If, like me, you have found yourself flailing, the last 2-3 years in particular, for ways to do something, ANYTHING, that might counteract some tiny measure of social harm with social good, then I will pass along this situation I saw on Twitter from @ChicagoLeah:

For the first tweet, I linked to the tweet itself so you can go directly to the thread on Twitter if you want to; for the second two, I linked to the Amazon wishlist in question.

I found this one especially satisfying because I am now 2 for 2 with college-bound children who are not interested in getting all excited about which bedding sets and which color towels. (I have high hopes for four years from now when getting Elizabeth ready.) Choosing from this wishlist gratified my shopping/choosing/decorating desires without having to involve an eye-rolling child. Plus, I got to choose what MY choice would be, which was fun.

If you want to do this too, make sure you choose the Jill Franklin address when you check out: my Amazon checkout process has been all wonky recently, and while it used to default to the wishlist address, this time it defaulted to mine and I had to specifically choose the one for the wishlist. It would be such a pain to get a bedding set delivered to your own house and then have to figure out what to do next.

While I have you here, let me tell you about a Facebook problem I am having, and maybe you have had to solve this and know how to do it. I have my regular personal Facebook account, but I also have one for Swistle Thistle; I use the Swistle Thistle one mostly so that people can get new posts in their Facebook feed if that’s how they like to follow blogs (we’ve all been adrift since the disappearance of Google Reader). I pretty much never go there or interact there or use it for anything else.

Anyway, apparently it had been too long a time since I paid a visit to that account, and I got locked out. Facebook wants me to confirm my identity before it’ll let me back in, and clearly I should have set up one of those “have a friend verify you” situations, but I DIDN’T, OKAY, FINE, I PROMISE TO DO IT IF I EVER GET BACK IN, and now the only other way is for Facebook to show me photos of my Swistle Thistle friends and I identify them by name. But…like, this is set up as a page account or whatever they call it, and people “like” the page rather than “friending” and so it accepts all follows whether I know the people or not, and in many cases I know people as their online identities and not by their actual names. So I failed the test a couple of times and then it wouldn’t let me take it anymore. There’s no workaround that I can see: no “Hey, actually this is a page account and so of course I don’t know the names of everyone following the account, but that doesn’t mean I’m a scammer.”

Oh, they also say I can fix this by posting a photo of myself?? But how on earth would that confirm my identity, and is there any answer that isn’t disturbing?

I realize this is not a common problem. But if you HAPPEN to know how to get around this, I would so appreciate it. Right now anything I post to the blog won’t show up on the Facebook feed.

Because of having a lot of kids, I meet a lot of other moms. Many of them I recognize from years of seeing them in passing at events but I don’t know why specifically they’re familiar to me: were our eldests in preschool together? maybe her kid was in track with my kid? maybe our kids are in band together? maybe we both just have kids in the school system so we see each other around. Sometimes it gradually happens that we get to know each other: we happen to sit near each other at an event and we chat a little, and then later that year we’re standing in line next to each other and we chat a little more, and then finally I know whose mom that is and how we know each other, and if I LIKE her that’s when I come to the big decision, and that’s whether or not to send a Facebook friend request.

I put up a poll yesterday because I was wondering which of two particular kinds of anxiety people have in similar situations. (I know there could be lots of other kinds involved, but these were the specific two I was wondering about.) The poll isn’t over yet, but here’s how it looks right now; I’ll try to remember to update this screenshot when the poll ends:

Edited to add: Here is the final result, which is almost exactly the same:

I was wondering if most people, when they send a Facebook friend request to a casual acquaintance, feel more anxiety about being REJECTED, or about being accepted but the other person didn’t really want to. Like, when you send the friend-request, which outcome makes you feel more stressed to think about: the other person doesn’t accept your friend-request? or the other person DOES accept it, but with a groan because they felt obligated to do so?

I know we can’t know what the other person is thinking/feeling. Like, we don’t know if they didn’t accept the friend-request because they’re never on Facebook, or because they only use Facebook for close friends/family, or because they didn’t see the request for some reason, or because they don’t know our name and our profile photo is of our cat or some flowers so they didn’t recognize us, or what; and we don’t know if someone who DOES accept the friend-request did so with joy, with a groan, or with the same mild “maybe it would be nice to know each other better” feeling in which it was sent. And I’m not saying any of this is anything we OUGHT to worry about: we can make our own decisions and let the other person make theirs, nothing ventured nothing gained, this could be considered a small-potatoes kind of situation, they can just mute us if they don’t want to see us in their feed, we are adults and this doesn’t have to be a big deal, maybe none of us should be on Facebook anymore anyway, etc. So all I’m asking is what YOU FEEL when you send the request: if you’re nervous, what is it that makes you nervous?

(If you’re NOT nervous, super! I know it can be tempting at times like these to express incredulity at the perceived silliness of other people’s feelings, which would only make the anxious people feel worse and so I value your restraint.)

My own anxiety is that the other person will have a heart-sink feeling when they see my request, but that they will accept it anyway because they feel too stressed about saying no, knowing they’ll continue to run into me, with me knowing they didn’t accept. I can talk myself through it enough to send the request anyway, but I do still wince. I don’t worry much that my request will be rejected.

But currently the poll shows there are more people whose main anxiety is that their request will be rejected. This is very interesting to me, and I’m thinking about it a lot: what is the difference between people with one anxiety and people with the other anxiety?

I wondered if it might be tied to the way each person feels when they get a friend-request from someone they don’t want to be friends with: that is, maybe people who accept friend-requests they don’t want to accept would also be the people who worry that their own request will be unwanted and accepted, while people who reject would be the ones who worry about being rejected. But I tend to reject unwanted friend-requests, and yet my anxiety is about being unwanted-but-accepted, so that doesn’t line up.

Well, or maybe it does: maybe the actual anxiety for those who worry about causing pressure is that other people might not have the same accept/reject system we have: lots of anxieties come from a fear of miscommunication, and this seems like it could tie into that. Maybe this poll represents a choice between “fear of rejection” and “fear of miscommunication”? But I’d say there’s more to it than that; I’m just not sure WHAT more there is to it.

What do you think? Which anxiety better describes you, and what do you think makes the difference between which people feel which of the two kinds?

William told me yesterday afternoon that he was supposed to wear “business casual” for a senior event that evening. He does not own anything that is not jeans or a t-shirt. I was somewhat sympathetic, because he seemed pretty anxious about it and I can identify with pre-event clothing anxiety, but on the other hand it seemed unlikely that he had only just been given that information that same day.

Still, I had to take Henry for his weekly allergy shot, and that route takes me right past a Goodwill, and frankly there are few things I find as thrilling as a sudden Clothing Emergency of this sort (I still think with fond thrill of when Elizabeth, age approximately 3, got carsick on the way to Target and I “had to” buy her replacement clothing), so I stopped to see if they had any polos or buttondowns. I found several shirts that looked nice and were also cheap, so I bought them. (One of the nice things about having so many kids is that even if he didn’t like any/all of the shirts, it’s likely SOMEONE will get use out of them.) One of the shirts was pink: he’d mentioned that “someone at school” had told him he looked good in pink, and I love when guys wear pink (while also looking forward to a day when guys wearing pink is no more remarkable than guys wearing blue or grey or white). And he did choose the pink one, and he did look nice in it.

Why was I telling you this rather dull story? Oh, I remember! It is because as I was checking out, the clerk asked if I qualified for the senior citizen discount. This is the first time this has happened to me, and it is not a milestone I savored.

I have heard of senior citizens who won’t ask for the discount because they don’t want to admit they’re that age, and I am not that kind of vain: I will be piping right up and asking for it. But that is so far in my future I have not even started WONDERING about it yet, so it is not pleasing to have someone volunteering the information that I look like I could qualify NOW. It was a little tempting to say yes and take the discount as compensation for my injured feelings.

Coincidentally, my friend Meredith ALSO got asked this question yesterday; she too is many, many years from even the lowest most-generous edge of qualifying. As she put it: “It isn’t like carding for alcohol where you ask almost regardless of age to be on the safe side. In fact MAYBE DO NOT EVER ASK.” SERIOUSLY. If I get carded when I am clearly over the age of 21, the worst thing that happens is that I feel foolishly flattered and later try to work the incident casually into conversation. Getting senior-citizen carded is NOT THAT SAME KIND OF THING.

While I have you here, I will finish the story about the shirts. William’s favorite of the shirts I bought was a pale aqua color, and I noticed only after he tried it on that it had giant bleach splatters up the back. This is one reason that even though Goodwill says they want ALL clothes donated (because they can make scrap/rag bags out of the ones that aren’t good), I generally throw away ruined clothes: my own repeated shopping experience suggests Goodwill must only scrap/rag the items that don’t sell, rather than sorting out the ruined stuff before putting it out on the racks. I know it’s my own responsibility to check each item of clothing carefully before I buy it, but for whatever reason I don’t always think to do it, and so I have sighed over quite a few broken zippers, missing novelty buttons, holes, and now bleach splatters. It’s no big deal: I can just consider it a small donation to Goodwill. But there are a lot of people it WOULD be a big deal to, and I don’t want them despairing over money wasted on my broken zippers and missing novelty buttons and bleach spots.

And so I was about to put the bleach-splashed shirt in the trash, but then William jokingly suggested we could Pinterest it up by adding additional artsy splatters (he was teasing me for this shirt), and I declined this idea but it reminded me of ANOTHER shirt I had long ago that got splattered with bleach, and I just bleached the rest of it and had a nice white shirt (which, yes, got holes in it pretty quickly, but I got maybe a half-dozen wearings out of it before that happened). There was nothing to lose, and so I bleached the aqua shirt, and all the aqua came out quickly and easily, and now it is a nice white shirt for the next time someone in this house needs Business Casual.

Recently we had two situations where something patriotic happened and I went with what I thought was the right response, but then felt very uncertain and worried I’d looked silly. So I did what I mean to do EVERY year, and I LOOKED IT UP. Not that I will necessarily remember those answers for the future.

First situation: school band played the national anthem before a concert. My response: stand up, hand over heart, sing along to the parts I remember. Part I was uncertain about: hand over heart. Everyone who was able to do so stood up, which made that part easy, but a lot of people WEREN’T doing hand-over-heart and I was worried I was overdoing it and/or looking foolish; I wondered if maybe hand-over-heart was just for the pledge and I was mis-applying it.

Second situation: Memorial Day parade, flag was carried past. My response: stand up, hand over heart, hiss at the children and Paul to stand up. Part I was uncertain about: all of that. Also, there were multiple flags scattered throughout the parade: did I need to stand for all of them? keep hand over heart for all of them? I started feeling silly. We were in a sparsely-populated part of the parade route, which made it harder to look to others for cues, but a few people nearby were sitting in lawn chairs and didn’t stand, and others were already standing anyway and didn’t do hand-over-heart, so I felt conspicuous and wondered if I was overdoing it.

My source for information, when I looked it up: Emily Post: Flag Etiquette. (I prefer Judith Martin / Miss Manners, but I had a harder time finding a good online source for her views on flag etiquette, and I wanted something I could link to.)

The conclusion, based on that source: I was not wrong. For the national anthem, civilian citizens are supposed to stand if able to do so, face the flag, and put hand over heart: hand-over-heart is the civilian equivalent of the military salute, which is something I didn’t know. If you’re, say, volunteering at an elementary school, and they start the pledge over the intercom, you’re supposed to face the nearest flag (or the intercom, if no flag is visible), stand up if able to do so, and put your hand over your heart. You don’t have to pledge/sing, you only have to stay quiet if you’re not pledging/singing; you MAY pledge/sing if you’d like to.

For a passing flag in a parade, citizens are supposed to stand, face the flag, and salute (military- or civilian-style as applicable). According to the VFW Auxiliary, this only needs to be done for the FIRST flag of the parade, and not for every single flag scattered throughout the parade, and not for little hand-held flags that people are waving for fun as opposed to carrying ceremonially. That makes sense to me; otherwise, a person would have to remain standing and saluting throughout the entire parade, and that cuts into the cheering/clapping time.

On my recent road trip, I was switching through radio stations as usual (even if you find a good one, you soon lose it to geography), and came upon a station that was doing a show at that moment with two female DJs and no male DJs, and it was a shock to my ears. I am well familiar with the one-female-one-male-DJ format. I am well familiar with the two-or-more-male-DJs format. I am well familiar with groupings of one or two male DJs plus one or two female DJs, or one single DJ doing their own particular radio program. But I don’t remember EVER turning to a radio station that was doing a show with (1) more than one DJ and ALSO (2) none men.

I wish I’d found out what station it was, but I lost it before they said who they were. It sounded very indie. I wonder if it was some local/independent/college station? It demonstrated so clearly yet another way that we think of men as the default and women as the optional add-ons, and don’t even notice it’s like that until it’s done a different way and seems shocking. I never notice it when there are two male DJs; it just seems normal. But hearing two female DJs talking to each other was STARTLING.

To dramatically change the subject: I have been giving the kids small side-dish smoothies sometimes with dinner, as a good way of getting a better variety of fruits and vegetables into picky eaters. I have been buying small $3 packages of fresh spinach leaves to add to these smoothies but then, because I only make smoothies a couple of times per week, and sometimes there is an unfortunate gap between grocery shopping day and the next batch, I often end up throwing away a painful percentage of each bag. I was buying frozen broccoli at the grocery store this morning (not for smoothies) and my eyes fell upon FROZEN SPINACH. I HAD FORGOTTEN ALL ABOUT FROZEN SPINACH. I have been buying frozen fruits, but I forgot I could also buy frozen spinach! I don’t want frozen spinach for, like, SALADS, but it’s PERFECT for smoothies!! …Or so I hope; I haven’t actually tried it yet. But I feel so sure it will be!

I have the uneasy feeling that there was something I was supposed to do this morning. I’m hoping it is just the lingering memory that I need to order Paul some new shoes, because I already did that. I also ordered these for myself:

(image from Converse.com)

I almost didn’t, because I balked at the price even on sale, so when I opened the order confirmation later there was a little moment where I couldn’t remember which way I’d gone on that decision, and then I saw them in the email and my heart leapt up with happiness.

Last night I was folding laundry and making a mental note that Paul needed new shoes and that I should order some in the morning, and I thought for a little while about the life Paul lives. Like, I’m not commenting on whether or not it’s fair, or claiming that it doesn’t fall within agreed-upon labor divisions, or saying that I would be powerless to change it, or saying that he couldn’t come up with similar thoughts about the way I live—but still I wonder, what must it be like to NEVER THINK ABOUT YOUR SOCKS? Like, not only do clean ones appear without you taking any action, but OLD ones disappear and NEW ones appear without you taking any action. You might notice the supply getting a little old/holey, or sometimes it might dwindle to the point where you start to get a little nervous about having enough socks for the week, but you never actually run out and you don’t even have to think about what brand you wear and whether or not it’s on sale or whether any particular sock is ready to be thrown out. WHAT WOULD THAT BE LIKE.

What must it be like to never think about scheduling appointments for the pediatrician, the dentist, the orthodontist, the eye doctor, the various specialists for Crohn’s disease and scoliosis and wisdom teeth and allergies? What must it be like to see the insurance rejections come in with exasperating regularity (“This time we’re claiming we didn’t get the referral, so you get to make that whole batch of phone calls all over again!”), but YOUR only part of the suffering is having to listen to someone talk about how frustrating it is to deal with them? What is it like to be able to confidently go to work without ever worrying about the impact of the children’s schedules or illnesses? What’s it like to be able to schedule a trip without having to make any arrangements for your absence at home?

What do you suppose it’s like to take off your work shirt, onto which you have spilled Crystal Light, and just drop it into the laundry, knowing it will appear back in your closet stain-free but without giving any thought to the process of noticing the stain, treating the stain, buttoning down the pocket flaps because otherwise they get crinkly during laundering, putting it in the washer with another kind of stain remover and also maybe using the soak cycle, remembering to check to make sure the stain is out before putting it in the dryer, re-treating the stain, re-washing, re-checking, drying, remembering to take it out promptly so it doesn’t wrinkle, hanging it up? What is it LIKE to live that way, I wonder, perhaps just sighing a little because you find your pocket flaps buttoned and you wanted them unbuttoned? I think it must be like being very, very rich.

I am back from taking Rob back to college for his summer job, which gave me the worst case of Sunday Afternoon Syndrome ever: not only was it Sunday afternoon, but it was Sunday afternoon and my very-looked-forward-to overnight trip was over. Plus I was tired and cranky from driving the last hour-and-a-half in some inexplicable traffic with the sun at a glaring angle.

Plus I may have hit a squirrel. I’d slowed down to avoid hitting it, even though I know you’re not supposed to do that but there was no one close behind me, and then the little idiot doubled back and ran right under my car. There was a little bonking sound of something hitting the underside of the car; the sound was soft enough for hope but not for denial. When I looked in the rearview mirror, I didn’t see the squirrel in the road or anywhere else. If you know of any possibility that the squirrel stuck to the underside of my car, I don’t want to hear about it.

Well, but aside from those things, it was a great trip. I’d had various frets, such as that his housing wouldn’t actually be available when we arrived, or that it would turn out he was supposed to have submitted a form and now it was too late, but those frets all came to naught. I helped carry in his stuff and then I was free. I did a little shopping, checked into my motel, and then went back out to have dinner. While I was eating, Rob texted me that he’d forgotten to bring his sheets. So I went back and picked him up and we went to Target and bought some. And oh yeah he needed shampoo. And body wash. And floss. And he was low on toothpaste.

I wondered if perhaps he is using mind-altering substances these days, because I asked him about all these things before we left home, TWICE. First, a few days before we left, as I was heading out to Target, I asked if he needed anything like that, and he said he didn’t; second, on the morning we left, I had the storage cabinet open, and I said “Oh, how are you on shampoo and deodorant and stuff?,” and he said he was all set. I remember reading an article long ago about how bad it is for people psychologically to screw around with their sleep schedules, so let’s hope that’s all it is.

I dropped him back off at school, and went to my motel room and changed into pajamas and re-watched Bridesmaids. It is really, really not my type of movie (I don’t like gross-out humor, horrifying-awkward-situation humor, or raunch), but I liked it better the second time through when I knew what to expect, and it was the right kind of movie for half-watching while I played on my phone and ate snacks. I stayed up late and it was fun.

The motel I was staying at was not the kind with breakfast. I’d been thinking I’d get a Sausage McMuffin and a coffee at the drive-through on my way out of town, but then impulsively stopped at IHOP instead. Here were my anxieties, before stopping:

1. I haven’t been there in a couple of decades and I don’t really remember what it’s like
2. What if on Sunday mornings it’s really crowded?
3. Maybe they’ll resent me taking up a whole table
4. Maybe it’ll be expensive and disappointing and I’ll wish I’d spent $2 at McDonald’s instead

But it was so perfect. It was not AT ALL crowded, in fact if anything it was worryingly empty, just me and three families with kids in a huge empty restaurant. It was totally fine for me to take up a whole table. And I was not at all disappointed:

(I would have tipped the camera a little higher so you could see the coffee pot, but I didn’t want the family at the next table to think I was taking pictures of them)

I was in a daring mood, so I ordered the stuffed French toast even though it said it was made with cinnamon-raisin bread and I don’t like warm raisins; but there was not one single perceptible raisin in it, and the cinnamon flavor was unexpectedly good with the strawberries and whipped cream. I got the sourdough toast and it was so good; the last time I had breakfast out I ordered wheat toast and it was all dried and crunchy, but this was chewy and soft. The waitress asked if I wanted two sausage or two bacon, then added “…or one of each?,” as if she knew my secret heart. I got my own entire pot of coffee and she brought a little bowl of assorted creamers so I could try multiple flavors. I just kept eating a bite of each thing in turn like Albert in Bread and Jam for Frances, and kept adding more hot coffee to my mug, and it was so so wonderful and I want to eat there every morning.

The only way it could have been better is if there had been a jelly caddy on the table, instead of the toast being delivered with one strawberry and one grape. I LOVE a good jelly caddy. I like trying the flavors I wouldn’t usually choose, like apple jelly or orange marmalade. I just spent some time researching this topic (I wanted to make sure “caddy” was the right word; it turns out it can be called a caddy or a rack), and did you know you can buy these little jam packets and caddies for your very own house? I didn’t see any variety packs that included all the different flavors, but there are 200-packet packs of strawberry/grape/marmalade, strawberry/grape/apple, strawberry/grape/mixed, or just peach, or just blackberry—and there may be others but that was just about the point where sanity returned. Plus I got discouraged because the jam rack I wanted was only in packs of twelve, which is twelve more jam racks than my house can use. The Smuckers site has the other kind of jam caddy I like, and they’re only $3.49 each, but that’s when I started thinking was I actually going to place any such order and realized the answer was no I was not. (But if your answer is yes, Smucker’s also has a cherry/blackberry/strawberry assortment I didn’t find on Amazon.)

I have just finished re-watching Sense and Sensibility (the Emma Thompson / Alan Rickman version) and Pride and Prejudice (the Jennifer Ehle / Colin Firth version) (Twitter thread if you would like to hear why Mr. Darcy is hot), and now I am in search of a dress like those dresses. They look so COMFORTABLE. Like nightgowns, but with flattering bust emphasis. I suppose it would look ridiculous at the grocery store, especially since I don’t have those short front-curls of hair framing my face. Were those wiglets, do you think, or did the actresses really cut their hair like that? I suppose it was little wiglets.

I am also re-reading Shirley Jackson’s book Raising Demons, and enjoying it so much. Several of you recommended it and you were SO RIGHT: she moves to a new, large, weird house with her many children; it is eminently relatable right now. She even has an unpleasant altercation with the movers, as I did. I want to find a copy of this book so I can own it, but I am looking on Amazon and the options are odd: new editions, editions that include other books, etc. I don’t want the one that has the cartoon cat on the cover; it has to be the old one with the house on the cover [edited to add: and it has to be hardcover]. I will try eBay. Oh, $350. Perhaps I will steal my library’s copy and pay the $14 lost-book fine. (This is not a joke I can carry off believably.) [Update: Slim found me a reasonably-priced copy and then told me I needed the book and the book needed me, and I find Slim very persuasive so I ordered it. I am so happy imagining it on its way to me!]

This weekend I am taking Rob back to college, because at the last minute he obtained a summer job there. This is excellent news, as he does not seem keen on living at home with us anymore, and I am finding I am somewhat less than keen myself on his schedule of sleeping until 2:00 in the afternoon and then getting up and examining the labels of our food to evaluate ethical status. It has been nice having him home for a little while, but now it will be nice to return to the status quo of loving him from afar. Also it will be nice to spend a night by myself in a motel room, watching Say Yes to the Dress and eating Junior Mints / Mr. Goodbar / Pringles / Smartfood Kettle Corn / Entenmann’s Brownie Chocolate-Chip snack cakes. Though as it turns out, it will be an expensive trip: for some reason motel rooms were either sold out or else double the usual price; apparently there is something going on in the city that weekend. I chose the cheapest room, which was the same price I usually avoid paying by choosing something else at half the price, and I felt myself lucky to have it. Fortunately I got my snack-cakes on sale.

Rob’s new job, which is for a company run by other college students, told him proudly to watch The Social Network as homework before beginning his new job. We have watched it, and I am at a loss to understand what they are trying to tell him. That movie doesn’t just fail The Bechdel Test, it douses it in gasoline and lights it on fire while chanting fraternal loyalty to the brotherhood. If I had to guess, I’d guess it was a warning: Get in, loser, we are going to steal your work, stab you in the back, and be terrible to women as we’re doing it! I said something similar and Rob was a little touchy about it. “He didn’t say he was The Next Mark Zuckerberg; YOU called him that,” etc. This job has Learning Experience written alllllllll over it.

It doesn’t make for a very interesting post, but I can report that Mother’s Day 2019 went far better than Mother’s Day 2018.

As it approached, I began to feel nervous and also sheepish: I didn’t want a BIG DEAL made out of Mother’s Day, because it’s NOT a big deal to me; I literally just wanted NOT NOTHING. I didn’t want jewelry or expensive flowers or ANYTHING expensive, I didn’t want to go out to eat on a crowded-restaurant day, I didn’t want the kids to spend a lot of their own money on stuff. I was afraid that by addressing it last year, even as calmly and explainingly and specific-examplefully as I did, people would go overboard this year, and then I would have to re-correct, and UG why is something that seems so simple to me so hard to explain??

If you recall, here is the sort of thing I was looking for: (1) Not having to do any dishes all day. (I don’t even MIND doing dishes normally, but last year there was something extra demoralizing about finding a fresh pile of other people’s dishes on the counter every single time I went into the kitchen.) (2) Maybe someone suggests going out to get some doughnuts, because they remember Mom likes doughnuts, and also because THEY like doughnuts. (3) And/or perhaps Paul takes some of the kids to the car wash with my minivan and they get it washed and then see what they can do with the car wash’s coin-operated vacuum cleaner, because they remember how I rhapsodize when the car is freshly cleaned and because these are tasks that are funnish for the kids. (4) And/or perhaps they remember I like grocery store flowers, so Paul takes some of the kids to the grocery store (it’s right by the car wash!) and they pick out one of the $4.99-$6.99 flowering plants for me, and Paul pays for it. (5) And, overall: I was looking for Paul to do some work TRAINING THE KIDS to be thoughtful and think of others and so forth. I like sweets, I like cheap flowers, I like things to be clean without me being the one to clean them, I like people to notice what I like, I am not some sort of IMPOSSIBLE CIPHER.

(When the kids were younger, what I wanted was more than anything else for Mother’s Day was Time Away from the Kids in a Quiet House with a Pint of Ice Cream; now that they’re older, this is no longer specifically on my list, though of course always in season.)

Things got off to a shaky, uncertain start when Paul suggested several days before Mother’s Day that he and I could go on our own to a Mother’s Day prix fixe brunch at a snobby dressy expensive restaurant near us. That’s the opposite of what I described: the kids are not involved; it’s expensive; it’s going out to eat when it’s crowded, at a place that is not at all where I like to go. And, like, I don’t want to dictate other people’s gift-giving, but he explicitly said last year that he did nothing because he didn’t know what to do (imagine my facial expression), and so last year I explained at some length the SORT of low-pressure, low-expense kind of thing that would be my own personal preference, and how to get to those ideas on his own in the future since it kind of ruins it if I have to decide what they should do for me for Mother’s Day, and also explained how to train the children to think of thoughtful things for someone else (“the same way I am training you right now, but they’re children so you can do it without the incredulous facial expression I’m wearing”)—and so now this is a matter of Actively Not Listening, which is Worse Than Nothing. Also, we are ALREADY in the zone of “Why do I have to do this work for you when you are a FULLY-GROWN ADULT and this is the TWENTIETH Mother’s Day we have had together??,” so anyway things were looking grim and I was regretting ever speaking up.

But it went well. Paul made cinnamon rolls in the morning, and made sure dishes were managed all day. Rob and William went out on their own to Target and got me some candy (including those Ferrero Rocher gold-wrapped hazelnut things I like) and a card. Elizabeth made me a little succulents planter with three different baby succulents in it. Edward and Henry both independently decided to participate in the school’s kid-priced Mother’s Day fundraiser, which is a plant sale, so they each brought me a little plant. Everyone posed for the annual Mother’s Day photo with minimal complaining. (Henry tried to start a conversation mid-session about how fake it is that everyone always has to be smiling in photos, and I asked if we could please postpone that very interesting topic until AFTER WE TOOK THE PHOTO.) Paul and I went out for lunch at a casual bar-and-appetizers-and-tacos place we suspected would not be a popular Mother’s Day spot (and indeed it wasn’t), not for Mother’s Day per se but just in the spirit of having a day of treats, and I ordered a giant, potent margarita (like, I could tell the difference when I was walking, afterward), and also french fries. And then we came home and I re-watched part of Sense & Sensibility (the Emma Thompson / Alan Rickman one).

So! It was a fine day. Feel free to vent here if yours was NOT a fine day for whatever reason. Or you can say why it WAS fine.

When I was trying without success to narrow down phone case options, I noticed that two of my favorites were from the same company (Bfun), so I thought I’d search just cases by that company to see if I’d managed to miss any, despite going through so many pages of search results that I was starting to get wild mismatches such as bath toys. And, in the sort of situation that makes me freak out because WHAT ELSE AM I MISSING, there were a TON of cases I hadn’t seen yet, including a GREEN one that hadn’t come up in the search results when I specifically searched GREEN. (Green is one of my favorite colors, and it can be hard to find.)

(image from Amazon.com)

It has green in the title! It has the name of my new phone in the title! I searched for the name of my phone + the word green! WHY DIDN’T THIS OPTION APPEAR?

But also, why didn’t any of THESE other options appear, especially when I was putting three of their siblings into my shopping cart?

(image from Amazon.com)

Pink floral paisley! I love pink! I love floral! I love paisley! I have pink phone cases, paisley phone cases, floral phone cases, and phone cases of this brand IN MY SHOPPING CART. WHITHER PERTINENT SUGGESTION, AMAZON??

What is THIS rampant cuteness and why is it not on the first page of search results for ANYONE looking for a phone case??

(image from Amazon.com)

PENGUINS WITH BALLOONS ARE YOU EVEN SERIOUS RIGHT NOW??

(image from Amazon.com)

My very early childhood as a phone case:

(image from Amazon.com)

The entire musical Godspell as a phone case:

(image from Amazon.com)

I COULD NOT LOVE THIS MORE:

(image from Amazon.com)

(Actually I would love it a little more if the flap lined up with the design or else were a solid color, rather than duplicating part of the design in smaller format.)

I would understand if you were getting a little tired of paisley, but I am not:

(image from Amazon.com)

A DAINTY FLORAL IN SWISTLE BLUE (other people might call it Tiffany Blue, but we all know who thought of it first):

(image from Amazon.com)

WHIMSICAL BIRDIES WITH KICK-BACK FEETIES:

(image from Amazon.com)

Anyway. Suffice it to say I will never be able to choose. I give up. I will just let the phone go naked. Or else I will order a dozen phone cases to stave off potential regret, and then choose one randomly from the box when they arrive.