaper.com). She has some questions, and she thinks Catholicism may have the answers (Catholicism Has the Answer).

Five hundred eighty-eight emails, five hundred eighty-eight clues.

YSL was the only place she’d successfully made a purchase with my credit card, but here are a few more sites Alternate Carrie hoped to patronize:

• BeanBagBazaar

• Sassy Spud

• Petsmart Nigeria

• Kidcarz.com

• GayCities (“The city guide created by people like you.”)

• Seal Beach Police

• “SINNER’s BONES”

• Pickleball Superstore

• pet o’clock

• Bearded Skullz BC

• My Fish Room

• Tool Depot 24/7

• Staple Pigeon

• Mysecret wigs

• ELK

• boohooMAN

• Jerky.com

• 2Kool4Skool

• Margaritaville Apparel

• Pink Chicken

• Super Luxury Business Cards

• Brooke’s Candy Co. (I would consider keeping this one)

• Alpaca Direct (this one, too)

• Fascia Expert

• Academia Furniture

• Undercover Lingerie (for spies—a poison dart pops out of the underwire!)

• Age of Wonders Heaven Forum

• Hospice Lotteries Association

• Dinosaw

• The Lightbulb Co.

• ron (I’m extra wary of opening this one)

After a while, I wandered over to the Yves Saint Laurent website, wondering what Alternate Carrie had purchased. Not a dress, certainly, or a faux-fur jacket—those sell for thousands of dollars. Even a bikini top runs close to $900, and that’s made of roughly five inches of fabric. She wouldn’t buy a purse or a necklace or a denim ball cap that could pay my mortgage for a month…

And then I spotted it. $725. Metal-free tanned leather. Dark beige.

The Cassandre Matelassé Compact Zip Around Wallet in Grain de Poudre Embossed Leather.

GRAIN DE POUDRE, PEOPLE. THIS IS NOT A DRILL

OF COURSE Alternate Carrie would buy this useless little thing. Real Carrie likes to stuff crumpled wads of cash in her pockets or her shoe, but Alternate Carrie has all her credit cards organized alphabetically in her compact zip-around wallet! Alternate Carrie loooves a good matelassé to go with her kilts and her secret wigs! And everyone knows Alternate Carrie cannot resist a quilted overstitch! In fact, I’m surprised she didn’t buy one in every color: black and dark natural and chartreuse yellow and FOG!

However, Real Carrie did not buy this wallet in any color. I texted the credit card people that no, I did not approve this purchase, at which point I assume the fraud person let out a sigh of relief.

“It’s okay, everyone,” they probably said. “It’s alright. We’ve got our girl back. Now let’s get a new card out to her pronto. She’s got forty bucks worth of Taco Bell burritos to buy.”

And Yet More Flirting Tips for Human People

Here at EARTH, the flirting never stops! Human people are always on the lookout for a cute li’l snack to flirt at until they can take the time to devour them properly.

BUT HOW DO THEY KEEP THIS UP FOR THE TWENTY-FOUR LONG HOURS OF A STANDARD EARTH DAY?

Well, after years of observation we finally have the answers. Read on to find out.

To do a flirt

1. It all starts with limbering up. Human people have lots of fun sayings like, “A healthy body leads to a healthy mind!” and similar illogical statements. By the substitution property of proverbs, we can understand that a flirty body leads to a flirty mind, and a flirty mind is always prepared to seize any opportunity for a good ogle.

2. Identify a flirtee. Each human person is equipped with two large orbs in the front of their head to constantly scan for potential mates. Not sure what to look for? Try this list of Attractive Human Qualities:

   1. Strong, square jaw

   2. Long, shiny hair

   3. Lustrous beard

   4. Small waist and round, child-bearing hips

   5. Broad shoulders

   6. Large, red lips

   7. Low-pitched voice

   8. Small feet

   9. Full breasts

   10. Ample chest hair

   Have you found this person? Great!

3. Bring a gift. In the illustration above, you can see that one suitor has brought his flirtee a large egg, which human people consider the most valuable object on their small planet. Notice the frustrated expressions on the other suitors’ faces: they know their offerings cannot compare. A potted plant? A floppy hat and infinity scarf that are pre-worn? Some kind of cheugy sign to hang in her foyer? Come on. The ram did not even bring a gift. He knows he has no chance at a successful flirt.

4. Prepare a dance. Many Earth species dance to attract a mate, and it appears the human is no different. Start by gathering up all your dangly bits—limbs and hair and whatnot—and flinging them about in different directions. Try a jump. An elaborate twirl. Shake. (We’re not certain yet exactly what to shake, as directives differ, so it’s best to play it safe and shake everything.) Do a flip.

   1. Tip: Don’t forget music. Our research has shown this to be an important part of the ritual, as dancing in silence is seen by human people as an unsettling deterrent to further flirts.

5. Once you have succeeded in the above tasks, set out a fancy table with starched white linens and taper candles. This lets the flirtee know you are ready for consume-ation. But that doesn’t mean you can resort to churlish behavior! Allow the flirtee to dictate for themselves in what manner they will be prepared for the meal. Baked? Grilled? Wrapped in banana leaves and roasted in a pit? Remain perfectly polite to the end and you will find you are left with no bitter aftertaste in the morning.

“Truly,” you will tell your friends when you are fully sated, “they were indeed more than a snack. They were in fact an entire meal.”

Happy Valentine’s Day, fellow human people, and godspeed on your flirts!

To Catch a Thief

When you’re an anxious sort, sometimes a fun thing to do is to lie awake in bed, late into the night, and picture horrible situations and how you would handle them. You know. So that in the unlikely event that they should happen, you’ll be prepared.

For example, what if an INTRUDER burst into my bedroom while I was sleeping (or lying awake picturing what I’d do if a volcano erupted in South Central Pennsylvania)? What are my options?

1. For some people, the immediate reaction would be to pull out the ol’ pearl handle revolver and start a-shootin’. But that’s not my style. I do, however, like to sleep with a machete under Bill’s pillow when he’s out of town (it’s almost like having him there—they both have dangerous curves). Just imagine breaking into someone’s bedroom and then hearing the crystalline shhhing! of a machete being unsheathed in the darkness. You look toward the sound and see, illuminated by a swath of moonlight, a woman sitting stock-still in bed, hair wild, eyes wide, her glinting weapon held upright before a truly horrible smile. I think I would skedaddle, wouldn’t you?

2. I slink down into the rumpled covers so it looks like the bed is empty. Then, while the thief is rummaging through the drawers for gems and gold bars (which aren’t there, naturally—they’re hidden above a specific ceiling tile at a specific Red Lobster, the same place my great-uncle the pirate sailor kept his valuables), I slide out from under the covers like an amoeba and slip beneath the bed. I pretend to be a pile of dirty clothes. The thief checks under the bed, but sees nothing out of the ordinary. My camouflage is too good.

3. Thieves are notoriously superstitious, and they refuse to burgle any place which might be haunted. With this in mind…the bed sheet is right there. It’s an obvious move.

4. I start sleeping in a ski mask every night. When the thief sneaks in, I pop up and whisper, “Finally! I thought you got lost!” I point him toward the dresser and say, “Here, grab the lady’s jewelry” as I stuff wads of cash from the nightstand into a duffel bag. We clean the place out and disappear into the night. Thus begins my life of crime.

5. The most realistic option, and the one that immediately came to mind when I posed the question to myself, is this: I lumber up into a crouching position and screech, “I WILL EAT YOUR HEART IN THE MARKETPLAAACE.” Not sure how that would go, but it is my natural instinct and I think I should follow it.

And that’s the trouble with anxiety. You can plan and rehearse these scenarios all night long, but when something does end up happening, you’re still just yourself. Neurotic and groggy and prone to theatrics.

Released

Well, hot damn! The book is out at last. And it feels…cool.

Sorry. That’s not—I’m not great at feelings. Let me try again.

It was a cold and blustery autumn day when my book took its first, intrepid steps into a harsh, unfeeling world, and I felt…pretty neat about it.

Oof. That’s somehow worse.

Okay. One more try.

After eight years of writing, editing, rewriting, re-editing, second-guessing, and panic-proofing, the silly little book I wrote is an actual thing. A material object you can use as a coaster or a shim to hold a tottery table steady. It’s out there. Exposed. For people to read. Strangers. And people I know. Which is obviously the scarier of the two.

I’m feeling…everything. All of the things. All at once. All the different voices in my head are piping up to give their varied opinions and it is getting a bit loud in here.

Thrilled! Sheephish! Terrified! Nauseous! They’re all over the place. One’s like, HOW PRESUMPTUOUS. NOBODY ASKED YOU TO WRITE A GROCERY LIST, MUCH LESS AN ENTIRE BOOK, and she has a posh British accent so you know she really means it.

This morning I went down to the river to sit on a large rock and try to sort things out. The water glittered at me in the sunlight and I felt a little wobbly as I reflected on all the people who’ve helped and supported me, everyone whose compassion or humor has inspired some part of the book even if they didn’t know it. It overwhelmed me, all the people with their good hearts.

But then sixteen-year-old Carrie appeared beside me.

“This rock is kinda small, huh?” she said, crouching on the edge of it.

“There’s another rock over there,” I said, pointing. “We don’t have to share this one.”

She spared it a perfunctory glance, then stared at me meaningfully until I shifted to the other rock. She settled herself down and asked what was up.

“Well…as it so happens, I have written a book. And it’s been published. This very day.”

“I know.” She pulled a baggie of dry cereal out of nowhere and offered me one.

“You do.”

“Yuh.”

“Oh.” I took a piece of cereal and crunched into it. “Well, what do you think about that?”

“Pretty cool.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is pretty cool.”

She stopped chomping and eyed me wryly. “You didn’t think you would actually do it, did you?”

“What do you mean?” I said. “I have done it.”

“That’s what I’m saying. That’s why it feels like a surprise. You didn’t think you’d ever actually do anything like this.”

“What, write a book?”

She considered her words carefully. “Act in such a way that you have an impact on the world, rather than allowing yourself to be acted upon.”

Frowning, I whispered, “You are so annoying.”

She was right, though. I’ve spent much of my life letting things happen to me rather than acting as a decisive force in my own life. For whatever reason, I have let countless opportunities in my life slide past me while I stood stock-still and made a big, ineffectual show of saying, “Oh, nooo!” as they drifted out of sight.

I could’ve done that with this book. It would have been easy. Seeing as I have so much practice. When it was rejected by literary agents, I could’ve decided to (and almost briefly did) fold myself up into a small origami box of despair. But for some unfathomable reason, I said “Screw it” and published it anyway. What sort of maniac does that? I’d been gatekept! Where was my pride? Who did I think I was?

Really, it’s all because of sixteen-year-old Carrie. The whippersnapper. This is a book I needed to read when I was her age: confused, socially maladroit, desperate for connection but utterly at a loss as to how to receive it. The book is for her, really. If anyone else happens to read it, and if they happen to enjoy it, then that’s just a bonus.

(No, not “just.” It’s a huge, massive, incomprehensibly enormous bonus. It’ll be the thrill of my lifetime if this book gives you even a bit of a giggle.)

Now. One of the voices in my head is a cranky old man who tells me this is nothin’ special. “Get back to work!” he barks. He sounds like my tenth-grade English teacher, actually. Equal parts grumpy and strangely encouraging. And you know what? He’s right. Time is a-wastin’.

So thank you, thank you, especially today, for reading.

Time for me to get back to work.