When Feminists Try to Give Compliments

by Janine Annett

Me: Hey, congratulations on your engagement!  Of course, It’s equally valid to be single, partnered but not married, married, whatever! Hey, your fiance, is he - oh, I didn’t mean to be heteronormative and assume your fiance is a man. Is it a man? OK. I just didn’t want to assume. You know what they say about assuming! Making an ass of U and ME, you know? Anyway, yeah, congratulations. Do you have an engagement ring? It’s totally fine if you don’t have a ring, I didn’t mean to suggest you SHOULD. Oh, you do! It’s really nice. Is it conflict-free? Congratulations again!! 

Other Person:  Uh, ok, thanks. [Awkward Silence].

---

Me: Oh, your hair looks nice. Did you - never mind. No, it’s just that the conventional wisdom is never to ask someone ‘Did you dye your hair?’ because that’s considered rude, you know? But your hair is lavender, so I mean, obviously you did dye it. It looks great! I’m not saying a woman needs to color her hair to look nice, or that we should all abide by the old rule that it’s ‘rude’ to ask if someone dyed her hair, because of assumptions about aging and grey hair. Your hair just looks good. 

Other Person:  Uh, ok, thanks. [Awkward Silence].

---

Me: You look fantastic! Really… healthy. I’m not trying to say you look good because you lost weight. I totally support beauty at all sizes. I don’t want to suggest you look better now because you’re thinner. I just mean you look happy and healthy, like you have a nice glow about you and I just wanted to say you look nice, without sounding weird, but I think I’m sounding weird. I’m sorry. You look great. Not that I only value you for your looks. You are also really smart, and kind to others.

Other Person:  Uh, ok, thanks. [Awkward Silence].

---

Me: Your hair looks nice today. You’re wearing it straight! Not that I’m implying straight hair is inherently better than curly hair. I like curly hair, too. And I think it’s ridiculous, and frankly racist, that straight hair is considered more ‘professional’ than curly hair, don’t you agree? I mean, your hair looks awesome when you wear it curly too. You just have nice hair, either way. 

Other Person:  Uh, ok, thanks. [Awkward Silence].

--- 

Me:  You’re pregnant? Congratulations! Just to be clear, I’m not measuring your worth by whether or not you have kids. I think it’s completely fine to have zero kids, or one kid, or two kids, or a ton of kids! I am 100% pro choice! And that means supporting all of a woman’s reproductive choices. Sorry, I didn’t mean to give a lecture. I’m just happy for you. How are you feeling? I promise not to do that thing that people do where they talk about the horrors of childbirth, or the difficulty of being a working mother… that is, if you choose to be a working mother. It’s up to you whether or not to be a working mom or a stay at home mom… I have total respect for both decisions! 

Other Person:  Uh, ok, thanks. [Awkward Silence].

Janine Annett lives just outside of New York City with her husband, son, and very old cat. Her writing has recently appeared on Parent.Co, Robot Butt,  Neutrons/Protons, the Higgs Weldon, Below the Fold, Bullshit.Ist, BanterGirl, Sammiches & Psych Meds/MockMom, and the Akashic Books website. Janine also writes picture books. Follow her on Twitter (www.twitter.com/janineannett) or Facebook (www.facebook.com/janineannettauthor) or check out her website, www.janineannett.com. 

Please Give Me Back My Son, But Keep My Other Son If You Want

by Jon Plester

I've followed your instructions as they were given to me: I didn’t contact the police, I wired four million dollars into your bank account, and I thoroughly complied with every step of this hostage negotiation. You damn cyber terrorists have gotten what you want from me and now it’s time to fulfill your side of the deal. Give me back my son, Brian. Please, we’ve been so worried about him. He’s my boy and I want him back. 

Don’t worry about my other son, Connor. You can keep him if you want, or let him loose into the wild. It doesn’t matter to me, I just want to make sure I’ll be getting Brian back.

Listen, I know what you’re thinking, Connor isn’t a bad kid. Frankly, he’s just not my type. Lately, he’s been getting really into trains for whatever reason. Connor demands I take him down to the tracks to watch different types of trains pass by, and he babbles on and on about their differences and I zone out. I have zero interest in the differences between two freight trains and I have zero interest in Connor’s milquetoast personality.

Come to think of it, my issue doesn’t lie solely with his obsession with trains, it’s his attitude about everything. For some reason, he thinks it’s funny to keep calling me Gungo instead of Dad. Brian has four or five good nicknames for me and none of them are Gungo. Did he call any of you Gungo, or even refer to anything as gungo?  If he did then maybe he’s using gungo and its derivatives as both nouns and verbs, like “I gungoed over there” or “I’m feeling like I want to gungo today” or “Take me to see those damn trains, Gungo!”

Maybe I would feel a different way if Brian didn’t exist, but when you compare the two of them Connor doesn’t look too good - Brian is a real man’s man, a real man’s son, a real son’s son. I love the crap out of Brian and I would do anything for him, including giving up the fortune I made in refined oil. He showed me how to love and also how to dunk a basketball.

How about this, you guys keep Connor and in return I’ll allow you to see Brian on the weekends. It will be great, I’ll drive Brian around to your compound every Friday night and pick him up on Sunday nights. Connor will stay with you indefinitely. But you guys will always have Brian to look forward to on weekends. The kid crushes a Barack Obama impersonation that’s both hilarious and poignant. Just so you know, the only impersonation Connor can do is of a character he made up, Sniggledorf, who spits in the open mouths of “naughty fathers”.

It might actually be best if you hold on to Connor for a little while. His needs, more often than not, fall by the wayside while I’m doing other things with Brian. I feel like he may get more individualized attention if he stays with you cyberterrorists than if he comes back home with me. Heck, learning about computers would probably be good for him, there are a lot of viable career options in that field. Anything to get him away from those damn trains.

If you don’t want Connor, you can pay me to take him from you. How about that? You pay me back the two million dollars I gave to you that would guarantee the safety of my Brian, and I’ll take Connor with me. I think that’s a fair number, as my love for Brian is monetarily equal to my disdain for Connor. 

Actually, I’m going to play hardball. You guys had your turn, it’s my time to make demands.

Cyberterrorists, either you give me back Brian and two million dollars or you will be stuck with Connor for good. Those are my demands, plain and simple. You have until 5 o’clock on Friday to make a decision. I want a gym bag filled with unmarked bills that can’t be traced left at the top of the old parking garage on 5th and Delancey.

The clock is ticking, gungos.

Jon Plester is a writer, improviser, filmmaker, and all-around bad boy from Philadelphia. 

New Subscription Boxes for Your Subscription Box Lifestyle

by Sarah Aswell

Green Box

The Green Box team always has Mother Earth in mind when carefully designing its sustainable, environmentally-friendly, and biodegradable boxes, from the cardboard made of recycled paper fiber to the plastic-free packing tape that sometimes works. To reduce each box’s carbon footprint, the packages are hand-delivered by an impressive network of nice ladies who were headed that way anyhow. The contents of Green Box vary greatly from month to month, from GMO-free banana and potato peels to organic eggshells and tea bags. Green Boxes may be placed in your compost bin without even opening them. Once a year, subscribers will receive a Green Box filled with old, partially rotted Green Boxes.

Sad Puppy

Have you always wanted a puppy or kitten, but you don’t want to deal with large, boring adult pets? The team at Sad Puppy has the subscription box of your dreams. Each month, receive a terminally ill puppy or kitten that will surely die before your next box arrives four weeks later. Enjoy delicate runts and peaked pipsqueaks, knowing that you are helping each animal live its short life to the fullest – and that your delivery box converts into an adorable coffin. All pets come with a cute, teeny-tiny milk bottle and heartbreaking story. Puppies and kittens that die en route can be shipped back for free and probably go to heaven. Five-year subscribers receive an authentic patchwork fur coat.

Make-Off Box

Oh my god, your face looks terrible. Have you been buying makeup subscription boxes and then desperately trying to use up all of your weird samples, all at once? Is that mauve eyeliner or an unfortunate health condition? Would you have ever put that on your face if you didn’t receive it in a cute box? Now look at the mess you’re in. But don’t worry. At Make-Off, we deliver an array of makeup removers that can erase even the strangest makeup subscription box samples, from blue lipstick to faux-velvet nail polish. Each month, sigh with relief as you look through your new collection of makeup-removing liquids, oils, and wipes – they work so well that people will stop, tell you how great you look, and ask if you’ve finally cancelled your makeup subscription box. 

Box of Cursed Relics

Forget about digging around for undiscovered ancient burial sites, breaking into museums, or endlessly browsing your local secondhand stores, all in an attempt to find just the right cursed relic. We do all of the legwork for you – leaving you to simply bolt back in horror as you discover what has been wrought upon you this month. Hexed statues of elephants from the deepest of jungles, a haunted map that leads only to misfortune, a precious porcelain baby doll whose cries only you can hear, for all of eternity: packaged lovingly and brought directly to your door (after a series of incidents, we now require customers to sign for each Box of Cursed Relics upon delivery). No need to beg God above or entreat the demons below for mercy – you may cancel your subscription or meet your demise at any time.  

Pinecones! 

So many pinecones! You won’t even believe it. You’ll open up the box and say, look at all these pinecones! Big pinecones. Small pinecones. Pinecones that have been gnawed on by small woodland creatures who were frightened away by the approaching thump of our children’s thrift store boots. Pinecones of all varieties that are available in the vicinity of our yard, which honestly are mostly those sticky ones that smell like old tennis balls. We ship you so many pinecones that you may eventually run out of uses for them. We ship you so many pinecones that some months we can’t get the box to close all the way. So what? We tape that mother closed and mail it off. Enjoy your pinecones!

Sarah Aswell is a freelance writer who lives in Missoula, Montana, with her husband and two daughters. Her humor writing has appeared in McSweeney’s and Reductress. One last thing: you can follow her on Twitter at @sarahaswell. 

The Day Thermos Dad Discovered Starbucks' Holiday Cups

by Nick Logsdon

I, Thermos Dad, awoke that Saturday of middle-late November as I always had: ready for my coffee in my Thermos 24-ounce Stainless King Vacuum Insulated Mug…
 
I’m still greasy from the night’s sleep, pissed at the Latins mowing Merle’s lawn next-door so early on a damn Saturday, and dreading my 11-year-old daughter’s recreational soccer game. 
 
I shake my jowls, and peel my t-shirt from under my arms and slip on my Pendleton Wool slippers. Still in my briefs, I plod to the front door and step into the brisk Autumn air. My knees quake as the nippy breeze lifts my useless robe above them. 
 
The Latins seem to be mowing nothing but dirt. To boot, there’s Morning Opossum sniffing my gazette. I hobble as quickly as my laparoscopic incisions will grant me back inside and grab my son’s Daisy air rifle from behind the front door and take aim. I shoot to kill, but miss. 
 
Dammit, Thermos Dad. What’s happening to you?
 
The damn vermin scuttles across the street only to meet his maker, Old Man Ram 1500. Talk about Goodyear riddance.
 
Up the street, I see Ceramic Mug Father, his ceramic mug of Joe in hand. I envy Ceramic Mug Father, already feeling the nourishing rush of his Folger’s. He likely takes it black and I’m forced to respect for him that. Suddenly, uneasiness drenches me; what with the Latins and the looming soccer game. I forgot to brew my coffee. I realize what I need. I dodder as fast as my arthroscopy will allow back indoors and make my way to the kitchen.
 
My Cabinets. Where are the fucking cabinets?! My mind shrieks, though my sluggish posture, and irrepressible flatulence would suggest otherwise. 
 
Above the dishwasher, where they always are, Thermos Dad. You’ve done this before, you do this every morning. 
 
Before I reach to open them, I take a breath. All will be right in the world. Unfairly traded, pre-ground beans will soon bring me back to a state of equilibrium. I smile and the rank stench of my un-brushed teeth wafts through my tobacco stained mustache and crawls through my one working nostril. I smile because that doesn’t matter now. 
 
My hand grips the fake crystalline handle of our standard wooded cabinets. Minor dust from termite damage from the year before trickles onto my knuckles as I yank the door open. I trace my eyes from the plastic cups, to the dinner glasses, and finally to my—What in Sam Hill? 
 
Where’s my Thermos? 
 
I rip open the dishwasher. There. In its former matte-blue glory, dirtied, unwashed. Karen didn’t do my dishes; she always does the dishes. Why weren’t they done?! “Karen!” I scream, throwing the dishwasher shut and collapsing to my knees. 
 
There goes my vision. I grope underneath the sink like a cat pawing at a laser. I grab what I think is dishwashing soap, but I’ve never done the dishes so I can’t be sure. Karen usually takes care of those, or she has some Latins come by once a month. Maybe they’re coming tomorrow? I don’t care. She knows I drink coffee every morning, and she knows I need it, especially today because we have Lucille’s fucking goddamn rec soccer game today!
 
I end up putting laundry detergent in the dishwasher. Why does Karen keep that under the sink? I don’t know! Ask the Latins! Fuck it. I don’t even turn it on. I held the button for three seconds and nothing happened.
 
Don’t lose your edge, Thermos Dad. Your Thermos is FUBAR-- Oh, what’s FUBAR? Go watch Saving Private Ryan for once, Corporal Umpum-- You’ll need a new one. There’s no way you’re drinking from that—that thing. Find your keys; find the damn Silverado keys, Thermos Dad.
 
After a few frantic moments, I find myself in the truck’s cab and my vision stable. Starbucks will have to do. An early morning re-airing of Michael Savage barely calms my nerve as I drive. I spot my exit, and make my approach. Just to the right of the off-ramp, an orange halo takes shape, cresting above the crown of Starbucks through a small thicket of trees. I can smell the coffee from my fortunate up-front parking space. I don’t even have to use Karen’s handicap placard. 
 
The Starbucks smelled different. I can’t put a finger on it, but I felt like my Gammy had wrapped her arms around me. My jitter’s dissipated, and most-peculiarly, I wasn’t drawn to the re-fillable container stand. I saw the Thermos’, 12oz, 16oz, and even the 24oz King. but catching my eye was an irresistible scarlet paper cup next to the register. Nervous, my voice trembled as I asked the server, “What are those?” 
 
“Those are our annual holiday-themed cups, sir,” the boy behind the counter replied. 
 
Stranger still, I wasn’t inclined to question his sexuality. Those cups seemed to have a cheerful and pervasive non-denominational equality about them. I was drawn to them and what they apparently represented. The boy went on to say that they’ve released holiday themed cups every year for almost twenty years. 
 
How could you have not known, Thermos Dad?
 
“What about that smell?” 
 
“Well, that’s our likely our Pumpkin Chai, sir. Another holiday favorite.”  
 
“Shut it, queen-” I stop my self and, out of character, apologize for the slur. “Can I have one of those? And in one of the holiday cups. Will that be all right? If not, I’ll just buy a thermos.” 
 
“We only serve our drinks in those cups, Sir,” he assures me, without a smile. Perhaps my curious grin stole his away. I order a pumpkin chai. 
 
My first pumpkin chai.  I feel as though I’m the only one on the sidelines watching the Lucas Oil Pro Motorcross Championships, or in Heaven.
 
I pay and leave a hefty tip for the boy. A certain giddiness coursed my veins on the drive home. 
 
As I pulled up to my eight-car garage, I didn’t feel an urge to mutter to myself about the laziness of Merle’s Latins. I didn’t feel an urge to curse at Ceramic Mug Father when his daughter blatantly threw a cleats-up slide at Lucille’s shin during their soccer game. Hell, that night, I even cleared my own plate and Karen’s…
 
But, perhaps most different, I never once thought of my Thermos again what with the perpetuity of Starbuck’s Holiday cups. Come to think of it, I don’t even know where that old thing is. Maybe Karen put in the drawer beneath the oven with the Tupper Ware. Who knows? That doesn’t matter now.

Nick is a writer based in Los Angeles and a recent graduate of Loyola Marymount University. He likes to brag that his apartment has a hot tub. 

A Motivational Ladies Home Workout for Our Trump-Spots

by Jackie Sizemore

Alright everyone, we are going to start with a warm up. I want you to log into your social media account and read the “All Lives Matter” article that girl from high school who never left your hometown posted. Remember you are just reading it, no responses yet, just a light jog through. And we’re running in place. Nice and easy. 
 
You should be feeling your heart rate go up a little bit, maybe feeling a little warm? That’s good. Now, for our 80’s sliders. Imagine you are wearing socks and sliding across the glass ceiling that held the last generation of women in your family down. Let’s go for ten, the number of times your mother has called this week to see if you’re okay. 
 
We’re going to move on to engagement squats, and I’m not talking about marriage here. Place your computer or tablet on a high surface. We’re going to respond to your future sister-in-law’s faux-unity comment on an anti-Trump Solidarity Protest page. Alternate each thoughtful sentence with a jump squat. Your favorite comedic news host told you to reign in your cousins and while it was a metaphor, you know she is going to be family someday because you have a really good feeling about the person you’re dating. Push through the pain, and remember to imagine the results of your hard work. 
 
Now we’re going to work on something I hear about all of the time. Lie on the ground in your go-to “yearly appointment” position. We’re going to do chest lifts with an abdominal crunch, because we are multi-taskers who need to be able to open our own jars when the apocalypse comes. Grab two of your largest reusable water bottles for weights, and raise them into the air like you are lifting them out of an oil spill. Are you feeling it yet? 
 
It is halfway through our workout and you might be feeling your energy flagging. You might be thinking, “Why do I have to keep doing this?” and, “I hope none of my conservative friends ever need access to reproductive rights and find themselves unable to control what happens to themselves.” I hear you! That is exactly why we need to do twenty supermans– I mean, superwomans– on the floor right now. Lie on your stomach and reach your arms and legs up like a turtle desperately trying to move and unwilling to hide inside its shell. Or like someone trying to decide how much extra birth control to buy before January. 
 
Deadlifts. Ladies, we don’t do enough of these. Keep your legs straight as you bend over, and then as you come back up bring your arms into a bicep curl. Focus on the part where the booty meets the thigh, on the O’Reilly Factors you were forced to watch during family dinners from ages one to seventeen. Remember, having stretch marks is like having a Trump-supporter-since-the-primary in the family– everyone has them! 
 
When we’re coming home from work and a circle of angry men surrounds us asking why we don’t all stay home where we belong, what are we going to need to be? Flexible. You’re going to want to do whatever you can to get out of that situation alive so that you can get home and get into your comfy clothes. Let’s get back on our mats and stretch our ACLs. Lay on the ground with one leg as straight as you can get it. No one’s leg is actually completely straight, so no one is judging you. Using pure willpower, gently let you leg drop all the way to the left. When you think you can’t go any further, try going a little bit more to the left for five seconds. This prevents injuries from sudden stops in progress, or a “change of direction.” Switch legs. 

Congratulations everyone, we pushed through and stayed focused and strong. Let’s go into child’s pose, where you can cry in public if you need to. As you lay curled in a ball on your mat, think about all of the reasons you exercised today, and all the things you want for yourself. Imagine yourself in a world where you can change jobs any time you need to because you are no longer just working for the health insurance. Imagine your entire extended family not arguing over the holidays. Take long, slow breathes, and think about all that you can accomplish. 
 
Warning: This workout is not effective in treating Trusting Mike Pence Syndrome or your Aunt’s autographed Sarah Palin picture.

Jackie is writer of fiction, essays, and poems. When she's not working on her first novel, she is running her consulting business while her Sheltie, Meeko, sleeps on her feet.