Category Archives: Under 750

A Modest Proposal for the Preservation of Civilization by Means of Group Chats

Humor, Ink Spatterings, Under 750, , ,

Encompassing but not limited to text chains, Messenger threads, WhatsApp dramas, Facebook comment kerfuffles, and similar circles of digital grievance.

It is a melancholy object, to those who dare attempt discourse, when they find conversations derailed by nuance, muddied with civility, or — ye gods! — conducted in person. Face-to-face conversations are notoriously unreliable, as they often involve people saying things that sound suspiciously like what they mean.

In this smoldering age, politicians argue, institutions creak, and somewhere, someone is inventing a new kind of paperwork.

I think it is agreed by all sensible parties (and at least three committees who have been trying to adjourn since 2006) that the sheer multiplicity of human communication is a public menace. Who amongst us has not endured the inefficiency of speech, the peril of eye contact, or the muppety flapping of arms to emphasize a point? No politician, pundit, or professor can preserve us.

Therefore, I modestly propose (usually preferable to immodestly proposing) that the group chat be the model and indeed the mechanism by which all of society is preserved. All communication, be it domestic, political, or sextual, should be confined henceforth to group texts, Facebook comment threads, and other online bitching arenas. All comments can be observed, recorded, and weaponized as needed. I propose these places not because they’re good, but because they’re reliably bad, which these days is the closest thing we have to safe.

We have already seen its power. A PTA chat of fifteen mothers and one father who replies “sounds good” can coordinate massive amounts of allergen-free snacks with more efficiency than the Pentagon deploys aircraft. A college roommate chat can process four marriages, two divorces, and one regrettable tattoo with fewer delays than family court. A midnight “you up?” has sparked (and derailed) more talks than Geneva.

By my best calculations, a group text of six to thirty-seven people, on a topic of no importance or clarity, can continue for weeks without resolution yet with feigned enthusiasm, thus bonding the community like poorly-set epoxy. Likewise, a Facebook thread can be expected to produce on average 142 comments: 118 bad-faith accusations, 17 GIFs, and 7 people sincerely attempting to help. They will be ignored. Surely these numbers demonstrate the efficiency of the system. Surely, also they demonstrate the futility of resistance.

Also, I posit with the mathematical certainty of one who regularly zoned out in algebra class, that for every one thousand “k” reactions, at least five international conflicts may be prevented. Gross domestic happiness would increase by twelve percent.

Of course, rules must be clear: no muting, no leaving, no sneaking off to Buffalo Wild Wings for in-person jibber jabber. Every meme circulated thrice shall acquire the force of law.

Should anyone run afoul of these rules, the penalty shall be immediate banishment to an uncomfortably governmental Signal chat.

Some will cry out that this proposal reduces sincerity, nuance, and basic human decency. To which I reply with all possible graciousness: obviously. Have you met people? And have we not already reduced all discourse to bloviating, grievances, and emojis? I merely propose a proper filing system.

Others may object in favor of email, to which I say: That way lies madness. Group texts are the last good ship on the sea, and if we are to survive, we had better climb aboard. (Also, just admit it: your Gmail is a Mausoleum of the Unread.)

A third objection may be raised, that conversation face-to-face is preferable. This, in theory, I cannot deny; yet in practice, it has already ruined civilization, whereas the group text has not yet had the opportunity.

I profess sincerely that I have no personal stake in this. I have been ejected from three group chats, ignored in countless threads, and endured the indignity of someone attempting to mute me in person with a TV remote. My only motive is the preservation of civilization by its last remaining instrument: the perpetual ding of notification

You Must Be Fun at Parties

Creative non-fiction, Humor, Inspiration, Life and Other Existential Problems, Under 750, , , , ,

Notes from the Coat Closet

“You must be fun at parties” is usually shorthand for “you seem like someone who would scold a balloon, and I don’t enjoy you.” For me, it’s an oddly specific field note.

It’s been seven hours and fifteen decades since I last socialized with any regularity.

I once was, if not the life of the party, the CPR dummy of it: dragged out, asked if I’m okay, inflated briefly, then shoved back in a suitcase until needed again.

Socializing is a muscle, and mine is atrophied because I’ve been on the couch since 2010. Still, I now RSVP to invites aspirationally. I picture Q-and-As sparkling, snacks excellent, and my hair behaving.

In reality, I’m the guest eating chips and dip in a coat closet.

Walk through an event with me. Or near me. Or, better yet, around me:

I prep, of course.

Step one: test-drive some jokes. I am a dancing bear. Dancing bears must dance.

Step two: polish up an elevator pitch about my latest project, which could be the Not-Great American Novel, a nervous breakdown, or cupcakes.

Step three: get dressed (multiple times). Telling me the dress code is casual isn’t helping. Neither is tacking on a word to it. Business casual? You might as well say formal casual, tractor casual, or funeral casual. I choose an outfit fit for the launch of a 1974 space capsule.

My husband is thoroughly briefed: if my grin goes stiff or I start scanning for trap doors, swoop in. When we arrive at the event, he beelines toward a group earnestly debating the finer points of mulch. I, on the other hand, walk into a coat rack while I scan for friendly faces.

There are fifteen people gathered in polite clusters. Ten hold drinks. Four are deep in conversation. One considers the cheese platter.

Conversation zigzags like it has somewhere to be and no idea how to get there. Everyone is nodding, so I nod too. I can’t be the only weirdo not co-signing. Yes, the municipal composting program is complicated. Yes, Pilates is the only thing keeping Marcy sane. Yes, there’s an alarming shortage of teaspoons. I may have agreed to join a militia. I’m uncertain because I am now also considering the cheese platter, mesmerized by a sexy Kaukauna.

It is during these fun, funny, and utterly disjointed conversations the true language of the night is spoken: couples’ signals. A raised eyebrow means rescue me. A discreet wrist tap is don’t tell that story. A quick mime of wiping teeth translates to spinach. A pointed look says oh no, Backsplash Guy is here. It’s a whole conversation under the conversation. I love it.

Then it happens. No one talks for seven full seconds.

BEHOLD! I am the Once and Future Resuscitation Jackie! I’VE GOT THIS!

I mine for stories, giggle at punchlines, toss out “interesting, tell me more” like so many Mardi Gras beads. Folks oblige and share things about how they feel about their HOA (a cabal!), Trader Joe’s (went for the Steamed Pork & Ginger Soup Dumplings, almost got killed in the parking lot!), and one neighbor who lost a finger to a salad spinner (Legend!). It’s great.

If I ask too many questions, I’ll be less talk show and more Law and Order: Social Victims Unit. No one wants to feel like they’re about to be cuffed and read their rights in front of the canapés. So, I watch for any quick eyerolls that say, Help, I’m trapped with this sentient game of 20 Questions wearing a zip-front A-line number.

Meanwhile, my thrives-at-parties husband floats by like a genial sea creature to refresh his drink. I blink in Morse code that I’m running out of questions about bird bath maintenance. I think he’s going to tap in! He does not.

So I persist, though out of steam.

Midway through a discussion about vacation rentals, my strapless bra, believing it was meant for greater things, heads south with dreams of becoming a belt. I do what anyone would do: try to harness it by squeezing my arms to my side, smile like nothing’s wrong, finish my drink, and plot my escape.

Bra somewhere around my thighs, I waddle into the coat closet for an adjustment and some crackers and dip I’ve strategically placed in my pockets for just such an emergency.

Socializing remains an extreme sport for which I am wildly unfit. Will I do it again? Absolutely. Bring on the Kaukauna.

Strange Geese, Space Force’s Lost and Found, and Good ol’ Whatshisname

Creative non-fiction, Humor, Month in Review, Parenting, Surviving Summer Funtimes, Under 750, Writing, , , ,

…Or I Could’ve Just Taken the Week Off

A few weeks ago, I picked up my daughter from sports practice at a neighboring town’s park, which is very much like our town’s park, except with different geese. This is a public park, which means the public is allowed in. That is the problem with public parks.

I had to intervene when a pack tween twerps cheered on as one kid had another kid in a headlock. The second boy’s face was red, his eyes were streaming, and he was silent, which, if you know children, is a sure sign that something isn’t fun. Oh, hello, Trouble. There you are.

It was an easy read.

My “Hey!” stopped almost all of them.

One prepubescent Cobra Kai decided to test his standing with the gods and said to me, “Bro, this is none of your business.”

“Bro” is apparently a word that activates me like some sort of verbose sleeper agent. You can imagine how things went for all of them after that.

It was over quickly, but the kid in the headlock had enough time to walk away, which was really the main thing here.

No tween twerps were harmed in this interaction.

Joke’s on me, though (when isn’t it?) because little did I know that August was warming up in the corner, waiting to see if it could take my household two falls out of three.

All of that was once a Facebook post I left up for an hour before deleting, presumably to protect national security or because I pressed the wrong button. I tried to find it later (deleted posts, archived posts, etc.) but couldn’t. Alas, it’s gone, filed somewhere in the Cloud, or the shelf in Space Force’s Lost and Found where they store embarrassing mom anecdotes. I recreated it here, with slightly more effort than the 0.2 seconds I give most Facebook posts.

I had planned a proper post this week as I’ve been trying to post weekly, but then everyone in the house got sick. Like really sick, where after a few days you think you’re okay-ish then you lie down and wake up 5 hours later feeling groggy and not much better, if not a little worse.

Then I got sick. Which was technically covered under “everyone,” but I tend to assume “everyone” means “everyone else.” I usually avoid household contagion, possibly because I move through life in the equivalent of John Travolta’s bubble in that film. Except my bubble is made of grumpiness.

Here’s how I’m doing: for 5 minutes just now, I was trying to remember that actor’s name. Couldn’t retrieve “John Travolta” but pulled up “Vinnie Babarino” like a coin from behind your ear. I had to Google “Who played Vinnie Barbarino?” to complete a joke that, in retrospect, did not warrant the effort.

Everything’s fine.

Now we’re digging out, staggering toward the end of summer with what feels like 100% potential energy, in the physics sense, like we’re all little balls in a slingshot (Google Search: “What is that v-shaped thing made with sticks you pull back and shoot a ball out of?”)

Big Moves are on my to-do list, meaning working on building community and also giving myself ample space and big chunks of time to work on my novel.

I am mildly loath to get back to it all — the hustle and/or the bustle — because “big chunks of time to work on my writing” is an idea the universe finds particularly hilarious.

Also, can one be mildly loath? MAYBE. You know who could probably pull off being “mildly loath?” John Travolta, but only in his role in Pulp Fiction (Google Search: “What was that movie where the dude who played Vinnie Barbarino played a gangster” — which, incidentally, first pulled up Gotti, and that dude was not mildly anything.)

*EXTREME CARRIE BRADSHAW VOICEOVER* And just like that, this August was much like that tween headlock situation: too hot, too loud, the geese are unfamiliar, somebody’s turning red, and the only thing you can do is yell ‘Hey!’ and hope everyone walks away in one piece with a modicum of dignity.

Bro.

Hopefully, a new piece next week.

Anyway, please accept this in lieu of structural integrity this week: