I went to a large shopping mall.

As a child, I hated shopping malls because my mom and aunt would force me to sit around and do nothing as they picked through the 90% off rack for items not fit to be used as dish rags. As a teenager, I changed my tune – the mall was my sanctuary because it was the ONLY place Anyu allowed me to walk around freely with my friends. I spent a good part of middle school and high school at the mall arcade, movie theater, and comic book store – and it was great!

As an adult, I have reverted back to my childhood hatred of the mall. It just bores me. For one thing, there is this brand new thing called the INTERNET, where I can purchase anything I need at 5 am, with free shipping and return shipping (hell to the yes, Amazon prime!) Not just that, but I naturally walk very quickly, so the meandering pace of mall patrons makes me want steamroller everyone, especially the folks that have speed-enhancing electronic devices, such as security guards on Segways and moms on high-end Rascal scooters. The sound of other peoples’ children crying over the radio edit of a Brittany Spears song on a 40 year old sound system makes me want to stab my ears out. I also hate the smell of both Subway and Auntie Anne’s pretzels, even though everyone else on the planet likes them. The mall just makes me a grouchy Gus, I guess.

I have learned that wedding planning usually involves the purchase a wedding dress, and I am not doing any of that “dress shopping” stuff with my mother (I’m not even sure if she wants to *come* to the wedding. More on that some other day). I learned my lesson from the horrors of shopping for clothing and prom dresses that my family combined with a fitting room = torture. And while I know some of my readers encourage me to get into disastrous situations so they can laugh at my pain, this time, I really just want to make things easy and drama-free. Please? Just this once. Come on! Luckily, I have a reasonable cousin that found me a dress online, but of course, Amazon.com requires me to take approximately 8,000 measurements of every part of my body before I am allowed to place an order.

In case you’ve never been a bride before, I have discovered that wedding dresses are created rare silk worms that secrete special wedding dress juices that contour to the exact texture of your areolas. Once the worms have properly cocooned you in loveliness, a flock of white doves gathers twigs, leaves, and unicorn horns to fashion a petticoat. That’s when the angels will clip wings to make your wedding veil, which to your untrained puny human eye will appear to be a couple yards of “the scratchy tutu stuff” sewed into a hair clip with a $150 price tag attached to it. But I swear, they are genuine angel wings and you deserve them, because it’s your “special day”.

To avoid the public shame of  having the wrong shaped bustle (whatever that is), I decided to go get measured for a wedding gown by a professional. My friends told me to just use the trusty internet to find a wedding store and pay the $5 or whatever to have someone stick some cloth tape between my legs and cough. And since every single freaking advertisement on my Facebook and Google is about wedding crap, I decided to actually be a consumer whore and listen to an in-video advertisement for a store I will refer to as “Boredstrum”. Boredstrum apparently has something called a “Wedding Suite”, where you are supposed to meet with a “stylist”, get measured, book an appointment to try on dresses that suit your style and size, and then do like 25 other things to make sure you can heave this thing onto your body on your wedding day. Fine.

So, I walked in to a very small corner of this giant department store, to greet a woman that I can only assume was playing Angry Birds on her phone.

“Hi, do you have an appointment?” she said, not looking up.

“AAAHH himin’ hawin’!”  said the red Angry Bird.

“Oh, no, I’m sorry, I just saw an advertisement that suggested I should visit this bridal suite, get measured, and then book an appointment and-”

“I see, what are your dates?”

“Well, I just got engaged, but I hear that it takes a couple months to order dresses?”

“Congratulations. Yes, five months. We can expedite a dress, obviously, for an additional cost, if there is any reason that you should need to have a wedding sooner than that,” she replied, finally looking up from her game and right at my belly.

I tried to give her a look that said, “Nope, I’m not actually pregnant, lady; my stomach has just looked three months pregnant since  I ate that shoe fly pie with a side of eggnog back in 1999.”

I laughed awkwardly. “I honestly don’t know my size. I’m very tall and I hear that wedding dresses size differently?”

“Oh, yes, we measure you once you buy a dress with us. But you should make an appointment if you are going to try on dresses. We can get very busy.”

I look around. There is no one in the store.

“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaarr!” said the black Angry Bird.

“Do I need an appointment to just get measured?”

“Once you commit to purchasing a dress from our store, we will measure you and then custom order one to your exact specifications.”

“But how can I commit to purchasing a dress if I don’t know which of these dresses I can even try on? Can I make an appointment for measurement so I can know a ballpark of what size I am and look in the right section?”

“I should warn you, for liability reasons we cannot tell you your measurements because you might go shop somewhere else based on those sizes, and if they are inaccurate, we cannot be held liable.”

“Wouldn’t you be more liable if you measured wrong and delivered me the wrong dress yourself?”

“We re-measure you ever time you come in for a fitting, in case you gain or lose weight, so we can be more accurate.”

“But I’m not allowed to know the measurements of my own body, even if I pay to be measured?”

“No. Because measurement is free with purchase of a dress.”

“Alrighty then. Let me…think about it. Have a great day.”

“Here’s my card! Call me for an appointment. We need 48 hour’s notice because we are very busy.”

“Haaaaaaaaaaaaaaarr!” said the black Angry Bird again. She sucks at this game.

I threw the card out as I huffed and puffed out of the store  into another bridal shop. Similar answer, this time, “We need to keep measurements on file and only use them when placing the final orders.” And then another bridal shop.

“Sorry, we don’t measure. We’re an ‘off the rack store.’ A lot of these dresses are weird sizes, so if it looks like it might fit, just try it on. Do you have a few hours?”

Finally, I called my tailor. He is awesome at his job, but he is 87 years old and speaks mostly Italian. I don’t know what I was thinking.

“Nick, can you measure me for a wedding dress?”

“Yah, you bring dress, I fix. Giovedì!”

“No, I don’t have a dress to fix, I need my measurements so I can order a dress. Do you know how to measure for a wedding dress?”

“Yes, you bring dress Thurs-a-day. Riparare! Riparare!”

“I don’t have a dress.”

“Den what cho calling me fo, Stephania?”

“Measure! Me! My body! How big? My bust? How big? My waist? Capisce?”

“Okay, den. Fri-a-day. You bring dress. I fix.”

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

I’m not going to go. I love Nick, but if I even manage to explain what I need, I bet he’ll hand me the measurements in kilometers or microns or gigawatts or whatever unit of measurements Italian brides must use.

Finally, I took my fiancée (bleh, that word sucks) to Dude’s Warehouse, where a large group of friendly-looking men, all holding measuring tapes greeted him with huge smiles.

“Hi, here to get measured for a tux,” he said in a deadpan voice. “Not gonna get it today. Just not sure what my size is.”

“Right away, sir!”

They ran off with him while I stood there befuddled. In under 2 minutes, he came back with an elaborate card with every single measurement on it, for him to keep.

“We hope you decide to purchase with us in the future, sir, but even if not, it has been a pleasure to be of service to you,” said the man with the gleaming smile.

“Um…do you do measurements on women, too?”

The man’s smile faded. “What for?”

“I know it’s random because you are more of a suit store, but I need to get my measurements so I can order a wedding dress. I will gladly pay to be measured, I just can’t seem to find anyone to help me.” I explained my experience at the bridal stores.

“Oh, I’m sure we can help somehow – let me check.” He looked over at the only female employee in the store.

She glared at me. “No!”

“Sorry, ma’am. Measuring women…that’s…something else.”

So, clearly, I smell or something so no one wants to measure me. So I am going to just go back to my trusty old internet and learn how to measure for wedding dresses myself. I own a cloth tape measure and have access to my own body – I mean, how hard could it be?

Dress Order for SYUHAS            Order Number: 12345678

Wedding Date: I dunno, sometime soon, so this will all end.

Color: White. Maybe throw a little red in there, I’m kind of a hussy.

Style: Cloth-like funnel, please.

Length: Uh, long. I’m pretty tall. Like 5 ft 10 or 11? I guess leave some room/a hole for my head.

Upper Bust: No, I have no boobs.

Under Bust: No boobs hiding under there, either.

Length of Shoulder to Bust: If I have no bust I guess then “0”?

Shoulder to Shoulder: I’m not great at dancing, but thanks for asking.

Bicep: None yet, but I have been eating me spinach.

Armseye: No, I do not have any eyes on my arms.

Length of Armpit to Elbow: That tickles.

Waist:  Yes, I have one of those.

Hips: Childbearing.

Nipple to Nipple: Is this for some type of…clamps/chain device? It’s not that kind of party.

Payment: Paypal!!!! Yay, I got one right!

Done! We’ll see what I get.

This did not compute. Even Satan himself could not break up with his girlfriend while enjoying a Friendly’s Cone Head Sundae™, an innovating concoction where a scoop of ice cream was covered in a hot fudge-dipped sugar cone, given whipped topping hair, and an adorable Reese’s® Pieces® candy face©™®.

“I don’t understand. What did I do?”

“You didn’t do anything. I just don’t…love you.”

“Then what did I do to make you fall out of love with me?”

I’m unsure how I was able to speak, considering the amount of over-analysis my brain was doing at that very moment.

Did I leave any sanitary napkins or tampons in public view? Not possible, I double wrap them.
Did I fart in his general direction? Nope, I avoid raw onions on dates.
Have I gained an ungodly amount of weight or forgotten to shave? Nope, still the same curvy lady that’s smooth as a baby’s bottom.

“No…” he replied, staring deeply into his milkshake.

This is not happening. I am not going to go home tonight with the knowledge that a man drinking pink goop out of a glass marked “Fribble®” dumped me.

I tried to compose myself as much as I could, but the tears were already running down my face.

“Donny, I would like you to bear in mind that I’m a little shocked, considering just this week, YOU helped me get a passport so we could spend the summer together in Italy.”

“Well, I just got to thinking. It’s just like….what’s the point? It’s not like it’s going to work out in the end anyhow. We get together and you seem like you’re having fun, but I know you just want to be drawing and watching shows where the stupid space puppets talk through the whole movie.”

“Mystery Science Theater?!” I screeched, startling a woman at an adjacent table. She gave me the stink eye.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he said. “I just don’t get it.”

“That is hardly a reason for a breakup!” I lowered my voice as much as a person with a Hungarian temperament can in this situation, which is not very much at all. “We don’t need to be together all the time – I have my own life, you know. You can go play hockey with your friends while my friends and I watch MST3K.”

He shuddered. “Even the abbreviation grates on my nerves.”

“FINE! I will watch ‘the show with the talking space puppets’ in secret, in the dead of night, with earphones, if you DO NOT BREAK UP WITH ME!”

“I’m sorry to interrupt. Miss, you have chocolate sauce on your elbow,” said the waitress, as she handed me a wad of napkins.

I tend to flail my arms a lot, even in normal conversation, and this gets rapidly accentuated when I’m excited and/or upset. I had already knocked over a salt shaker and a small glass of water, so it’s not surprising that my elbow and half the seat were covered in hot fudge.

“Um…is there anything else I can get for you?” the waitress asked. She shot me the secret “OMG, are you okay?” look.  I shot her back the “OMG, do you have any cookie-dough-flavored poison back in the kitchen because this guy is seriously not leaving the restaurant with all of his organs in their original condition” look. (It’s a highly-technical facial expression that has been passed down by my family for generations.)

“Just the check please,” Donny replied, completely oblivious to the growing hostility in the room against him. He took a big sip of his horrible pink milkshake and continued, “The thing is, if we stay together, I know that we’ll get married, and that would be really bad.”

“I thought ‘marriage’ was the whole purpose behind ‘dating’.”

“I am not leaving my high paying job for you.”

“I never asked you to be unemployed! Remember, since I go to ART school, ‘employment’ is on the Top 10 Things I Look for in a Man…”

“Seriously, though. If we get married, you’re going to stay in Pennsylvania. We’ll settle down. You’ll probably get pregnant and-”

“But neither of us wants kids! Donny-”

“-I’ll still have to go away on business all the time-”

“-condoms, the pill, IUDs,-”

“-so you’ll be stuck home with the kid-”

“-vasectomy, tubal ligation, tight underwear-”

“-and then you’ll start to resent me-”

“-female condom, the rhythm method, yellow 7 or 9 or something, I don’t remember.”

“Stop making lists of things, it pisses me off.”

“Stop breaking up with me, it pisses ME off!”

“Listen, Stephanie,” he said, taking my hand into his. I thought I was going to pass out. “If you settle for me and don’t move to Los Angeles, you will hate yourself. You will hate me.”

“I hate Los Angeles.”

“You’ve never been to Los Angeles.”

“I don’t care. I hate it. And I’m doing fine out here! I’m only 20 years old, and I run an animation business – here! In Pennsylvania! I don’t really have many clients, but…I have a registered LLC!”

“I know. And as much as I want to, I just don’t care. I’ve tried to understand the art thing and I just don’t get it. And that’s why I don’t love you anymore.”

He stood up, threw $40 down, and walked out of the restaurant.

“But….I still love you,” I said to Mr. Cone Head™, who had melted all over the table, which was now a disastrous pool of my drink spills, food splatters, and tears.

I tipped the waitress generously.

Suffice it to say, this did not help my abandonment issues.  I avoided all Friendly’s Restaurants and dates that involved food shaped into faces. It was not until the summer of 2012, almost exactly TEN years later, that I entered the doors of a Friendly’s. I had received a completely irresistible coupon and my thriftiness outweighed my irrational superstitions.

I impulsively ordered Mr. Cone Head™. He was just as I remembered him. It dawned on me that it might just be Mr. Cone Head™ – not Donnie – that I should have loved all along. Mr. Cone Head™ is consistent. He’s funny. He’s sweet. And he’ll never dump me in a Friendly’s because the poor guy has no mouth.

At a meeting today…

Sales Guy: Hey, you should call your mom today and pretend you’re getting brutally murdered.

Me: WHY WOULD I DO THAT?

Sales Guy: Because of your American Goulash blog! She’s superstitious, right? So record yourself calling her and pretend something bad happened because of Friday the 13th, it would get lots of hits!

Me: You might be an excellent salesperson, but you’re a terrible person.

Sales Guy: Ha! I get that a lot, actually….

Thanks for the tip, but I don’t write this series to torture my mom. I write this because she tortures me.

My friend Alia happened to have a Nintendo system AND a computer, but I was always forbidden from visiting friend’s houses (except for the occasional birthday) due to 1) germs, 2) potential loose parental supervision, and 3) the risk of dogs and cats. In an attempt to save me from my sheltered childhood, Alia tried to bring over her Nintendo, but none of the televisions in my house had proper inputs for a video game system. In those days, computers were also not portable, which meant no floppy disk/CD-ROM games, either.

The only solution to my video game conundrum was to play over the phone. As a team, Alia and I beat Maniac Mansion II: Day of the Tentacle, Roger Rabbit, Goonies, and Friday the 13^th. To this day, I still haven’t had seen or played any of these games in “real life,” other than in my friend’s hilarious, potty-mouthed nostalgia game reviews. (Which, if you haven’t seen at this point, you need to right now: Angry Video Game Nerd.)

None of our games had save points, so for about six or seven hours every Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, both of our houses were filled incessant chattering like, “Did I just hear the Jason music? Did anyone get stabbed?” and the ever famous, “You’re in the kitchen with the hamster, right? What happens if you put it in the microwave? Gross!” This drove our families crazy because without second phone lines, call waiting, cellphones, or the internet, there was no way to break through our videogame marathons.

Somewhere around my 11^th birthday, Alia’s father finally broke down and bought me a SEGA Genesis. After realizing our technical issues, he was even kind enough to trade his “newer-old” TV for our “old-old” TV and hook it up for us.

My family didn’t see this as a solution to the phone problem at all. Anyu and Nagymama generally fear technology, and it took Alia’s father over an hour to convince them that the new Sega Genesis would not burn our eyes out, record all of our conversations, or ignite into a giant fireball if left plugged in too long.

After Alia and her father left, a sense of jubilation, victory, and peace washed over me. My mother watched me play for a few minutes and didn’t say anything. I peeked behind me and noticed that she was smiling. I got excited that, at least for that brief moment, she was approving of my actions.

Gaming meant so much to me, especially as a kid. Playing a game helped me explore new worlds, be another person, and do things that I would never be allowed or brave enough to do. After a childhood of drawing on the back of hotel placemats because we didn’t have money for drawing paper, making dollhouses out of cardboard boxes, and fighting tooth and nail for niceties like 25 cent rubber balls, I couldn’t believe that I would be lucky enough to have something that was…luxurious. Special. Magical. I didn’t know how to communicate any of this to my mother, so I just looked over to her and said, “You want to play, too?”

She looked genuinely shocked. “Oh, no dat’s kids stuff.”

“Come on, it’s fun! You can play a fox with two tails…”

“You know, Stephie, I vant you to tink about someting. Alia’s fadder spent $120 dollars on dis video ting for you.”

“I said thank you like a billion times, remember?”

“Your own fadder wouldn’t spend $120 on you….”

“Uh-huh,” I said, returning my gaze to the rambunctious blue hedgehog collect gold coins.

“You know, you need to start tinking about dah future. Alia’s father is a generous man. Maybe you should consider… marrying him.”

She was being completely serious.

When I told this story to my cousin in later years, she laughed and said, “You’re lucky you got a Sega Genesis dowry. Back in the old country, they would have traded you for two goats.”

I am forced to agree. A Sega Genesis is a way better deal than two goats.

Photo by João Paulo. And yes, I know it’s a MegaDrive.

Despite the frequent hand cramps, this television was my prized possession. I spent almost every waking moment watching one of the four channels that came in clear: ABC, PBS, WPIX (now the WB), and WWOR (now UPN/my9). In fact, I learned most of my English from watching Sesame Street and Perfect Strangers.

Around second or third grade, I discovered that there were cartoons on the other channels, namely FOX, which came in mostly as snow with the occasional flash of Bobby’s World and Tiny Toons. After some trial and error, I invented some sort of tin foil/coat hanger antennae TV attachment, which worked better if held it above my head while standing on one foot. Of course, this drove my mom, nuts.

“Stephie, bedtime.”

“Anyu, the Simpsons is on!”

“Don’t stand so close to dah TV. You’re gonna burn your eyes out!”

“Please Anyu, it’s almost over!”

“Dat’s it! I’m calling your fadder!”

For some reason, despite my father living thousands of miles away, my mother always called him whenever I needed a “talking to.”

“Apu, I’m not trying to be bad. I just want to watch cartoons and they’re all fuzzy and mom wants me to go to sleep and my cartoon isn’t over,” I plead over the phone.

“Vhat you need is a new color TV vith an antennae and VCR,” he replied in a thick accent reminiscent of Bela Lugosi. “It records TV so you can vatch it anytime, Stephiebaba. I’ll buy you von tomorrow and mail it vith some tapes so you can record your cartoons.”

Ignorance truly is bliss sometimes. I was never allowed to go to my friends’ houses, so I assumed that big color televisions only existed in “fancy department stores” like K-mart. I had never seen a VCR or even heard of any way to save television so I’d never miss an episode. My father opened my eyes to the possibility of modern technology and endless entertainment.

For the next week, I waited patiently by the window for the UPS truck. Every day, I jumped and ran to the door hoping for that brown truck to bring me a package. After about a month of this, I started to get really anxious and asked my mom when the packages Apu promised were coming. Before I knew it, I was hiding in the hamper as my mother screamed at my father over the phone. “Vhy did you promise all dis sh*t if you already spent all your money? She’s only eight years old, she doesn’t understand! You alvays do dis… hold on, you tell her yourself….vhere dah hell did she go?”

Mom pulled the long coded phone over to the hamper and handed it to me. “Your fadder vants to talk to you.”

My father mumbled a few things into my ear.  I burst into tears and hung up the phone.

“Stephie! Vhat did he say to you?”

“Apu said…he said he bought a new pretty color TV and VCR and all of these mermaid and Simpsons toys…and the mail man lost them! He thinks he sent it to another little girl.”

My mother furrowed her brown. “Son of a-”

Anyu immediately created her patented whipped cream sundae and I calmed down for a while. She went into the other room and had a muffled conversation in Hungarian. About an hour later, my aunt showed up to the door, struggling to carry a large square object wrapped in a blanket.

“Stephie, I vant to talk to you,” she said, as she placed the mysterious object on the living room floor. “I know you vant new toys and a VCR very badly, but they are very expensive…”

I looked down at the floor and bit my lower lip.

“Listen, don’t cry. If ve all save up our monies, maybe someday you can have many new tings. But for now because you’re father…vell…because your fadder vas lying again, that son of a-”

“Sari…” my mom interrupted.

“Yah, so listen,” my aunt continued, “I’m going to give you sometink very special to make it up to you, ok?”

My eyes opened wide in shock as my aunt unwrapped the blanket to reveal a color television, complete with rabbit ears and a remote. She was tired of seeing me disappointed, so she took her own TV out of her upholstery shop and gave it to me. It was dusty, scratched, and a little sticky for some reason, but I didn’t care. I didn’t even let them take the old TV down before I plugged it in…just in time for The Simpsons.

“Stephie!” my mom said with her hands on her hips. “Your aunt just brought you a present! Vhat do you say to her?”

“OHMYGOSH, LOOK! The Simpsons are YELLOW?!?”

~to be continued: The Sega Saga~

photo by Therese Branton

I was always good at drawing, but I didn’t realize until fourth grade that it was a very effective deterrent against bullies. People would find some reason to pick on me, but once I started drawing popular animated and comic book characters, everyone – including the bullies – gathered around to watch.

One day, Lance* (name has been changed to protect the guilty), the prematurely humongous bully that got away with everything because his mom was the lunch lady, spotted me at the drinking fountain. I froze like a deer in headlights as he came towards me. He looked around to make sure the coast was clear before he talked to me, the awkward nerd girl with the funny accent and stutter.

“Uh, can you….draw me a picture of this?”

He reached into his backpack and pulled out a crumpled comic book featuring a big-breasted Amazonian woman with white hair.

I blushed. “Uh…I…I dunno who that is.”

“Don’t you know anything?” he snorted. “It’s Glory from the Youngblood Strikefile! I want a big poster of her for my wall. Like…life sized. Or bigger! Can you do it?”

I considered the logistics of the project for a moment.^[1] Something told me that parents and teachers would not approve of this young lady fighting crime with her boobs hanging out like that. And if I didn’t do the project well, Lance would tell all of the other kids that I was a lousy artist, and the bullying would start again. I figured that if I worked after school before the late bus came every day for a solid month, I could create a great-looking poster without getting into trouble with my mom. But I would need some help to get started.

I bit my lower lip and braced myself, “I can do it for $35.”

“Aw, come on, can’t you just do it for free? That’s like three weeks allowance!”

“I don’t get an allowance at all, so I have to making drawings so I can buy stuff.” ^[2]

“That’s weird. Why doesn’t your mom just buy you things? Oh, right, I forgot. You’re family’s poor.” He laughed and snorted.

I blushed, put my head down, and turned away, “Well, okay, I gotta go now…” ^[3]

He stomped his foot, “It’s not fair, why won’t you just DO this? I can’t draw, and drawing is FUN for you.”^[4]

I turned back around.  “Nuh-uh! I don’t even like this character!”

“But she’s popular. And if you make it good enough, maybe Marvel comics will be impressed and let you work there.”

“Oh, man, that would be so cool…but wait. How’s Marvel gonna see the picture if it’s in your house?”

“Uh…I have an uncle that works at Marvel. He makes all the comic books.”

I considered this for a moment. “Awesome!” I furiously flipped in my sketchbook. “Then I have a bunch of my own original ideas I want to show him and then maybe we can make them together!”

“Oh, he’s far-far away in Hollywood where all the artists live.”^[5]

“Wait. Huh? Then if he’s all the way in Hollywood, then how’s he gonna see anything I draw at all?”

“Come ooooooon, please? Are you gonna draw this for me or not? My mom will give you an extra chocolate milk at lunchtime for the next month!”

“Oooo…..but wait. Mom says chocolate milk makes you fat. And I can’t trade chocolate milk for art supplies. And I’m gonna need a LOT of peach crayons to color all of this boob skin.” ^[6]

“Wait a sec…”

Lance dug through his backpack and handed me a mangled box of dirty crayon stubs with a small pad of drawing paper. “There, now you can do it free because I gave you everything you need.”

I looked at the powdery mess of wax. “There are no peach crayons in here and the paper is too small.”

“Art teacher says you can melt all of the other crayon colors into the one you need. And then you can glue the pieces of paper together to make them really big.”

“I’m not allowed to use matches. And gluing paper together looks crappy.” ^[7]

“Fine. I have a thing of quarters I’ve been saving next to my bed. I’ll see how much I have so we can trade.”

“That sounds fair.”

The next day, he brought in his barrel of change and we counted it out. $15.25.

“Ok,” I replied. “Maybe I can do a little-er picture and-”

“No way! I want the biggest picture ever! WALL SIZED! Can’t you just do it for cheaper?”^[8]

“But it’s gonna take me a whole month to make it! I won’t be able to make my own art projects or do drawings for other people that whole time, and I’m saving up quarters to beat Dark Stalkers at the arcade.”

“Well, if I give you any money, how do I know you’re gonna finish it?”

“I have an idea,” I said, doing math in my notebook. “Okay, so if you give me $15.25 now, then I need $19.75 when it’s done. I’ll make a receipt thing like they give at the store, one for you, one for me. And I guess we both sign it?”^[9]

“That’s a good idea. And I’ll just get the rest from my brother. I’ll tell him that you ever become a famous artist, and then the picture will be worth a lot of money. And then you’ll buy it back from us, right?”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works. I think teacher said the value of art increases when the artist is dead.”

“Okay, then we’ll wait for that.”

As expected, took me about a month to draw the semi-pornographic poster in secret. I was constantly looking over my shoulder, afraid that someone might see it and take my barrel of precious video game quarters. The delivery day finally came and we decided to meet in the lunch room by the trash cans.

“You got the picture?”

I pulled it out.

“WHOAH! Her boobies are the size of my head!”

“Hold on a sec, do you have extra money?”

“I forgot it. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow. But I want to show this to my brother tonight!” He made a grab for the picture.

I got a weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. ^[10] “Uh, I think it would be better if you gave me the rest and then I gave you the picture.”

“Just give it to me now!” he started to get louder.

“Stop, you’re gonna wrinkle it!” I screamed.

Just then, Lance’s mom happened to walk by, donning her lunch lady garb.

“Just what is going on here?” she said in a booming voice.

We both froze in place.  “Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhh…”

“Give me whatever you are fighting about. Right now.”

Her eyes grew wider with each she unrolled the picture. I was terrified that she was going to rip it up and toss it into the heap of discarded green beans and tater tots.

“You drew this?” she asked me.

I nodded but did not look up at her.

“So why were you trying to take away her drawing, Lance?”

“I paid for it, fair and square.”

“NUH-UH!” I dug around in my packback and pulled out my copy of the receipt. The lunch lady looked at it closely. ^[11]

“Lance, this is your signature.”

“Yeah, but my brother changed his mind. But I still have the drawing. So make her give it to me.”

“Why did you lie to this poor girl? Your brother doesn’t have any interest in…this…nor does he have $19.75.”

The lunch lady dug around in her apron and pulled out a $20 bill. “Here you go, dear. Keep the change.” She turned around to glare at Lance. “I’ll just take some of it out of his next allowance. The rest he’ll earn by mowing lawns.”

“Awww!”

“Hey, if you buy something on credit, you need to pay for it! Time is money, sweetie-cakes.”

“Moooooom! Don’t call me that at school!”

So why do “starving artists” exist? Is art really only valuable after your dead?

The answer is no.

To non-artists, our trade seems fun and glamorous. Even worse, now it seems “easy”. Heck, I cringe every time I see a commercial on television for “handicams that make it easy to make HD movies” and “software that will make you paint like Van Gogh.” The technology has changed a lot since the days of cranking silent film cameras and hacking off ears as a form of expression, but I promise being a good craftsperson and storyteller has not. You can have an unlimited budget, the top-of-the-line technology, and still create total garbage (Example: Wolverine. Budget: $150 million)

It’s your duty as an artist to refine your trade and remind clients why you are valuable – no one is doing you a favor by “allowing” you to be an artist. You don’t see people walking to the fancy coffee shop and demanding lattes for free because the barista only has one year experience making coffee. Working commercial jobs for free sets a bad precedent and undermines yourself and your fellow artists. If anyone complains, blame the scary 6 foot tall pimp producer lady you heard about from the internet for forcing you to ask for money.

If you’re just dabbling or want to build your portfolio, donate work to a small charity in need or make a collaborative/ independent project that you actually enjoy. Don’t look at other artists as your competition. Meet fellow creatives, compare notes, heck, compare rates! My most loyal, fair, paying clients have almost exclusively been word-of-mouth referrals from my artist colleagues.

As for Lance? He was miffed at me for about a week. I avoided him by playing Dark Stalkers with my newly earned money at the arcade (I beat it, by the way).  Eventually, his friends saw the blazing Glory art across his wall and got jealous. He was so delighted to be the only kid on his block to own boobies the size of his head that commissioned me to draw Rogue from the X-men on his Trapper Keeper (her boobs were more reasonable). In high school, he and a group of bullies even bought a bunch of my weird ceramic palm tree lamps. Of course, I was horrified when I discovered that the lamps were popular because they were easy to convert into bongs, but that’s another story.

Here is the transcription:

“Hello, my name in [Censored]. I’ve been reading your American Goulash story series online and I am impressed. [So & So] told me you were finished with a manuscript, and I am interested in potentially representing you.”

Boy. Word travels fast on social media.

My heart started to race. “Well, I uh, ehhhh…I’m flattered. I am only in the first draft stages but-”

“Okay, good. Then I can talk to you about some of the topics. I LOVE the silly little things about your grandmama fighting robbers, but I cannot represent anything inappropriate like sex or getting your period.”

“Uh-”

“I am very interested in your stories about Bible camp. Could you focus more on the spirituality aspect of going to Bible Camp and how it affected your relationship with God?”

“Uh, well…I’m not sure how much you read, but the series is about the relationship between a European family with old world values and an artsy-fartsy modern American girl. I will gladly hear editorial notes, but in terms of censorship, I do not find topics like getting your period to be ‘inappropriate’. These are things I wish I knew about when I was younger and-”

“Well, okay, maybe THAT topic is okay, but something like..what is your latest post? About receiving pornographic magazines as a youngster? Highly inappropriate for my contact list of book publishers. These are FAMILY companies with commitments to spirituality. See what I mean?”

“Wait-uh….this is a comedy memoir series. Autobiographical. While religious institutions may be a backdrop in some stories, this is in no way a book about spirituality. I’m really sorry if-”

She laughed. “But it COULD BE! Reading about you overcoming obstacles like your speech impediment is inspirational, and can be directly attributed to God! I would love to work with you, and an editor, of course, gratis, to really find God in your book.”

“I think that would be insincere, especially to long-time readers. I’m sorry. I’m just not qualified to write a religious book. ”

“Oh, we don’t just represent religious books! We’re totally mainstream!”

“Okay…”

“But the book does have to contain God in some way. Religion sells.”

“Does the use of the word ‘God-damned’ count?”

“Certainly not.”

“I know. I was kidding. That’s what I do, I kid, I kid…”

“I know, you’re a comedian. But in all seriousness, there is to be NO profanity at all in this manuscript if you would like me to represent you. That phrase you just said is considered pretty offensive to some people.”

“I write the way I speak, and I’m sort of an ass.”

“Maybe you should think about the way you speak.”

“I do think about the way I speak. I have a weird accent and I talk funny. So I think about funny things to say.”

“Well, that’s not funny.”

“Then no offense, if you don’t think I’m funny, when why are you trying to sell my book? If you don’t think I’m the right brand, I know plenty of talented writers that I can connect you with. It’s sort of what I do, actually. I run this non-profit where-”

“No, no, no, no, no, no, NO! I don’t mean you’re unfunny. I just mean foul language and inappropriate subject matter. Just send me your manuscript. Or just pick one story off your website. I’ll clean it up for you as a sample.”

“No worries. I’ll have a few ideas on ways to clean up my website of things like ‘God Damn’. Check back in a week or two.”

“OKAY!”

So, here you go, lady:

Thank you for saving the day, Randall Munroe, XKDC.

After playing a delicate dancing game around my week’s plans, I set off for my Seattle trip without a hitch. I thought it was a bit odd that all of my friends’ planes were delayed due to “Hurricane Irene,” but I figured it was just an overly marketed thunderstorm and decided to hang out at a local brewery while I waited for them to land.

I turned on my phone for the first time that day – 12 missed called, 5 new voicemails. All from my mom. Ruh roh.

“Mom, is everything okay?”

“Vhy is it so loud? Are you at a bar?”

“Uh…”

“Vhat are you, a vacko? Dere’s trees flyink everyvhere and four feet of vater, and you’re partying hardy over dere?”

“Anyu, I’m going to tell you something shocking. I’m in Seattle.”

“I don’t give a shit vhat restaurant you’re in. Get in dah car right now and go home! Hurricane Irene is here! GET HOME NOW, IT’S COMINK FOR YOU!”

“But Anyu-”

My friend Kevin, an internet personality known as the trouble-making “Glitch Gremlin” started cracking up. He heard about my mother when he assisted me with gathering photos for her Hairy Man Calendar, but never had the pleasure to hear the long streams of Hungarian profanity she is known for.

He grinned evilly, “Is this actually happening? I think I love her.”

“Shhh! You’re making this much worse for me.”

“Vho is dat? Is somebody listening?”

“Mom, listen, Seattle is in Washington. I am 3,000 miles away from you. It was sunny and beautiful here all day.”

“Vhat? Are you sure dere’s no storm comink? Look outside.”

“I promise, Hurricane Irene is nowhere near me. Are YOU okay?”

“The sump pump is goink crazy but everytink else is okay. I vas hoping dat maybe dis storm could drown dah rats in the basement…”

“STEPH’S MOM!” Kevin screamed, “I LOVE YOU! WILL YOU MARRY ME?”

“Who is dat? Is he drunk?”

“It’s Kevin. He’s not drunk, he’s just an asshole.”

The next day:

“Stephie, Stephie, I heard on dah news, Irene is comink for you!”

“What? That’s impossible!”

“It’s goink down to Florida…”

“Wait. Mom. I’m in Washington STATE. Not Washington DC. Those are two different places.”

“Vhat? How do you know? It’s by Philadelphia.”

“No, Seattle is so far northwest that it’s almost Canada. You know, Vancouver?”

“Why did they make two Vashingtons?”

“Woman. I love you, but for Christmas, I’m buying you a map.”

“Eeeeehhhhh. Stephie…I’ve been meaning to ask you. For Christmas, make me anodder von of dose sexy hairy man calendars?”

“Which hairy men would you like to see? Richard Gere again?”

“Yah. And who vas your friend dah odder day? Kevin? He sounds sexy. Does he have chest hair or he like all of your odder feminine man friends?”

“I do not go out of the way to see my friends shirtless, Anyu.”

“Dats okay, you don’t need to. You can tell a real man because his chest hair curls over dah collar.”

Well, people. You heard the lady. Will you assist me on another project to…uh…turn on my mother? ::shudder::

Kevin. I’m counting on you to take your shirt off or Mr. March is going to be this:

Dear Dollar Tree, Inc.,

Let me tell you a story.

A story about $1 glowsticks.

Back in March, I was planning  a non-profit event that required the purchase of large number of non-toxic glowsticks.  As I stood in the middle of the isle, baffled by your sea of chemiluminescent of assorted plastic tubes, a kindly store clerk asked me if I needed assistance. What I needed help with was some simple mathematical forecasting. Probably not the best thing to ask from a retail clerk wearing a Spiderman band-aid to cover her eyebrow ring (thus drawing more attention to the eyebrow ring) but I give everyone a shot. And it really was a cool band-aid.

My equation was this:

My quarterly events with $0 cover charge generally attract 220-260 people.
We charge $1 per glowstick, thus averaging 1.5 glowsticks purchased per person = 330-390 needed

When we charge $5 for the event, which includes one free glowstick + $1 for each additional glowstick, attendance drops to 40-50 people with an average of 1.2 glowsticks per person = 96-120 glowsticks needed

Based on this tiny market study, what is the projected glowstick consumption if I was enacting a $2 cover that includes one free glowstick? (get your calculators, kids!)

The girl laughed, told me the event sounded awesome, and I should just buy a case of assorted glowsticks (350) to be safe and to guarantee the largest array of colors for my guests. Then I could return the unused ones for a credit on my card as long as I provided a receipt. She also assured me that by purchasing a case, “positive thinking” rather than “over-thinking” would cosmically  attract more people to our event. I figured a larger marketing budget rather than some sort of glowstick mediation exercise would bring more people, but I don’t try to argue with people that base their entire life on principals of “The Secret”.

As I was checking out, I happened to notice the vague return policy. “I’m not sure if I’m going to use all of these,” I told the cashier, “If I charge this to my card, will I be able to return the unopened ones, even if there are a lot of them?”

“Yes,” he replied, “It’s not a big deal, we return stuff all the time – just hold onto your receipt.”

So, the event rolls around and as expected, starving artists don’t like to pay any kind of cover, we only had 70 people (But 1.7 glowsticks per person. Fascinating statistical anomaly  right? Oh, you’re asleep. Sorry. I promise, I’m getting somewhere with this.)  The event left me with an overage of 230 glowsticks, which were still completely sealed, sorted by color, separated into stacks of 20.

The next day, I came with the case and the person behind the desk went into a fit of rage when I attempted to return them. She claimed there was no physical way to credit my card back and that I would need exchange them for other items. She also said that creating a store credit would be out of the question because “your systems can’t handle this kind of thing”. Then some smoke came out of her ears. Okay, maybe that part didn’t happen, but seriously, she was pissed.

I politely left with my glowsticks and decided I should try another time, with a different person that wasn’t having such a bad day. Who knows – perhaps her dog died or she was forced to use a public stall without any toilet paper in it and she got some kind of rash. Or she might have received a call from her credit card company, alerting her that she accidentally ordered a cake for her daughter’s birthday party from an erotic baking company with a hard-of-hearing customer service person and instead of “Happy Birthday Alice,” someone was delivering a $1,200  “Forty Foot Phallus”  cake to the nunnery where her sister lives while I was yammering on about stupid glowsticks. I mean, that would ruin anyone’s day, right?

So, I called later to talk to the manager, and the girl on the phone (Beth?) told me I could return them and there would be no problem. She apologized for “Crankie Jo” and said that she was on meds or something (not kidding. She actually said that). I went all the way BACK to the store, dropped the giant pile of glowsticks off with “Beth”, picked up a few jars of delightful name-brand mustard (way to go, Dollar Tree! That’s stuff seriously costs like $3 at the grocery store) and checked out. Once Beth finally looked back  at my giant stack of glow-stick, her expression was that of a teenage girl looking at a “plus” sign on a pregnancy test (which is also conveniently available at the Dollar Tree. Score two for you guys.)

“Oh, no, you can’t return that many,” she said, shaking her pony tail furiously.

“Wait, WHAT? You said on the phone I could.”

“Well, I didn’t know you had that many.”

“Well, the store told me it would be easier if I BOUGHT this many…”

“Let me talk to my manager….”

SURPRISE! Beth actually had no authority. (It occurred to me that after reading “SURPRISE”, you might have been expecting the erotic cake rather than a lack of infrastructure at your store. I assure you, the cake is on it’s way to the nunnery and it’s out of my hands. Sorry to disappoint.)

Beth walked around for a while and returned with a grim look on her face.

“Well, how many can I return?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Some?”

“What do you mean, ‘Some’? What did your manger say?”

“She’s not here. She’s….gone.”

“What? For how long?”

“I don’t know?”

“Okay…so if she’s dead, who’s next in command?”

“Me, I guess.” Beth looked very concerned. I guess she didn’t understand my attempt at lightening the situation.

“And you said I could return all the glowsticks, I have the original receipt and credit card I charged them for, I just bought them last week, and they are untouched.”

“Uhhhhhhhhhh….Maybe 20 would be okay, but I had to buy something else before I give it to you.”

“That’s not gonna work for me, Beth. I need you manager and I don’t want to hold up all the people behind me. Can you find her? Is she actual dead? Do you sell shovels here? I can help you…”

“Yeah, okay. I mean. Wait. I mean…..But you should still at least buy a few things while you’re here so I can give you your money back.” I guess this is Dollar Tree logic. Poor Beth, she just doesn’t “get me,” , even after all we’ve been through together.

As I walked through the aisles of tape that never sticks to anything except for itself and detergent that is affordable, but causes my sensitive skin to have horrible allergic reactions I pondered the life, the universe, and Everything Bagels (which you sell now, too. Way to go!) In the midst of my spiritual enlightening in the cleaning isle, I considered mixing some bleach and potpourri into a magical potion and offering it up to the VISA gods in exchange for a credit card  allow for a refund, but I thought it might look like an act of terrorism  so I resisted. As I continued to wander the isles, grabbing bags of Festingo-Brand-Cheesy-Orange-Triangles® and assorted treats for my volunteers and high school interns, I could feel the piecing stares of the employees and hushed whispers. The employees had gathered and it seems that they thought I was trying to pull some sort of Dollar Store Glow Stick Crime Caper™

Finally, an older lady that looked really mad came over, so I assumed she was the manager. I waited in line again, patiently, and smiles at Beth.

“Okay, here, I bought twenty items, how many am I allowed to return?”

Beth looked around frantically. The mean lady came to her side and looked me dead in the eye, “For twenty? I can take 30 glowsticks back and give you $10.”

I’m a fairly mild-mannered person, so it takes a lot for me to get flushed and angry. “Listen, this is not let’s make a deal. This is not the Beijing Silk Market. It’s the frakkin Dollar Tree in Blue Bell, Pennsylvania. Please, I’m begging you, can you just take the glow sticks or issue me some sort of receipt so I don’t have to store hundreds of glowsticks in my small house or office that’s prone to flooding?”

“It’s our policy,” she replied with a smile, pointing to the same Return Policy that the previous cashier said allowed for this type of transaction. “You see, you’re not just trying to return just anything. This is a SEASONAL item, you’re lucky I’m even ALLOWING you to exchange anything because there are NO RETURNS on SEASONAL items, MA’AM. $10 for 30 glowsticks plus whatever else you’re buying. Take it or leave it?”

What was I supposed to do?  It’s not even my money, it’s the charity’s money. And I hate being called Ma’am. So, I took it.  And instead of following my mission statement to “exhibit, promote, inspire, and connect creative people,” for the last few months,  I’ve been exchanging glowsticks for food, 20-30 at a time (pre-counted & rubber-banded for your convenience), having to wait for the lines to clear as to not inconvenience other guests,  explaining the situation to a new cashier each time, enduring the rolled eyes and the leers and the wasted time.  All because I can’t track down the girl with the Spiderman band-aid that told me it would be okay.

I’m not trying to be difficult. I know everyone is frustrated because they are getting paid minimum wage in a depressed economy, but look at it this way – some of us are in this world literally earning NOTHING. I used to earn a comfortable living in the corporate world, and then I just got sick of the lies, lack of respect for creativity, and injustice.  I’ve literally put every last cent on the line to grow my community organization – which is up the street from this Dollar Tree location, by the way – to help shake things up in our town and maybe create a few jobs in the arts.

At first, I was honestly terrified to write this letter for fear of getting “blacklisted” for future charitable donations now that we’ve obtained our 501(c)3  status. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that honesty (and a little bit of snarky humor) is worth potentially getting “blacklisted” for if it means that I can make a change. Or at least make some laugh. Or annoy the heck out of you like you annoyed the heck out of me. Eh, I take what I can get.

I could have saved you a lot of time if I had just written, “Your return policy sucks, Dollar Tree,” and hit send. The same way you could have saved ME a lot of time by saying, “No, ma’am, you should buy an entire case of glowsticks because you won’t be able to return them if your event sucks due to lack of funding.” So, do me a favor. Even if you don’t change your crappy return policy, can you please clarify it to your employees so future generations of glowstick buying fools don’t end running around with glowstick packs like some kind of futuristic hobos? Thanks.

Sincerely,

Stephanie Yuhas
Founder, Project Twenty1
Co-Founder, Member & Advisory Board of SEVERAL other local arts orgs that I won’t name (but I’ll make sure to BCC on this letter)

Attached:  Stock photo of a girl carrying a chicken with a windup key on its back. Because it makes just as much sense as your return policy.)

(*apologizes to my cousin in advance who will probably get really mad at me for writing this. But it’s funny an educational! Don’t kill me. *)

“My back is killing me,” my cousin said as she placed her baby into the stroller.

“Eh, you’ll feel better after you get in the hot tub,” I replied.  We had already spent a full day at Bible Camp and were looking forward to the solitude of “Adult Swim,” an hour long open hot tub and swimming pool session for adults-only.

“That sounds pretty good. But wait…is it safe to go into the hot tub? I’m still breastfeeding.”

“What could go wrong?”

“I know this sounds stupid, but I don’t want to get into super-hot-tub and have my milk supply go bad somehow. Not just from the heat, but there’s all kinds of bacteria in the water that can get into your milk duct and cause an infection.”

“The things they don’t tell you about pregnancy in health class…”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

“Well, you’re the first person with a baby that I’ve ever hung out with, so I don’t know squat. But I have a fancy cellphone with a data plan and I’m sure the internet has an answer for this.”

I typed in: “Is it safe to go into hot tub while still breastfeeding?” and inexplicably went to Yahoo Answers, the world’s “finest” source of information. I read the answers out-loud in complete disbelief:

If you use a hot tub while breastfeeding make sure you keep the baby’s head above water. And also they really shouldn’t go in the water until half an hour AFTER they eat

“WHAT?”

“Wait, wait, scroll down, maybe the second answer will be better…”

As long as you keep baby’s face out of the water, it’s fine…I really have nursed my baby in a hot tub. If baby’s in with you, keep the temperature below 100, but if baby’s not, then go with your comfort.

My cousin shook her head, “WHO would bring their NEW BABY into a HOT TUB?”

I sighed.  “In  way, I’m happy that there was no internet when we were kids. We probably would have cooked to death if our parents read this misinformation.”

“This coming from a person whose parents locked all the windows in the middle of August to avoid robbers, were afraid of oscillating fans because of pneumonia, and got tied down with blankets every night? You ALWAYS had heat rash….”

“Point taken. My insides are probably medium-well by now. I’m gonna go cook in the hot tub.”

“Okay, you do that, I’m going to keep looking for information about curdled breast milk.”

“Um. Make sure you turn the Safe Search on. I don’t want to end up on some weird…fetish list.”

(Note to Curious Mommies: After some research we discovered that it is safe to go into a hot tub while breastfeeding, and it’s supposed to actually make your very sore boobies feel better. But clean your boobies before feeding Baby. And nobody puts Baby in the hot tub.)

Photo by Tracy Byrne