With a Big Spoon, Dummy
We are deep into the dog days of summer, in which no one has a regular schedule, every day has Friday vibes, and people are somehow still emailing about work. Yet, we persist. Buckle up for this third edition of DTMS, in which we examine the unbearable torture of backing up a car while a stranger gives you directions for how to do it better, the importance of serving spoons, and the rise of Shadow Daddies (aka your 500-year-old boyfriend). It’s mid-August. Does anything make sense? Let’s find out.
Things that Make Sense
Lying to save someone else’s face. Last week, I was heading to my favorite coffee shop when I stumbled upon a real-life nightmare. This coffee shop has a particularly tight parking lot, which was made all that much tighter by a delivery truck driver who had parked behind a row of cars. A woman driving a newish Rivian was trying to back out of her parking spot and having trouble. She was not pleased with the truck behind her and was yelling at the driver to move. Now, the delivery truck driver—undoubtedly someone who could parallel park a Hummer with his eyes closed but would also tell he could so immediately—disagreed that his park job made it harder for the woman to escape. In lieu of moving, he was telling her how to back up, using helpful phrases like “you’ve got tons of room” and “it’s easy.” Readers, friends, countrymen: She did not have tons of room. In fact, as I walked by, she asked me how close she was to the car next to her. And the honest truth was that she had already crashed into that car. The Rivian and the other car were smashed together so tight that they should probably get married. But as someone with dude-induced-backing-cars-up PTSD, I looked at her frustrated face and the smug truck driver and could not tell her the truth. So, instead, I said, “You’re getting pretty close.” She nodded and pulled forward, at which point the other car actually moved. Because they were indeed more than pretty close. Then I walked away very, very fast. Why did I lie? I’m not entirely certain, but it definitely has something to do with my dad teaching me to drive a stick shift and my husband “wondering” where the scratch on the side of our Honda Pilot came from. Spoiler alert: It was me. Not everything is easy. Godspeed to that driver. I hope she left her insurance info.
Shadow Daddies. Do you know about faerie smut? Do you know about Shadow Daddies? Stay with me, and you will not be disappointed (or maybe you will be, but at least you’ll be informed). Faerie (fairy?) smut is a popular genre of books that involve love stories about faeries and other magical creatures, along with spicy sex scenes. I tiptoed into faerie smut—FOR RESEARCH PURPOSES—and was disappointed to discover that the fairies in question were not sleeping in little beds made out of walnut shells and drinking drops of dew from flower petal ladles. Those are different faeries. Anywho. My dear friend Holly (fantastic writer, hilarious sense of humor) sent me an article about how the rise of faerie smut has birthed a new type of ideal boyfriend, the Shadow Daddy. Now Shadow Daddies are “typically male creatures — vampires, faeries, gods, angels — who possess dark and mysterious powers. They can be centuries old internally, but externally, they’re always young-presenting and, well, hot.” Like if Glenn Powell was 567 years old and also magical. This think piece contends that women, jaded from dating apps and/or tired of mom-ing their spouses, are now dreaming of men with hundreds of years of life experience. As one woman put it: “I suspect the appeal of someone who’s 100 or 600 years older is someone who wouldn’t have to be taught how to apply for health insurance or fill out a car registration.” Ouch. But also, wouldn’t they be tired?
Serving spoons for sharing dishes. Last week, I was driving home from a big beach volleyball tournament and felt determined to stop in Portland and eat really good pizza. There is a lot of it. On the recommendation of my nephew, we ended up at Vincenzo’s in Northeast (5 stars; some Google reviewers call it the “best pizza in the world”). Pooped out from our previous excursion, I was ordering at the counter and struggling to find the right words to ask a simple question about the size of the salad. So I incomprehensibly said: How do you share the salad? The girl behind the counter looked at me like I was from another planet (maybe I’m 567 years old) and said, “With a serving spoon.” I have not yet recovered. Please send thoughts and prayers.
Things that don’t make sense
Fake mall shootings. During the same Portland stop, my daughter and I decided to do some school shopping. We happened to be at Washington Square Mall during what people initially suspected was a shooting. As we walked toward Pac Sun, dozens of people started sprinting past us. At first, we thought it was something fun. But their facial expressions revealed otherwise. So we started running too, not inclined to find out what was causing the stampede. It was mass confusion as we burst out into the mall parking lot, with everyone wondering why we were running and what we were running from. Then another woman came out of an exit door and yelled “shooter,” at which point we ran again, even faster. My daughter didn’t question, didn’t scream, just stayed calm and took off. In the end, there was no shooter, but instead, a disgruntled Macy’s employee who started busting up the glass display cases. It made total sense to me that everyone assumed it was a shooter and started running. In my four decades on this earth, I covered mass shootings as a news reporter, watched them happen in all the places I’ve lived, and wrestled with whether to send my kids to school after faux online shooting threats. It’s a sadly common, uncommon thing. But what didn’t make sense at the moment was why, while I was panicked, hyperventilating, and freaked out, my 14-year-old daughter was cool as a cucumber. I asked her later how she stayed so calm, and she said simply: “Mom. We’ve been practicing for this since I started school.” Then her reaction made more sense. But it also kind of broke my heart.
Book things
The foundation of the creative economy. One of the most pleasant surprises of my book-writing journey has been discovering the free labor exchange and community that underpins every author’s effort. No book is written in a vacuum. Instead, writers depend on the time and insights of other writers, beta readers, family, and friends to look at their work and provide feedback. In my critique group, we exchange ideas and often pages weekly. It can feel like a big ask, requesting that someone spend time with your writing and give you their ideas. But knowing that you can and will return the favor makes it not only possible but a true joy. And of course, the collaboration makes the work that much better. Big hugs to my critique partners and beta readers. Looking forward to having even more readers someday.
As always, thanks for reading. If something doesn’t make sense—or especially if it does—send it my way.
Kelly
Another fabulous read. The spoon cracked me up. The mall story broke my heart.