For as long as I can remember, I have been fascinated by the rapture. As a child, I had relatives who attended a church that occasionally predicted raptures. My earliest rapture memories are a general concern that my aunts and cousins might disappear and no longer be at family holidays. (They always were and are still on Earth today, so far as I know.) For the last rapture planned during my childhood, I was as a teenager. We were at my grandparent’s house and my mom and grandma were having a wonderful time discussing a specific detail of this particular rapture. My relatives were allowed to pack a single suitcase. What would they pack, mom and grandma wondered. As they debated, I thought about bringing my beloved books and saltines with me. (I love crackers.) In the end, my grandma decided she’d bring a suitcase full of booze and cigarettes, figuring with that she could barter for everything she might need in Heaven. She was a pragmatic lady, and it’s not surprising she was never invited into the rapture crew. I still ponder the mechanics of being called to Heaven, but thinking you could bring a suitcase. Were there weight limits? Size restrictions? What was stopping you from bringing a huge trunk with a non-believer stowaway inside?
My second rapture interaction was during the publication of the Left Behind series of books. In the late 90s, I was traveling weekly for work. One trip I found myself returning home having finished the book I brought. Facing a long flight with nothing to read was unacceptable, so I headed to the airport bookstore. At the front there was a display filled with a colorful series of science fiction looking novels. I read the back of the first one and was enthralled with the plot – rapture! How exciting! And there was a whole series to read, so if it was good I could keep reading them for weeks. The first one was okay, but they steadily got worse. I think I made it through the sixth one (there are twelve) before I realized these weren’t just a novel series, but propaganda. I often think of sweet little me in my twenties sitting on my airplanes reading the Left Behind series. It’s amazing I didn’t get picked up by some cult leader and indoctrinated.
Now, with the advent of the internet and social media, I pay attention whenever a rapture event is predicted. It gives me a chance to reconsider what I’d pack in my suitcase, miss my grandma, and marvel at how we used to not have online reviews to know if a book had an ulterior motive. Each new rapture event is unique in its details. Tomorrow’s predicted rapture has me pondering questions I’ve never considered before. For a worldwide rapture, does the gathering of the believers roll across the Earth or does everyone go up at once? People are reporting that New Zealand hasn’t yet experienced rapture, but is it like Santa Claus? Or is there a queue where you get pulled from the most worthy to least, just in case heaven fills up? Also, do pets stay or go? Why will there be piles of clothes? Were my relatives anticipating going up with their heavenly suitcase butt naked? I bet they packed clothes. I would have if I knew that detail. Or maybe yarn and knitting needles in case clothes were prohibited, but raw materials weren’t. There’s a lot to consider.
I’m planning on tomorrow’s rapture being another bust for those hoping to be swooped up to Heaven, but for me, it’s already been a success. My periodic rapture curiosity was exercised and fulfilled. But just in case, I know my grandmother’s heathen granddaughter will still be here tomorrow. If you get called up, drop me a note if you need your stove turned off or your plants watered. I’m assuming you can text me on your way up and will remember to bring your iPhone. Don’t forget a charger, just in case Heaven has plugs!
At the grocery store last week, I paid $14 for a dozen organic free range brown eggs. It was the only carton left. I realize you are busy writing executive orders and antagonizing foreign countries, so I wanted to offer my services as your new United States Egg Czar.
I own six chickens ranging in age from two to six years. Yes, the chickens have names: Shadow, Speckles, Acadia, Sequoia, Delaine, and Keeley. (I know! I thought the same thing. The last two totally sound like they could be your White House press secretary.)
Having been a chicken tender for almost a decade, I am the expert you need.
Let me start by explaining how we arrived at this crisis point. It’s a problem you know well. DEI. In the 1970s, there were no brown eggs. Eggs came in a cardboard carton with 12 perfect white orbs. Today we pay extra for blue and brown eggs. That’s right. Colored eggs cost more. Absolutely offensive. My first act will end egg diversity. Let’s make eggs great again.
Wait, less eggs? Won’t that make the cost of eggs go up even more? No. Because the DEI issue runs deeper than shell color. The shocking truth is that the entire egg production industry is made up of girl chickens. Boy chickens are not included in this important work. Our country was so busy making opportunities for girl chickens under the auspices of equity they forgot about the roosters. We could double our egg generation capacity by stopping this woke practice.
Personally, I can tell you the female chicken problems are insidious. Remember I said I had to pay $14 for eggs, but then I mentioned I have chickens. Shouldn’t my girls be pooping out free eggs? They should. But my lazy hens laid a total of four eggs from Election Day to Inauguration Day.
It’s tempting to blame Shadow and Speckles, because old lady chickens stop producing eggs. But you and I know that the elderly deserve respect, even if they have limitations. My young chickens, Acadia and Sequoia, are the problems. At two years old, they are the equivalent of human teenagers. In November that young fertile duo decided their look was mid and dropped all their feathers. Thinking only of themselves, those selfish fashionistas ran around naked, knowing that chicken bodies can either make eggs or new feathers. This feather shedding even has a repulsive name: molting. No, the problem isn’t limited to my coop. All hens are vain.
Furthermore, experience tells us that hens do not lay eggs unless there is enough light. I hypothesize this is because chicken ladies are weak and afraid. They want to huddle together and gossip, not sit alone in the cold and dark producing food for humans.
Teenage boy chickens wouldn’t care about fashion. They wouldn’t be afraid. They’d strut around in their long shorts and hoodies and do their damn job. Let us start a program to get roosters in the egg production business and show these hens what real egg laying looks like. (Ignore the naysayers whining about biology.)
Ugh. The whining. Seriously, only an idiot wouldn’t see this price spike coming. I would go so far as to say eggs should cost $14 each given the discrimination, aging, molting, and darkness. No. $1400 each, all winter long. Only worthy billionaires should be able to afford luxuries like French toast casserole on Christmas morning. We live in a capitalistic society. This is basic supply and demand.
I know. Americans don’t care about poultry science or economic systems. They want cheap eggs. Too bad. Thankfully we are visionaries with multifaceted plans. We know how to justify expensive things. Tariffs. I don’t exactly understand how tariffs work, but who does? Let’s tariff the heck out of all French sounding foods then rebrand eggs as œufs (French for egg). Then if some “American” wants a meal of fried œufs with a side of brie, poutine, and escargot, bon appétit. It sounds disgusting and will cost them a pretty penny. (Oh, sorry, you got rid of pennies.) It will cost them a quality quarter.
Now for the pièce de resistance. This will all fix itself soon. There is a reason all springtime rituals include eggs. When chickens aren’t being vain and fearful, when their feathers are full and fluffy, and when the sun is shining, eggs flow like manna from chicken butts. It’s true. By Easter and Passover, Americans will have their $2 a dozen eggs. Really. Just yesterday I skipped out to my back yard and collected five eggs from my girls. Like magic, your campaign promise will be delivered.
If anyone mentions the bird flu just ignore them. I’m sure it’s a hoax.
‘Cause there were pages turned with the bridges burned Everything you lose is a step you take So make the friendship bracelets Take the moment and taste it You’ve got no reason to be afraid
You’re on Your Own, Kid – Taylor Swift
The bracelets I received at the Eras Tour
My favorite part of the Taylor Swift Eras concert was trading friendship bracelets. I love interacting with strangers, especially short, positive, meaningful interactions. I constantly embarrass my family by telling the woman at the drive up window, “I love your nails” or asking a random walker, “Your knit hat is adorable, did you make it?”
At first I didn’t completely understand the idea. You’re on Your Own, Kid on the Midnights album made it clear that I should, “make the friendship bracelets,” but to me, a kid from the 1980s, friendship bracelets were those woven things made out of embroidery floss. I could make one or two a week, but that wouldn’t yield many to trade at the concert. Then I figured out that in 2023, people were putting beads on stretchy elastic string to make Eras Tour friendship bracelets. Much easier. I made five, while my daughter started picking album names out of our meager supply of letter beads. My bracelets had no words. I did more research and realized that the words were the point. I was supposed to put album names, song names, and song lyrics into the bracelets and the bracelets were supposed to be colored to match individual album themes. Goodness, there was so much to be learned about the Taylor Swift community.
Armed with all the rules and regulations, I first made bracelets with the title of every album, except one, following a more-or-less album appropriate color scheme. (My goal was to use beads I had, and I don’t like purple or pink, which is a problem in Taylor Swift land and I also didn’t have number beads, so no 1989.) Short album titles like Red and albums without the letter E like Midnights were great, because we didn’t have many E beads. Then I made ones with favorite non-E song titles like Karma and The Man. Then lots of bracelets with favorite song lyrics: “too loud” and “calm down” (from You Need to Calm Down); “be patient” and “power”; “clever” and “kind” (from Marjorie).
The day of the concert I went rogue. My endless reading of the Taylor Swift Eras tour Facebook groups taught me that some fans who didn’t get tickets were getting jobs in security, concessions, and merchandise sales. In a last minute fit of creativity, I made “concessions” and “security” bracelets. I left the house with thirty-five tradeable masterpieces on my arms.
The first bracelet went to a little girl with a “10th Birthday” sash around her shoulder. Her mom parked in the same parking lot we did, and they walked to the stadium in front of us, arms bare of bracelets. As we crossed onto the stadium grounds I placed a rainbow beaded “Eras” bracelet into the birthday girl’s hand, which was cupped in front of her as if she was expecting my gift. I said, “Happy Birthday” as she turned toward us. Her mom, who’d looked like a scary momma bear during the walk broke out in a grin. “Do you want to trade?” she asked and unzipped her fanny pack, which contained a shower ring filled with bracelets. Apparently not everyone kept their bracelets prominently displayed on their wrists, who knew!
In line to enter the stadium I traded my Speak Now bracelet with a single lavender glass flower-painted bead to a teen in a flowing lavender dress from Idaho and gave a Red bracelet to her mom. I overhead the girl raving how my special bead matched her outfit. Another little girl got my rainbow star “Eras” bracelet. She didn’t have any to trade, but her mom was so happy. “She’s five and this is her first big concert.” I explained to the five-year-old that this was my first big concert too. We traded with another mom and daughter who were originally from Chicago but had recently moved to a suburb of Denver and then we bonded over our no-line-cutting rule-following enforcement. When the gates open we lost each other, but for 20 minutes we were all best friends.
A lone older lady security guard at the bottom of the escalator got my “security” bracelet. As we raced to the top level of the stadium we found lineless concessions and happy workers. Our first purchase were two lemonades, and those cups with lemons kept our voices fresh the whole night as we refilled them with water over and over. I asked the woman who took our order if she was a fan and if she wanted a bracelet and she did! I gave her one, since she had none of her own. A few stands down was a girl who looked my daughter’s age, so I asked her if she wanted a bracelet and gave her my “concession” one. She beamed.
Back down to our section and a woman in a lavender suitcoat was issuing commands into a walkie talkie. Without asking, I dropped “The Man” bracelet into her hand and didn’t wait to see her response. I mean, of course she was a fan if she was wearing that jacket, but no need to distract her from her important work.
Bracelet trading began in earnest as more fans arrived, and ebbs and flows of trading groups would gather then disband. There were women that had made hundreds of bracelets, and they all knew a rule I had missed, that acronyms of song lyrics were not just acceptable, but encouraged. While my “be kind be clever” 14-letter bracelet needed some explaining, somehow everyone knew the 9-letter NBSKYFTBC was the opening line to “Marjorie,” used less beads, and didn’t require any precious E beads.
Never be so kind, you forget to be clever
marjorie, by Taylor Swift
My last (and favorite) trading happened when I left mid-concert to get the coveted quarter-zip sweatshirt for my kiddo. I missed two songs, but getting the shirt and extra stranger love made it worthwhile. I stood in line for 15 precious minutes with other fans who wanted a souvenir more than they wanted to hear All too Well (Ten Minute Version). I was outraced to the back of the line by a middle school teacher and her two elementary school teacher friends. I joked that I didn’t mind if they beat me, so long as there were still sweatshirts left. Then a gay couple from Utah joined behind us and we all had a lovely chat about their delicious looking dippin dots. Finally, a tired looking teenage boy called me up to place my order. He brought me my shirt and CD and looked to see if there were any last water bottles rolling around. There were not. As he scanned my purchases into his tablet, I noticed his wrists were empty. Over 2 and a half hours into the concert and he didn’t have a single friendship bracelet. When he told me my total I handed him my card and asked, “Hey, do you want a friendship bracelet?” I’ll never forget the look he gave me. It was like a kid on Christmas morning. The exhaustion fell from him, replaced with radiating delight. When he responded “Yes!” I slid one of my early no-letter bracelets on his wrist. It would look totally normal on a teenage boy, even after the concert.
My last stop was to grab a cold bottle of water for one last lemonade cup refill. I had two of my original bracelets left. A woman in her 60s took my order and wanted a bracelet when I offered. I gave her my second to last one, then got distracted by a teenager jumping up from where the food was being cooked and rushing to the register.
“Did you say friendship bracelets?” the skinny green haired teen asked. “Do you want to trade? It’s been slow since the concert started and I’ve just been sitting back there making bracelets but there’s no one to trade with.” They held up 7 loosely strung bracelets that were too big to be rings, but too small to fit adult wrists, made of giant plastic pony beads. They started explaining their offerings, “This one is for Speak Now, and this one is for Lover, and this one is for all the albums.”
I stopped them and pointed to the colorful bracelet that had a bead for each album, “I’d like that one, but I only have one left to trade.” I held it up – light green with cut glass beads and the words “one dollar”. “It’s a little random,” I explained, “it’s for the lawsuit that Taylor Swift filed in Denver, where she won, but only asked for a single dollar in damages.” The teen understood the message that everyone else had passed over all night. It was a weird Denver specific bracelet with beads that matched their hair. They held out their bracelet to trade for mine.
“This is so cool,” they said, “I love it.”
People who aren’t Taylor Swift fans ask me what was so special about the concert and what’s so special about her music. After 3 plus years of pandemic nonsense, connection feels precious. It’s hard to succinctly describe the feeling of belonging when you can walk up to any of 70,000 strangers, offer a handmade bracelet and not be afraid. This concert brought people together from different generations, income levels, and geographies and gave them a venue for common joy. We interacted with strangers in intimate cathartic bursts and then sang together for three and a half hours. For me, the Eras Tour music put words and a voice to what I’ve lost during Covid and the concert provided a temporary community that felt like family.
It feels like a perfect night For breakfast at midnight To fall in love with strangers Ah-ah, ah-ah
22 by Taylor Swift
Full honesty here. I am not a legitimate Swifty. I haven’t been following Taylor Swift since her debut. In fact, I didn’t even notice when Folklore, Evermore or Taylor’s versions of Fearless and Red came out during the pandemic. But something was different when she released Midnights. What changed? I had a teenage daughter whose casual “listening to Taylor Swift in the car” became a shared obsession.
The Eras tour was announced and we attempted to buy tickets, but I didn’t know all the mysterious incantations — verified fan, Capital One card — needed to purchase entry to the concert. But I did know StubHub and Seat Geek, so once the scalpers bought up most of the tickets, I started a fun hobby of watching ticket prices to see if maybe, just maybe, we could go. I checked the price in other cities to see if it was cheaper to fly somewhere, get a hotel, and see Taylor in Pittsburgh or Minneapolis or Detroit. It was not. Every time I looked the prices went up past reasonable to extravagant to embarrassing.
My fatal flaw was mentioning my ticket searching hobby to my daughter. When her reaction wasn’t “MOM, you are SO lame,” but instead “I’d go to Taylor Swift with you” our fate was sealed and my hobby became a quest. I compared resale sites, contrasted seat locations and venues and finally picked out seats, only to have my credit card reject what was obviously a purchase outside of my normal tendencies. (Okay, I also shouldn’t have tried the transaction after midnight local time – every one of my actions screamed fraud to the banking AI algorithms.)
But after appeasing the credit card overlords, I dropped more money than I will ever admit on two tickets, a few weeks before my daughter’s fifteenth birthday. I reached out to our family and invited everyone to contribute, so the tickets could be from all of us. This was in no way an attempt to offset our extravagant purchase (because again, they cost a humiliating amount of money) but a way to let everyone be a part of what I hoped would be a keystone memory for my daughter.
Her birthday had the potential to be awful. First school then choir practice then basketball practice; she’d be gone from the house from 7:30 a.m. to 9 p.m. The only break was a planned run to the DMV so she could get her driver’s permit. Luckily, she woke up to a family group text with a picture of the tickets. She’s not a screaming hysterical happy person, especially in the morning, but her birthday was saved and her dedication over the next two months to learn every lyric of every song in the set list showed just how much our gift meant.
The anticipation was amazing. We sang. We made friendship bracelets. I joined Facebook groups. I researched logistics. We bought our clear plastic bag for the stadium. We had something big to look forward too. Something big and ridiculous and fun, just her and me, and that wasn’t something we’d had since March of 2020 when COVID hit.
In the midst of the excitement I let worry creep in. What if we got sick? What if traffic was terrible and we couldn’t get to the stadium? Could we take water? Snacks? What shoes should we wear? Should we stand in line at the merch tent for 12 hours the day before the concert to make sure whe got the perfect memorabilia?
In the end, everything went wrong and everything worked out. My husband was going to drive and pick us up, but when we got near the venue there was a lovely middle school parking lot, so we paid the energetic attendant $25 and my husband took an Uber home. My daughter and I queued at our gate and raced into the stadium, but didn’t immediately get in the merch line, so I had to leave during the concert to get her the coveted quarter zip and Midnights CD (sadly my water bottle was sold out.) Our seats were behind the sound tower, so we couldn’t see anything that matchstick sized Taylor did at center stage, but the screen was huge and we saw the show of our lives. The girls next to us crammed 5 girls into 4 seats and they were lovely and sang their hearts out and traded friendship bracelets with us.
And everything was better than we’d dreamed. Our seats were club level, but we had no idea that meant air conditioning, easy access to food and bathrooms, and our own Taylor Swift Eras backdrop for an epic picture. The opening act, Gracie Abrams, is one of my daughter’s favorite and she played more songs than expected. We were in the last row of our section, so no one ruined the night by shouting the lyrics, singing off key, or spilling anything on us. I got to talk to strangers from Idaho, Utah, and New Mexico and trade bracelets with kids, teens, grown-ups, security guards, concession stand workers, and the guy who sold me merch.
There is so much wrong with this story. First, my ridiculously unfair privilege to spend the amount of money I spent to see a concert that I didn’t deserve to see. Facebook groups were filled with people pleading for tickets who have been fans since the beginning and couldn’t afford $700 for scalped obstructed view seats in the fifth level. Second, it’s disgusting how much StubHub, Seat Geek, and brokers made on Taylor Swift’s art and Ticketmaster’s complacent negligence. Finally, it made me sad that the concession workers – every single one I talked to was a Swifty – were in the venue but couldn’t watch the show, but only listen to the echoes of music through the concourse.
But for me there was so much that felt right after years of being afraid that nothing on this scale would ever feel right again. After my run to the merchandise line, during All Too Well (10 minute version), the logistics were finally complete, and I let myself escape into the joy of the night for a few eras. My daughter and I gasped at the heat of the flames that burned during Bad Blood. We cried together when Back to December was one of our surprise songs. I sang my heart out to the self-deprecating lyrics of Anti-Hero, a glorious anthem to the entire night, “It’s me, hi, I’m the problem, it’s me.” As we left the stadium, we experienced a last magical goodbye as a coveted piece of confetti blew off a woman’s cowboy hat onto the ground in front of us. I reached down and captured one last memento of a perfect night.
McSweeney’s Internet Tendency requested submissions that reflected how surreal Thanksgiving will be this year. I submit, but sadly my piece was not accepted. I worked hard on it though, and it’s timely, so I figured I’d stick it up on Afthead for grins. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!
Hold on sweetie. Let mommy light the candles. Go wash your hands, then you can ask the questions.
How is this Thanksgiving different from all other Thanksgivings?
I’m glad you asked, young child. This Thanksgiving is different from all other Thanksgivings in every way imaginable. Our health is being threatened by a virus; our democracy is being endangered by the current fascist-curious administration; racists, bigots and misogynists are swarming out of their bunkers; murder hornets are apparently a thing; and Alex Trebek died (he’s Canadian, but we still were thankful for him and mourn his loss).
Now, you may ask your four questions as this question was a meta-question and does not count against your quota.
Mommy drinks a glass of wine.
On all other Thanksgivings we eat turkey, stuffing, and mashed potatoes. Why on this Thanksgiving do we eat only mashed potatoes?
I’m glad you asked, young child. On all other Thanksgivings, the meal is a communal endeavor. Family members brings their individual talents to each dish’s preparation. Mommy is excellent at making mashed potatoes, so I make mashed potatoes every year. Grandma makes the stuffing and Grandpa sticks that sausage-y goodness into the body cavity of a turkey and bakes it up golden using his magical paper bag trick.
Did you notice Daddy wasn’t mentioned in the “meal preparation talent” list? Yet he thought he could handle the Thanksgiving turkey. But, since he neglected to take the plastic bag of giblets out of the turkey before putting it in the oven, now both the turkey and Mommy’s pathetic attempt at stuffing are ruined. (No, we didn’t notice the bag when we were stuffing the turkey, because putting your hand in there is gross. We didn’t dig around exploring.) What are giblets you ask? Turkey guts. No, that question doesn’t count against your four-question limit.
Mommy drinks a glass of wine
On all other Thanksgivings we eat sweet potatoes with marshmallows. Why on this Thanksgiving are there only marshmallows?
I’m glad you asked, young child. This Thanksgiving, we do not eat sweet potatoes, because they remind us of the unnatural hue of our president. We refuse to even hint at accepting his totalitarian regime by enjoying the sweetness of the orange potato.
We eat marshmallows because of our recent realization that our family enjoys an unhealthy amount of white privilege. The eating of the marshmallows symbolizes the destruction of all squishy white racists – McConnell, Pence, and Graham to name a few. The sickness we feel after eating an entire bag of marshmallows reminds us that too much whiteness is largely responsible for the mess our country is in right now.
Mommy drinks a glass of wine.
On all other Thanksgivings, we don’t have any dips. Why do we have two dips this Thanksgiving?
Did you have to ask, young child? Can you not smell the burnt plastic? Mommy and daddy are not adult enough to pull off a real Thanksgiving. While essential grocery store workers are at the store today, they are getting COVID at a frightening rate, so we don’t want to risk their lives by rushing out and buying another dinner that we would probably ruin anyway. We made do. We are like the fucking pilgrims, with no native Americans to bail us out.
Yes, fucking is a bad word. I’m sorry. But you LOVE French onion and fake cheese dip. Why are you complaining?
Yes, firemen are also essential workers, which is why we didn’t let daddy fry the turkey. No, hon, it wouldn’t have worked better that way, you just would have fried the damn bag of giblets.
Mommy drinks a glass of wine
On all other Thanksgivings we sit upright at the dining room table, surrounded by friends and family. Why on this night are we alone reclining in front of the television?
I’m SO glad you asked, young child. This year it’s just our little family for Thanksgiving, because infecting grandma and grandpa and aunts and uncles and cousins and friends with COVID might ruin our chance to spend future holidays together. Reclining alone in our living room shows our despondence at society’s collective failure to protect each other, and listening to our friends Troy Aikman and Joe Buck commentate the Cowboys game is the closest thing to adult conversation we….
What? Ohmygosh, yes. We want COVID to pass over our family, just like we learned at Zoom Passover this spring. Wow, you were really paying attention. No, sweetie, you don’t need to paint blood on our door. This is a different kind of plague. No, I don’t think there will be any frogs. I’m sorry I know you love frogs. Shhhh. I’m sad and scared too. Here, eat another marshmallow.
Mommy pours a fifth glass of wine.
Is this cup of wine for Elijah? I don’t think Elijah comes to Thanksgiving. Well sure, you can open the door, just in case. Guess what? Question quota is full. Mommy is all done. Let’s have some pie. Yes, I’m sure Elijah likes pie.
There are times when all my roles in life — mother, graduate student, writer, and professional — threaten to draw and quarter me. I’m pulled in different directions and the pain of not doing my best at anything rips me apart. Then there are other times that epiphanies happen, and could only happen, because I see the world from so many angles.
It started with the note home from school. The anticipated but dreaded permission form for my daughter’s puberty class. The coming-of-age embarrassment of all children when they start to stink, have to think about a bra, or experience “nocturnal emissions”. Nocturnal emissions? When did wet dreams get such a fancy name? I reread the note to make sure it meant a boy waking up in sticky sheets. Yep. The note clearly said “nocturnal emissions.” Apparently it’s not just new math these kids are learning, but new puberty too.
That same week, I had to submit my graduate school capstone project proposal. I’m leveraging a work project on alternative fuel corridors to examine how the climate impacts of the World Cup and Olympics could be mitigated by utilizing alternative fuel. It’s a great proposal that hits the sweet spot of a school project for me: something that extends a work project and gets me credit from both school and clients. As I was researching my proposal I found some fascinating journal articles that discussed the importance of delivery timing during mega-events. The goal is to ensure that souvenir and food deliveries don’t impact spectators getting to events, and one of the strategies is to make deliveries at night.
Without warning, my writer brain engaged. I had the perfect proposal topic. If I shifted my focus to the Women’s World Cup happening in France this summer and refocused on the temporal aspects of the study I could title my capstone: Calculating Nocturnal Emissions resulting from the 2019 Women’s World Cup.
Last night, I was lucky enough to sit directly behind the bench at a collegiate hockey game. There I witnessed a job that I do not want: a hockey skate maintainer. Hockey equipment manager? Whatever this guy is doing, I don’t want to do it. One of my phobias is slicing. I hate movies that feature knives or swords. Every hockey game I anticipate the moment when a player’s Achilles, leg, or face will be sliced open by an errant skate. This guy has to pry blades out with a wimpy plastic tool, sharpen them, and then use his bare hand to press them back in wall while pucks and sticks and players fly about. I couldn’t stop watching him, anticipating his hand being cut in two. Gak.
My list of jobs I don’t want now includes:
Hockey skate maintainer
Glass sharpener
Spider wrangler
Please don’t recommend me for any of the above opportunities. Thank you.
Note: Image above used in a real webinar. Transcript below has been adjusted to better align with the image’s message.
Ally: Okay, so there was a question about the potential fueling options in the New York Metro area. Johanna can you do a quick on-the-fly evaluation?
Johanna: Sure! Let me zoom into the region. Remember earlier we showed an analysis indicating that natural gas has some penetration in this area, so I’ll turn on the natural gas layers. As you can see, there are three distinct strategic thrust areas: the areas outlined in blue. Those shafts indicate where we have a deep penetration of natural gas stations — indicated by the blue dots — along an interstate.
Johanna: First consider the shaft from Scranton heading east. There we have an exciting opportunity for double penetration into both New York and New Jersey. Next, while there is only a single station in White Plains, with some attention that shaft could rise and stimulate the upstate New York market. Finally the shaft along the Long Island Expressway has so many stations it almost seems to be ready to explode with potential.
Johanna: This map makes me so excited about the growing opportunities in the New York region. Transforming these shafts into natural gas corridors isn’t going to be easy — in fact it’s going to be hard, very hard. In the end, with a little political and technical stroking, I know our strategic thrusts will climax into a robust natural gas fueling infrastructure in this region.
Ally: Gosh, you’ve got me worked up! I can’t believe how huge this opportunity is. That was a stimulating question and a really deep analysis by Johanna. Thanks! Are there any other regions folks would like to explore?
My new favorite word is benign. Say it with me: benign. It’s a little choppy and doesn’t really flow off the tongue; there may be too many syllables for the length. It wasn’t a word I’d given much thought before last week. In fact, if you’d asked me before that, I would have said I liked the word malignant better. It has a force to it, a weight, and a power that is scary as heck when it might be related to your own body.
Last Friday I was presented with that glorious word, benign. All day I sat by the phone waiting for my biopsy results. Before the biopsy, the mammography center had warned that I might not hear the results until after Christmas, but the surgical center seemed certain that I’d hear on Friday. My husband and I had discussed the uncertainty and decided that if the sample was cancerous we didn’t want to hear until after Christmas. I rationalized that I could fake my way through the holiday not knowing, but would likely ruin everyone’s Christmas if I did know. However, when I discussed my plan with the biopsy nurse practitioner and doctor they looked at me like I was crazy. “I mean, I’ll have questions and I’ll need to know what the plan is if it isn’t benign.” I told them. They assured me that there would be a plan – nay a whole team ready – if the sample was not benign so I capitulated and agreed that they could call, which seemed to satisfy their need for procedure and protocol. (“Not benign” is such a stupid euphemism.)
My arms were deep in the sink, soaking my brother’s Christmas scarf for blocking when my daughter ran in, “Mom, your phone is ringing.” I dripped while sprinting into the study and grabbed my phone. Better to ruin my phone with soggy hands then miss this call. They were going to tell me if the turtle ripped from my body was a good turtle or an evil turtle.
There is no situation that is beyond the absurd in my life. While I was laying face down on a surgical table, my clamped and bleeding boob protruding through a hole, the doctor put up the image of the sample taken from my flesh. It looked exactly like a turtle with a bulbous middle, a head, and four smaller blob appendages. Of course, I shared my interpretation of this image with my medical team. Appeasing me, they pointed out the lighter squiggles on one turtle foot. That was the sample they wanted. The worrying parts of the turtle were now outside of me ready to be analyzed and tested.
The call had no preamble before the nurse practitioner – the one who convinced me that I wanted to talk to her no matter what she was going to tell me – said, “I have good news for you. Your sample is benign.”
That moment is clear in my head. As unclear as the medical guidance given to me by my doctor during the biopsy procedure. He was very kind, but the nurse assigned to me seemed hellbent to ensure any medical information provided was covered up by cheery banter. She entered with the doctor and was “there for me” in some role perfectly clear to her. At the moment the biopsy was about to happen the doctor said, “I’m going to take the sample now. You might feel…” but whatever I might have felt was drowned out by the nurse screaming in my face, “WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE CHRISTMAS COOKIE?” I still don’t know what I was supposed to feel, but Nurse Rose knows I like sugar cookies the best. Her question wasn’t a total non sequitur. She’d drowned out the anesthetic information by asking me my plans for the day, which involved making Christmas cookies.
Sure, maybe making Christmas cookies they day you get a biopsy might seem a little strange, but that’s what happens when you get an irregular mammogram less than two weeks before Christmas. My brother’s scarf was carried with me from waiting room to procedure room to waiting room the day of the biopsy, because I had knitting to finish before the holiday. My potential cancer worries were all wrapped up with holiday concerns – pun intended.
The decision to have the mammogram right before Christmas was an odd one for me. In a flash of uncharacteristic optimism I took the appointment offered because, after my first irregular mammogram in June, my doctor and I looked at the films together. She’d assured me that the worrying spots had been on my mammogram in 2015, disappeared in 2016 and were back in 2017. She said it was probably nothing, but cautioned me that I needed to go every 6 months, just in case.
At the time, the mammogram didn’t seem like it was “just in case,” but in hindsight the lady doing my mammogram got less and less chatty as she took more and more pictures. Since this was my first followup appointment, I just figured she didn’t find my demeanor charming. Or maybe she was also unsure how she was going to get everything done before Christmas. When she asked me to sit in the waiting room I didn’t wonder, but when she asked me to come back into the bowels of the mammography center I got concerned. She led me into a dimly lit room with faux leather chairs around a small conference table and I panicked. The room looked exactly like the special room my vet has for euthanasia appointments. When the radiologist arrived and didn’t bring me a warm blanket and a cocktail of life-ending drugs it was a relief, until he suggested a biopsy.
The warm blanket came right before they strapped my legs to the biopsy table and raised me into the air on the worst amusement park ride ever. Nurse Rose did not find my amusement park ride jokes funny as the table made herkey jerks and my boob was smashed and smushed and poked. I feel like being “there for me” should have involved laughing at my jokes.
The benign call ended awkwardly. When asked if I had any questions I mentioned that I thought the incision was bleeding more than it should. The nurse practitioner seemed taken aback, like the invitation for questions was rhetorical. I was supposed to just hang up in a blaze of relief and joy. When I told her that the bloody spot under my bandage was much bigger than a dime or nickel she said, “Well, if it’s still a problem on Tuesday give us a call” then said goodbye. My Christmas cancer worry was replaced by a smaller bleeding-out worry. Nothing I couldn’t fake my way through, but enough to make me drift off to sleep with images of bloody wounds dancing in my head. (Spoiler alert, I haven’t bled out yet.)
When people ask me what I got for Christmas this year I go blank. I got benign, but almost everyone doesn’t know I had a biopsy. A few friends and family members along with an astute coworker who caught me at a bad time know, but I didn’t tell anyone else. When was the right time? During the band concert? The school holiday party? During our work calendar exchange? At my friend’s dad’s funeral? Had the ending been different I would have had to tell, but now I’m just awkwardly hugging on one side and randomly asking people to carry heavy things for me.
Along with my constant appreciation of the absurd are my rose colored glasses. Even after my Magic 8 Ball told me I didn’t have cancer (this was before the actual diagnosis) I couldn’t help planning for the worst. The silver lining of the cancer scare was my evaluation of the things I was afraid of losing: my family, my friends, my book, my stories and – surprising to me – my Master’s degree. In the week between mammogram and biopsy I planned how to transition my work role to others, write my book at chemo so my mom could read it, and make countless videos and knit objects for my kid to remember me by. (Because a box of hand-knits is almost the same as having a mom, right?) I also hoped I would feel well enough during treatment to go to school. It’s interesting the things that rise to important when you are considering th….
“WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE CHRISTMAS COOKIE?!?!?!”
Now when things start to get serious around here, you’ll understand why I’m screaming cookie gibberish. My surgical pamphlet tells me that one in eight women develop breast cancer and four in five biopsies like mine end up benign. That means many women are having these procedures and it’s all okay, but for each four of me, one other woman is dealing with all the fears I had the past two weeks. If you find yourself in this same uncomfortable situation, my hope is that your turtles turn out benign and your warm blankets just make your uncomfortable amusement park ride a little bit more pleasant.
The Afthead family has a secret, and as a family of scientists and engineers you need know know we are a trustworthy source of this information. Toothpaste is magically regenerating. If you squeeze the tube hard enough each toothpaste molecules will split and create two toothpaste molecules. Do this enough and you will never run out of toothpaste. You can only really get enough force out of the squeeze when the toothpaste is almost empty, and, of course, even if you did squeeze the tube hard enough when it’s full you are just going to end up with toothpaste all over. But when you get to the end just keep squeezing. If you don’t you will be shamed and labeled a heretic for not believing in the magical toothpaste properties.
(I did not throw this tube away, but Mr. Afthead did. I’m so disappointed in him.)
Afthead 