https://www.robotbutt.com/2024/03/03/a-frazzled-mother-applies-for-a-job-as-a-biodome-scientist/
Published in ROBOT BUTT
Please find my attached application for the Biodome Experiment.
I’m available immediately after Tuesday’s carpool.
Human Resources Dept.
Monday, Jan.8, 2024
Dear Biodome Experiment Hiring Manager,
I am excited to respond to the job posting for Biodome Participant. This opportunity matches my current experience and strengths, with my deep-burning passion for alone time.
What sets me apart from other applicants is that I truly crave solitude. I not only voluntarily isolated myself for 5 days past the time recommended by the CDC when I contracted COVID-19, but I also discovered that being alone was my calling. Avoiding my daily life was thrilling, especially when I finally managed to read an entire People Magazine Exposé: What Jennifer Really Thinks about Brad from 2017 that had been on my nightstand covered in dust. This experience changed my life and my worldview and reignited my quest for knowledge that’s in my DNA.
As a parent of two lively teenage boys, I have learned to manage a constant stream of questions while performing numerous tasks such as: working a paying job, creating daily meals that are not only edible but organic, ethically farmed, minimally processed, free-range, low-fat, low-sodium, low-sugar, low cost, high protein and hormone-free, caring for an elderly dog, an elderly mother, elderly in-laws, a fully-grown adult husband, picking up discarded socks, voting, volunteering to get people to vote, picking up wet towels from the floor, attending PTA meetings and afterschool events, walking the second dog that was adopted because we were afraid the elderly dog was going to die during the lock-down, all while being pinged relentlessly with updates by the boys’ sports team apps, receiving Slack updates, work emails, personal emails, Doctors appointment reminders, phone calls from the school saying that one or both of my kids were late or cutting class, reminders to update my email passwords, vet appointment reminders, overdraft alerts, warranty expiration alerts, Amber Alerts, alerts to pick up my dry-cleaning from 6 months ago before it’s donated, Bed Bath and Beyond White Sale alerts, a text from my mom about her colonoscopy next month, and texts from my husband saying he’s working late. The above duties are accomplished while also striving to reach the parallel goals of maintaining an acceptable level of cleanliness at home with the KPI of having Instagram-worthy interior design and periodically evaluating the ROI of my monthly gym membership at Planet Fitness.
I have an uncanny attention to detail. Just last night, I found my son’s Invisalign in a full dumpster outside of a McDonald’s. With my background in research on WebMD, I can successfully identify which mucus color flowing from a child’s nose indicates a sinus infection.
I’m also resilient. Evidence of this is my greatest achievement. After hours of a search yielding disappointing results on Google, I pivoted to YouTube where I finally had a breakthrough and discovered a way to clean up the “unknown excrement of atypical viscosity” off the couch without stripping the color. So, as you can see, I am well-versed in technology and the scientific process. I have several scientific papers published on Schoology under the alias of my son’s name. (Hopefully, the practice of “ghostwriting” is common and accepted within the scientific community.)
The above achievements combined should more than sufficiently satisfy the Educational Requirements listed for the Biodome Participant Role. In addition, I have 4 houseplants. 2 of which are not currently dead. Or fake. Evidence of my Clear and Concise Reporting can be seen in my Facebook posts dating back to 2010. Kindly disregard the posts about the hamster’s untimely death. That was an accident and not indicative of my respect for all creatures big and small, merely a reminder that I needed to update my eyeglass prescription sooner than every decade.
In summary, my experience has given me the tools needed to survive indefinitely alone in a Biodome. If given this opportunity, I would thrive in my new “bivironment” and maybe learn to watercolor or play the harmonica I bought 25 years ago.
Thank you for your consideration, I hope to learn more about this opportunity soon. The best time to contact me would be after work when I stare vacantly out the window of my car until someone notices me parked in the driveway and I go inside to cook dinner.
Sincerely,
Applicant
https://medium.com/slackjaw/i-am-the-crushed-clif-bar-at-the-bottom-of-your-purse-b47778222251
I Am The Crushed CLIF Bar At The Bottom Of Your Purse
Please release me from this torturous hellscape and throw me out.
Fresh from my box, under my crinkly wrapper, I am 260 calories with 10 grams of protein, 17 grams of sugar, and 41 grams of glorious carbohydrates all encased in organic (and ethically sourced) Dark Chocolate. I am the one snack in the world that has the potential to fuel you if you were to…leap from a burning building while holding a box of kittens, attempt to outrun a rabid wild boar or swim away from steel-jawed barracudas. Instead, I was just a snack before a mid-quarter finance review.
At 11:56, Bryce (that try-hard asshole in the cubicle next door) scheduled a “touch base” for noon, which would inevitably leave your stomach growling during your forecast meeting. You saw me as your savior and grabbed me from the office break room cabinet. But, surprise! It was Kaylee (or is it Kylee?) the intern's last day, and a cake was wheeled into the meeting. Sheer obligation to Kaylee/Kylee forced you to eat that cheap, tawdry grocery store cake instead of me- but it shattered my heart the same way Jolene crushed Dolly’s soul.
Not wanting to waste the free snack “perk” of your midlevel job, you threw me into your purse and left for the day.At that exact moment, my identity changed tragically from a dignified CLIF Bar to a doomed “Purse Bar.” It’s a fate worse than death.Purse Bars seldom make it out intact and die aslow grizzly death…crushed like in that garbage compactor scene in Star Wars. Garbage compactors, junk drawers, glove compartments…they‘re all the stuff of nightmares to us.
My hopes to be eaten were raised as you sat motionless in traffic later that evening. Knowing that you had over an hour of shifting uncomfortably on the bleachers at the community center ahead of you, I thought my time to serve had finally come. Twice a week, in the stifling humid air, you watch your kid thrash around like a deranged otter. However, the chlorine smell makes you nauseous… so trapped in your dark tomb I remained. I drifted deeper into your purse as you stuffed a wad of printouts on top of me. Pages heavy with insightful feedback about your child’s backstroke from his teenage instructor Jordan weighed upon me, pushing me further into the deep dark abyss of your purse. Now flattened, I languished for what seemed like an eternity in a paralyzed undead state.
Later that week, I resurfaced briefly during your son’s meltdown at Target. Unceremoniously pulling off a moist, hairy piece of gum stuck to my wrapper did not help my appeal. Unless he’s starving on a deserted island and faced with the possibility of gnawing off his skinny limb to survive, he’s not going to eat me. Not now.
The mortal wound came 2 days later as you shoved a free Jiffy Lube pen in your purse while waiting for your car. I was instantly impaled. After the fatal jab, I began slowly bleeding out. My guts went everywhere…in the zipper of your open wallet, around a pair of broken readers at the grimy bottom of your purse. Chunks of me are now stuck to an uncapped cherry chapstick. More of my gooey innards have fused 2 pennies, several orange Tic Tacs, and a free carwash coupon from Steve’s Auto into a peanut butter -banana-scented tumor.
Everyone can see how mutilated and grotesque I’ve become except you. From the bottom of your purse, I am begging you to throw me out. Don’t even worry about separating what's left of me for the compost bin. It’s too late for that kind of dignified burial. It’s time to toss my corpse in the trash where maybe I’ll nourish a rat on its way to the subway and power his afternoon with the remains of my flesh. Please, my time has come. Have mercy and let me go.
Published in THE HAVEN
Mitchell, The Men's Warehouse Salesperson, is the hero you need right now.
Newsflash: If you bought a suit before COVID-19, you do not own a suit.
During the pandemic, the average body aged in a fashion similar to dog years: seven pounds every month you worked remotely. However, this fact won’t hit home until days before the blessed event you are due to attend. Your “significant other” (or mom) will suggest you try on your suit the day the invitation arrives but “Go Time” won’t be until the Thursday evening before the wedding and after you’ve downed 2 Taco Del Mar Mondo Burritos with extra guac. That evening, you’ll woefully stand before the mirror sucking in beef, cheese, and your shame. You’ll meekly insist that the pants still fit until the back seam splits. There’s no avoiding the obvious now. You need a new suit. Instinct and adrenalin kick in and you turn to Amazon to save you. Sure, you can get a suit overnight from Amazon. But, you know what you won’t get? Laid after the reception (which is really what The Men’s Warehouse tagline should be.) Also, if you are buying a suit via Amazon Prime, your outfit tells the world you aren’t going to an “event.” It says you’re going to a “proceeding” that you weren’t invited to, but are legally obligated to attend. You need a miracle. You need The Men’s Warehouse.
Luckily, they are open til 9 and conveniently located in the strip mall shadows of a suburban Target or a Hobby Lobby Super Store. The Men’s Warehouse has been lodged somewhere in the back of men’s brains for over 40 years, coincidentally the average age of their customer base. Finding parking or shoplifting is not a problem for this national retail chain. It's rumored that The Men’s Warehouse got so desperate to move inventory in 2020, that if you looked closely at the local news footage during the time of civil unrest, you could catch a glimpse of a “Looters Welcome” sign on the front window. By the grace of god (and return-to-the-office policies), they survived.
After greeting you, floor manager Mitchell’s first task is to uncover your personal “style” while you blather incoherently about an outfit you saw once on “Queer-Eye.” He calmly pries from your fingers the tangerine vest that you grabbed from clearance and points you toward the fitting room. You will remove your stretched-out concert T-shirt and stand shivering in your boxers while Mitchell disappears into the dark abyss of tweed and wool. Mitchell will hand you respectable clothes that fit you, even though the measurements you gave him are wildly different from your current size. Your significant other eventually stops sighing and begins to realize you may not be an embarrassment after all. Praise comes out of her mouth, not directed at you- but to Mitchell. Accept this. His victory is your victory. You avert your eyes as you pass the guy in the “I Love Hot Moms” T-shirt being herded into the dressing room stall next to you as you head to the register. Your shaky hand relinquishes your credit card to Mitchell. Just sign. Don’t look. There’s a high price to be paid for desperation. Plus tax.
You pick the suit up on the way to the airport the next day. You also pick up a belt and socks you forgot to pack along with a travel-sized imposter version of CK One. Guess what, you unworthy man-boy, you wind up looking great. Mitchell is the master of his craft. You don’t know this now, but he’ll mercifully pretend not to remember you 5 years and 12 lbs from now when your stepfather‘s brother dies. Why? Because besides being a magician, Mitchell is a goddamn saint.
https://medium.com/frazzled/what-not-to-get-your-mom-for-the-holidays-022a2867738b
Published in FRAZZELED
What NOT to Get Your Mom for the Holidays
A gift guide written by your mom
Dear Aiden,
I bet right now you are wondering what to get that special lady in your life (me) for Christmas!
After 16 years of having Dad buy my present for you, this year I’ll help you buy my gift all by yourself. You want to be treated like an adult, and this is a step in the right direction! However, because I don’t want you to waste the money I just transferred into your checking account, please pause your Fortnite game and review this list of things NOT to buy.
1. Anything sports-related: Sure, I never missed one of your soccer, t-ball, lacrosse, or flag football games, or even that lawless jumble known as “ultimate frisbee.” However, when you were out on the field, my mind was a blissful, infinitely expanding, deep, vast black hole of nothingness. Yes, I’d periodically yell “Good Effort!” or “Way To Hustle!” but I really wasn’t there. The same thing goes for Monday Night Football, The World Series, or any other game on TV. Whenever I happen to be in the room with sports on, I just point my face in the direction of the screen and mentally evaporate for as long as I can.
2. Perfume: I am worried about your sense of smell. The bottle you got me for Mother’s Day eroded part of my dresser and I had to dump it out. I can still smell it when I run the disposal. You don’t seem bothered by the sweatshirt you’ve worn every day this month or by the stench of whatever is dying underneath your bed. I will make a note to have the pediatrician test your nose when we go for your next check-up.
3. Books: I haven’t been able to read anything voluntarily in 16 years. I’m not sure I could tackle anything longer than the instructions on a Nyquil bottle right now.
4. Another dog or cat: If Scruffy is 10 years old, Kitty is 8, and you are leaving in 2 years, how many new pets does your mom want? The answer is 0.
5. A homemade gift: I still have the coupon book you made for my birthday in 2016 full of unredeemed offers for dog walks, dishwasher fillings, and laundry folding. It’s in my dresser drawer next to the expired Gold’s Gym 1-week free gym membership postcard, Sephora lipstick samples, several Bed Bath and Beyond coupons, and other mementos of forgotten possibilities. Throwing them away just seems wrong.
6. A gift card: I’m sorry, have I been scrimping and saving to send you to college? I even shop at The Nordstrom Rack for Christ’s sake. Does that kind of sacrifice deserve a gift card? Gift cards are for school bus drivers. That you never met because I drove you to and from school every day.
7. Chocolate or other treats: Zumba is only offered on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays. I can’t work off additional treats on that schedule.
8. Technology of any kind: I find most innovations annoying. For example, I’m sure it takes fewer passcodes and buttons to launch a Tomahawk missile than it does to turn on The Property Brothers now that everything is on streaming services.
9. A picture of you printed on a t-shirt, pillow, blanket, or tea towel: Have you gone missing? Have you died slowly of a horrible childhood disease? Let’s not manifest any of that by having your mother parade around town with your likeness emblazoned on random items like she’s someone to be pitied.
10. Underwear: I’ll pick up what I need at Costco when my current 52-pack of Fruit of the Loom briefs start to show some wear and tear.
And that’s it! I hope you found this list informative, sweetie. I’m just trying to be helpful.
Actually, you know what? Why don’t I go ahead and add what I want to Amazon, and you can just hit the “Place Your Order” button when you get the chance? Oh heck, I just went ahead and ordered it. You look busy.
I love it already! Merry Christmas!
Love,
Mom
Published in Licton Springs Annual Review 20228:27 AM
The subway jerked and swayed to an inaudible tune. The cars inhabitants followed the movement as if they were puppets attached to the same string. All falling forward and backwards, leaning into whatever invisible course the train was taking that morning. The train stopped. The cord was cut, and everyone scurried to the door and scattered in whatever direction their day would take them. It was the same every morning. Sometimes, through the miracle of chance, I’d recognize a familiar face. I’d suppress the urge to say hello, because…why? We aren’t friends. Just similar fish in the sea swimming and riding the same current. I climbed the impossibly steep stairs. The air stagnant except for the breeze of us salmon climbing up towards the light. The city exploded at the top. Life, color, excitement, and randomness swirled in the street. Like a drum, I matched the pace of the others as I walk to work. I’d look around at the tourists who just came to gawk at the Chrysler building and weave my way through the crowd. With a nod to security, I slipped through the velvet rope, into the elevator and headed to my job-fully aware that I was chosen and lucky to be a part of New York.