Trains have pulled away from the platform as I’ve run to catch them, but never so narrowly have I missed a deadline as I did just now, at midnight. At 11:15 pm I discovered on my Facebook feed that NPR’s Three Minute Fiction contest was ending at 11:59. Though I’ve submitted to this contest in the past, I somehow missed all announcements of the current round. I’ll never understand the algorithm of the Facebook news feed, why I get status updates from some people and groups for a while, and then they fade away, sometimes coming back, and sometimes not. When I saw the rogue NPR administrator’s feed from 10 pm announcing  the two-hour warning, I frantically, wildly, deliriously read the contest brief and wrote a story. At 11:54 I saved my submission in Word and clicked on NPR’s website to upload it, like I did last time. That’s when my Macbook battery bonked. I jumped up from the sofa and dove for the power cord under the dining room sideboard. My heart pounded while the screen resurrected. Then I discovered that NPR has a new user interface for submissions–something they’ve set up since the last round I entered a year ago. What was my User ID? My password? Please confirm password. I typed as fast as I could. My name. My phone number. How to pronounce my name. “Isn’t that premature?”, I thought, entering “Moral.” State: Virginia. Check to agree to terms. Check if over 18. Check if a U.S. citizen. 11:58. Click here to upload. Browse…Sorry, we are not accepting submissions at this time.

So here I am, sitting on the floor by the sideboard, sweaty, a ball of utter frustration in my gut, and feeling even more like the thinly-veiled character in my story.

Here it is.

From NPR’s Three-Minute Fiction Site: “Write a story in the form of a voice-mail message.” Word limit: 600.

From the Coconut Girl, my minute-too-late-submission.

“Date of Birth, 10-14-1972,” © 2013 by Whitney Morrill.

This is Amanda Gehry. Date of birth 10-14-1972. I need to reschedule my appointment with Dr. Haagensen. It’s on the 21^st of  Shhhhhhhh. I’m talking. Sorry. I need to reschedule the appointment. I’m available Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays–just a minute. Go in the other room, please. Good days during the week are mornings on Monday, Wednesday, or Thursday. I need to be out of there by 11:45 to get kids. Dr. H said to tell you not to put me on a day when he’s on call. You may have a yogurt. The other kind, that one’s Mommy’s. He said something about a stool sample. That’s right, like your stool! Do I need to get a lab form before the appointment, or will he give me one when I’m there? Wasn’t sure if he needs to review the results before we meet, because if I go to the lab after my appointment, then I can’t talk with him about it, and about my sibling’s situation, and whether I’m at higher risk. One second, this is the pediatrician’s office calling.

Sorry. I’ve been waiting all morning for that call back, the phone lines were jammed for an hour. You can probably hear that croupy cough in the background, I was up all night dealing with it. I was running the humidifier but I should have had her breathing freezer air. Who knew? So let me know about the form, it’s Amanda Gehry, spelled G as in golf, E-H-R-Y date of birth 10-14-1972, and it’ll just be easiest if you call me back with an appointment, just pick any time between 8:45 and 11:45 and I’ll make it work, but it has to be on Monday, Wednesday or Thursday and not on Dr. H’s call day. I’ll settle up for my missed appointment then, if that’s ok. I got the bill. I couldn’t come because of the snow day. Do you have exceptions on that 24-hour policy? Special accommodations for patients with young kids, like preferred parking for the disabled? I feel disabled sometimes. And impotent. Hard to get things done.  Good thing I’m coming to see Dr. H soon, right? Though his thing is more infertility than impotency, I guess. Impotency? Impotence. God. I can’t talk. That’s enough, that little container has tons of sugar. You can finish your apple slices from breakfast, they’re still on the table. Also, can you have your billing person call me? Not about the missed appointment thing, I understand that. I need to know the code she put down on the insurance claim after Ian was born. Our policy just renewed and the premium jumped up. Painting’s fine, only on the paper, though, not on the easel. My friend’s a P.A. and she said to check with billing because insurance companies don’t like certain codes. Just a single digit could explain the extra $150 a month. Don’t move around too much or we’ll have to put our heads in the freezer again. So call me and it’s ok to leave a message if I don’t pick up, it’s just my cell number, you probably have it in your system, but it’s 893-223-1919. Even if my husband hears the message, it’s ok, he’s used to the term OB-GYN. Though he prefers just Dr. H.  OK, so 502-223-1919. G-E-H-R-Y, Amanda, calling at 10:20 on Wednesday, January 30.  Is this recording? I just panicked that it didn’t toggle back over from the call with the pediatrician. Did I say 893? It’s 893. Date of birth 10-14-1972. Thanks.

Almost every print interview with a celebrity begins the same way. The writer describes the famous person’s entrance for the interview, and what she’s wearing.

Gwyneth Paltrow arrives five minutes early in a Bozo jumpsuit cinched at the waist with a citron Slapwatch. Pointing to the espresso bar across the room, she gestures, “I’m getting a skinny soy latte, want anything?” For the soy part, she squats and simulates a sprout growing into a beautiful, organic legume. She’s every bit as down to earth as her reputation alleges. I gesture back, ‘Three pump chai, thanks, whole milk, no whip.’

Writers seldom mention their own get-up in these feature intros. We’re aware of the author, but she’s invisible. As I read, I wonder: did she agonize over her own outfit beforehand, and get her chin waxed special for the interview? As I reflect, I realize that in reality, writers probably don’t give their coffee orders to stars.  Which is another problem with these articles, if you ask me.

Before celebrities are famous, they’re just regular folks. Other regular folks never become famous, even though they deserve to be. For them, there’s no entrance to orchestrate, and no impressions to make. They can be invisible because their actions speak for them.

With this category of people in mind, I’d like to nominate the maker of The Awesome Table for the following award:

Best Non-Entrance of a Spectacular Person.

I discovered the table this morning on my way to the blueprint shop.

Because I don’t know who this Spectacular Person is, for ease of reference, I’ll call him/her “Mat.” (Maker of Awesome Table). Mat had the idea to put some belongings on a table by the curb. The items are free. In exchange, Mat asks that the taker do something awesome for someone else.

What Mat is wearing isn’t of interest to me, but I would like to ask the following interview questions:

1. I notice stuffed animals on the table. Did they once belong belong to a child? Is it hard for you to part with them?

2. Mat, forgive me, but any chance the animals have lice or pet hair on them? I was eying the little monkey.

3. It breaks my heart in that good-pain kind of way when I look at your table and picture you making the sign. Did you know you’d have this effect on passers-by?

4. The word “awesome” is an interesting descriptor for your table. It implies greatness (generosity of heart), and fear (the lice thing, per #2, above). What acts of awesomeness would be suitable in exchange for a table item?  I was thinking of touching up a faded map of the U.S. that’s painted on a nearby school playground. I happen to have the exact shade of purple that outlines Arizona, Texas, New Mexico, and Oklahoma.

5. Did I just blow the awesomeness thing by saying what I was going to do? Some people prefer awesome acts to be random (Ben & Jerry); others want them to be anonymous (12-step groups).

6. Have you heard of the late Bilgé Friedlaender? She was my mentor in college, my most beloved design professor. A native of Turkey, she lived most of her adult life in America, working as an artist, teacher, and mother. In her sixties, she returned to Turkey and put on an exhibit called “Golden Rule.” Visitors were asked to bring an item that held meaning to them–and then, to part with it. Friedlaender took the belongings, covered them in gold leaf, and made them a part of the exhibit. When a visitor let go of an item, he got to take something in return, something that was important in the life of a stranger: a child’s barrette, a primary school ruler, a toy soldier, a spoon, a thimble. The exhibit, to Friedlaender’s great surprise, became a phenomenon in Istanbul when it opened in 1998, on the 75th anniversary of the Turkish Republic. After a lifetime of quiet work as an artist, she became an overnight sensation. Less than two years later, she died.

What would you leave at the “Golden Rule” exhibit?

7. Years from now, what will you remember about The Awesome Table? Will you recall standing at the window and watching cars slow as they passed? Or will you remember not standing there, just setting things on the table, and then going inside to make a cup of tea?

“Isn’t it great how well the children are playing?” I thought to myself. They were in the middle of an after-school playdate. It was a brass-ring/blue moon playdate, no less, with both kids paired up with a friend of the same age and gender.  “They’re so quiet, maybe they’re all reading,” I mused. The children had been upstairs now for twenty minutes, with no trips down to complain or tattle. I basked in my well-earned solitude. After nearly a decade of parenting, my children are old enough now not to lock each other in closets. Still, I felt I’d better check on them. “Everything ok?” I yelled up the stairs. “Fine!” a chorus answered back.

A few minutes later, a stampede flew past me in the dining room. “Going outside!” the herd representative yelled.  The door slammed shut and it was quiet again.

That was my cue to go upstairs. I needed to check that the ceiling fans weren’t all set on “high.” That a sock wasn’t marinating in the toilet.

In elementary school, students learn the commutative property. This rule says that for addition and multiplication problems, the order of the operands doesn’t matter. The equation 5 + 10 yields 15, as does the reverse: 10 + 5.

The commutative property, I’ve learned, also applies to children playing. For example:

Quiet kids + Sudden stampede outside = Suspicious.

Sudden stampede outside + Quiet kids = Suspicious.

The upstairs turned out to be the usual mess of open drawers, strewn clothes, and half-played board games. I took in the scene with ambivalence.  Our home belongs to the children as much as it belongs to us. They’re kids, and kids aren’t neat. But oh, the work ahead. If it’s their job to clean up their belongings, then it’s my job to let them (make them). No kid of mine is going to show up to college a slob. I stepped into the bathroom in search of a ponytail holder—that maternal calling card that says “Go time.” And there, in the sink drain, I found evidence of the day’s other playdate: the one between my daughter and her muse.

“The wood chips rinsed off my fleece cuffs and got caught in the drain,” she explained later that night as we gazed into the sink. “They made a nest. I closed the gaps with Crest so no eggs could fall through.”

Made perfect sense to me. I took her in my arms and dipped her.

There was so much good in what she’d done. The drain nest was a study in presence, spontaneity, creativity, problem-solving, and compassion. I loved everything about it. I also wanted to vomit. The unctuous tooth gel reminded me of the slugs that lurk under the lip of our outdoor trash cans. (Shudder). When my daughter left me in the bathroom to go hit her brother, I stared at the drain and imagined what friends of my age and gender would say: “Polident meets bonfire.” “Swim noodle saves stew meat.” “Scrub your grout.”

Per the commutative property, outside mischief had transpired during the play date as well. After thundering past me, the stampede found some loose boards in our fence, pulled them off, then stole into our neighbor’s yard. That’s why it got quiet again. Strangely enough, the breach, like the nest, was both impulsive and considered. When our kids were toddlers, the fence kept them safe. More recently, the enclosure has required them to walk through a gate and along a busy street to reach our neighbor’s. With the new opening, they can duck and cover two back yards in just a few steps. No traffic.

Indeed, the children had played well.

With the start of a new year, people rev up their resolutions. They vow to start doing this, and stop doing that. There are grand resolutions (“Sing with Danny DeVito”).  And there are daily-grind resolutions that must be faced regularly. Like flossing, or avoiding the asbestos of the American diet: soy powder. When we falter, it’s easy to feel like a failure. That’s why new year’s resolutions need new-age sidekicks: affirmations.

Affirmations are statements that bolster our sense of self-worth. They keep the tough going when the going gets tough, to paraphrase Billy Ocean. For maximum benefit, it’s best to follow these 3 affirmation rules:

1. Affirmations are positive by nature. Don’t hold back.

2. Write them down.

3. Don’t leave your affirmations on the big reading table at the local Clerk’s office. Especially if you still write your name at the top of the page, as you were taught in grade school.

While we’re on the subject of the Clerk’s office, did you know that many of the people there are regulars? Their job is to research government records, for attorneys’ offices and the like. This means they’ll probably recognize you, the newcomer, when you come back the next day to finish your work. It also means they read a lot.

And let’s say, for the sake of argument, that you haven’t noticed yet that your affirmations are missing. Your kids have been sick, you’re super-stressed-out about work, etc. Thus you also miss the A-ha! looks in the room when your phone rings and you answer, “Hello, this is Whitney.”  Which is good. Why suffer when you don’t have to?

In fact, you’re about to experience the opposite of suffering. As you exit the room to avoid disturbing others with your phone call, you pass the reading table in the middle of the room. You glance down at the sheet of paper lying there and Bam! like a lightening bolt of quantum physics, you see your very own name written next to the words “philanthropist” and “full splits.” Enraptured that the Law of Attraction has found you right here, in the Clerk’s office, you rein yourself in because the nurse on the other end of the line wants your son to have a strep test. You make an appointment for 3:40, then rush back to the mystical papyrus on the reading table with its affirmation confirmations just for you!

You look at the paper but don’t pick it up. Someone must have left it for you–but who? Will people think you’re nosy if you keep hovering? Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. Four. Three. Two. One.

*

“How could you not recognize your own handwriting?” the friend asks. You told her you’d left notes about a medical condition at the Clerk’s office, not affirmations. Less embarrassing. “I don’t know,” you explain feebly, “this whole self-care thing is new to me. The content and my name just didn’t connect in my mind.” Together you walk through a puddle towards the taco shop. “I’ve been meaning to return your flash cards for the licensing exams,” she says, kindly changing the subject. “Did they help?” you inquire. You made the cards yourself and passed all nine tests on the first try. “Definitely,” she says. “Especially the affirmation cards.”

*

When the going gets tough

The tough get going, tough, tough

When the going gets tough, the tough get ready

I got something to tell you

I got something to say

I’m gonna put this dream in motion

Never let nothing stand in my way

When the going gets tough

The tough get going
Well I’m gonna get myself ‘cross the river

That’s the price I’m willing to pay

I’m gonna make you stand and deliver

And give me love in the old-fashion way ¹

–Billy Ocean

  ¹ the Coconut Girl does not understand or endorse whatever this means

You don’t see a lot of bean bag chairs in retirement homes. Nor do you see a lot of people at the beach when a storm blows in. If it’s true that 99% of life is showing up, then what happens when you arrive to find something you didn’t bargain for? The choice seems simple. Stay, or go.

If quizzed on a game show, I’d say that an unexpected bean bag chair can appear faster in life than an unexpected storm. Virtually every home goods catalog features the cozy chairs, and their clever fabric loops make them easy to pull around. Storms are a close second in the speed department, though. Last summer, my family arrived in Hyannis, Massachusetts after a two-day drive from Virginia.  We opened the car doors to a sunny sky, swung out our cramped legs, and sprinted across the dunes. Before we had time to lose a shoe in the sand, the wind picked up. We didn’t perseverate on the choppy water or the rolling waves of sea grass. All we thought was: Wow, we have the whole beach to ourselves!  “Ow,” my daughter said, rubbing her eye when the beach towel she was holding whipped up and smacked her in the face. “You know what,” I called, as she and her brother plowed into the ocean, “let’s just skip the sunscreen today.”  From the pace of the clouds moving overhead, we had fifteen minutes at best before we’d need the shelter of our rolling dumpster.

I got out my paints. The azure sky was a color I could mix quickly from Cobalt Blue and a dab of Aquamarine. Faster, I told myself, trying to fix the scene before it changed completely. I drew the horizon line, a descending swath of dark green flecked with bright summer homes. In the distance the houses looked like Chicklets, and I skipped over them with my brush to keep the paper white. The clouds were over us now. Without thinking, I dipped my brush into a square of Charcoal Grey and dragged it across the sky.  The painting belonged to the storm now, never mind what I’d set out to capture. “Three more minutes!” I called to the kids, who were splashing wildly in the waves. At this moment I knew that the painting would hang at my bedside to remind me of something. Something I could feel but not name.

My husband grabbed our unopened cooler with one hand, and gathered our kids’ far-flung clothes with the other. I rocked from a sitting position to a kneel. “If I’m going to look at you every morning and night, you damn storm,” I bargained, “then I’m razing your beachfront condos.” I erased the unremarkable structures at the water’s edge and dropped in turn-of-the century Shingle-Style mansions from Newport. I drew chimneys and porches, and a gable dormer on the third floor just for me. Inside the dormer room, under the window sill, I packed a bookshelf with encyclopedias. No one reads encyclopedias anymore, and I’m no different. But there I can flip a volume open to any page and breathe in the musty scent that’s grown deep and comforting from moisture blown in from storms. Thunder shakes the floor and lightening punctuates the darkness. I grab the loop of a bean bag chair and retire to the window. Mist flies through the screen and I watch from the edge of wonder and fear.