Dear Grad School

Dear Grad School,

Here is my opening line that will lure you in and set me apart from my peers. Well, sort of. Here is a follow-up sentence that references a quote from a dead person. Here is an ambiguous metaphor that will make you think about the meaning of life. Here is where most of you admissions people stop reading.

But if you’re still reading, I will now tell you how the events of my past have brought me to this very application. I will use phrases like “dabbled in” and “mentored by” and you may raise your eyebrows and question if I’m telling the truth. I am not. But sooner or later you will learn that I am a fantastic bull-shitter. 

This is where I tell you about my experience in the field. You won’t know that my former employers were my aunt, my dad, my brother, my sister, myself. You won’t know that when I taught English to foreign children I was just babysitting my little cousins. You won’t know that my work in a soup kitchen took place in my own kitchen when I served chicken soup at Friday night dinner. You won’t know that my experience abroad involved tequila and an all-inclusive resort.

I’ll tell you why I want to be accepted to this specific program. You won’t know it’s just so I can move out of my parents’ house and decorate my own apartment. You won’t know it’s just so I have an answer when my parents’ friends ask me what I’m up to. You won’t know that it’s because I just got a new book bag and want an excuse to use it. I’ll even Google a professor from your faculty and throw in a line about my desire to learn from her/him and you’ll believe me. 

I will now summarize everything I have said. I will use right click synonym and perhaps another dead person quote. My sentences will start to get shorter. Just so you know. I’m making. A point.

I will thank you for your time and tell you I look forward to hearing from you. I will then ask you to re-read this letter in a British accent and you'll see that I am much smarter than you initially thought. 

Sincerely insincere,

Me. 

* If, by any chance, the grad school I applied to is actually reading this, I'm just kidding and please accept me!!! 

You're Invited to the 1st Annual Pity Party

Please support me in my ride to conquer unemployment. If left untreated, unemployment can lead to:

·      Slow, steady, drastic weight gain

·      Severe friend loss

·      Directionless conversations with strangers at bars

·      Fake status updates on Facebook

·      Social snubbing

·      Long monologues performed in the shower

·      An embarrassing collection of inspiring quotes

·      An invite to go for drinks with the Starbucks’ employees

·      Blogging

·      A personal YouTube channel

Unemployment is a serious disease, but it can be cured if symptoms are detected early. Signs that you may be prone to unemployment include:

·      You are contemplating creating your own YouTube channel

·      You are starting your 3^rd unpaid internship

·      You are an English major

·      You have 17 websites bookmarked on your computer

·      You say corny things like “I’m not taking the year off, I’m taking the year on!”

·      You splurge on pajamas

·      You’re just, like, really into baking lately

·      You have watched the entire Sex and the City series. For the fifth time.

·      You’re auditioning for the Bachelor Canada

·      Your dad fired you

·      Your best friend is your nanny

·      You made a Wikipedia page of yourself

·      You scrapbook

·      The Robert Frost poem “The Road Less Travelled” is taped up in your room

·      The Starbucks barista asks you “why are you here all day everyday?”

·      You comment on YouTube videos

·      Your brother calls you his assistant, but doesn’t pay you

·      You’ve morphed your face with Brad Pitt’s to see what your baby will look like


I will be throwing a pity party to help raise awareness for this disease. Black tie optional. 

A-Head of the Game

When I was in grade four, a boy in my class named Tommy* walked up to me at recess and said, “Carly, you gave the entire grade a blow job.”

“I did?” I asked.

“Yup. The entire grade!” Then he walked away and left me standing there in utter confusion. I had no idea what a blow job was or whether to feel embarrassed or proud of the fact that I gave them to 42 classmates.

I told my friend Sara* what Tommy said hoping she’d shed some light on the situation.

“Well you didn’t give me one,” she said. That was a good point. Tommy might be lying, but we still needed to know what he was talking about. After an intense brainstorming session, we decided it probably had to do with hair dryers.

The end of the day rolled around, and we weren’t entirely satisfied with our conclusion. We decided this was a question best suited for the carpool mom that day.

“Mrs. Goldberg?” I said from the back seat. I was the only girl in my carpool, squished twice-a-day into a mini van with four snotty boys obsessively trading Pokémon cards. I usually kept my mouth shut the whole way home, but today Sara was double-buckled into the same seat with me and we were wanting answers.

“Yes, Carly?”

“What’s a blow job?” I asked.

“What’s that?!” she said as the car suddenly jerked.

“What’s a blow job? Tommy said I gave one to the entire grade.”

“Um, well, um, uh, well, sweetie, I think you better ask your mom this question,” she said, dropping us off at Sara's house for our play date.

Sara suggested we ask her mom what it meant. After we made nachos and watched Arthur in her living room, we were ready to get to the bottom of this.

“Mom?” Sara said.

“Yes honey?” her mom said, as she came into the living room holding a cup of coffee.

“What’s a blow job?”

She spat out her coffee as her eyes widened. “What? How do you know that word?”

“Tommy told Carly that she gave the entire grade a blow job.”

“Well, that’s… that’s… kids your age shouldn’t be talking about stuff like this.”

“But what does it mean?” she whined.

“I don't think you need to know this now, girls.”

"We do, we do, we do, we need to know what Tommy meant, mom. Tell us, puhleeze."

Our nine-year-old imaginations couldn’t have possibly prepared us for what Sara’s mom was about say. She proceeded to explain in as technical terms as possible what a blowjob was. Saying that we were shocked, ew-ed out and speechless gives new meaning to the word understatement. Nevertheless, the case was settled. I did not, nor would I ever, give them to the entire grade. 

*Names have been changed for obvious reasons. I only aim to embarrass myself and won't bring others down with me. Tommy, you know who you are.  

Mom & Dad: My New Roommates

After four years of living away at college, moving back into my parents’ house is, well, a transition to say the least. I’m not saying that I don’t love my parents. My mom has a closet filled with clothes my size and my dad has an unbeatable collection of DVDs. But like living with any roommates, I need to set some ground rules:

1. I’ll clean my room if you promise to stay out of it.
2. Don’t ask me questions in the morning.
3.  Don’t ask me questions after 9 pm. I don’t know where I’m going, I don’t know with whom, and I don’t know what time I’ll be home.
4. Rules 1 & 3 can be broken under this condition: If you see me crying past 9 pm, dad, please relocate to my room. I will be sleeping in your bed with mom.
5. Please turn up the heat. Some of us aren’t going through menopause.
6. Mom, when I’m having a tantrum about not having anything to wear, please let me wear your new Isabelle Marant pants or at least your Vince tank top. It’s not my fault that you have such good style. Did you lose weight? Don’t you love being roommates?
7. I’m allowed to sleep at my boyfriend’s house without your judgment. When you guys were my age you had a child. A CHILD!
8.  If you find McDonald’s garbage in the trash on a Saturday morning, please don’t mention it. I obviously dealt with a lot the night before.
9.  Don’t tell me it’s my bedtime. Did I mention you had a child at my age?
10. Don’t make me hang out with your friends. I already know they know somebody who knows somebody who can get me a job.
11. Don’t get offended when I choose to go out on a Saturday night instead of watching Discovery Channel DVDs with you guys. On the other hand, don’t look so concerned when I choose to stay home on a Saturday night watching Discovery Channel DVDs with you guys.
12. I may or may not be a vegetarian this week. So please check in with me before you make dinner.
13. Don’t tell me I need to wear a jacket. I’ve lived on my own for four years and understand the downsides of being cold.
14.  If I forget to go to the liquor store, let me take a bottle of wine. Considering my lack of income, I will pay you back in love and attention.
15. Don’t get too comfortable with having me live at home. For both our sakes, I’ll be out of here soon.

Sunday Morning. Ouch.

Salesperson: Hi there, how can I help you?

Me: Hi. I would like to exchange this.

Salesperson: Okay. Any specific reason?

Me: Oh yes. Many.

Salesperson: Can you be more specific?

Me: Well for starters, it’s too loud.

Salesperson: Have you tried lowering the volume?

Me: Easier said than done. Especially once it’s three G and Ts deep.

Salesperson: Oh, I see.  Can you elaborate on that?

Me: I prefer not to.

Salesperson: Well in order to maximize our product value, the more specific you are the better.

Me: It did karaoke last night.

Salesperson: That’s not so bad.

Me: There wasn’t a karaoke machine.  

Salesperson: Oh, I see what you’re saying.

Me: Yeah.

Salesperson: Well, what are you looking for?

Me: Something cuter, something between the life-of-the-party and the girl-in-the-corner. Oh, and something skinnier, perhaps?

Salesperson: We deal with personalities, not physical features.

Me: That’s unfortunate. Well then do you have any Rachel McAdams?

Salesperson: No, we’re out of those.

Me: How about Emma Stones?

Salesperson: Nope. After Easy A those went like Tickle-Me-Elmos. We actually only have one Cameron Diaz and 599987 Lea Micheles left.

Me: Damnit. I'll squirm it out till the next shipment. 

Confessions of a Hipster

1.     I wear a winter hat in the summer because I love attention and irony.

2.     My friends see the world through rose coloured glasses; I prefer my sepia tone Ray Bans.

3.     Okay, so I actively sought out that plaid shirt from Value Village. But the skinny jeans and fake glasses found me. I swear.

4.     I use the word hashtag in everyday conversation.

5.     Some master the skinny arm; I prefer to not eat.

6.     Instead of breathing, I prefer to just sigh.

7.     I have the same dress as your grandma.

8.     I spent $3000 giving my apartment the “I don’t give a shit” makeover.

9.     These converse shoes are actually brand new. I just let them soak in mud overnight.

10. See that malnourished 11-year-old? That’s my boyfriend.

11. You think I’m passive aggressive? Thank you.

12. Exclamation marks are the enemy.

13. I’d drive a Hybrid if I had money. But then people would know I had money.

14. I have a ring back on my cell phone.

15. I’m not a hipster… Ew. 

Welcome to Heaven. Can I take your coat?

Angel: Welcome to Heaven Carly.  Can I take your coat?

Carly: It’s a bit chilly up here. I think I’ll leave it on for now.

Angel: Okay. Before I let you in we’re going to have to go over a few things.

Carly: Uh. Okay.

Angel: First, let me remind you that this conversation may be recorded for customer service training purposes. Can I get your consent to that?

Carly: Well, um… Sure. I guess.

Angel: Thank you. Now, there are a couple of incidents from your past, that make you, how can I put it? A questionable character for heaven.

Carly: Oh God.

Angel: Thou shalt not use God’s name in vein Carly. Tsk. Tsk.

Carly: Damn it. I mean, I mean…

Angel: I’m just joshing. God gets royalties every time his name’s used in vein.

Carly: No. Way.

Angel: Way. All right, let’s not get too sidetracked. When I say Senior Kindergarten, Mrs. Susman’s class, how does that make you feel?

Carly: …Icky.

Angel: Why did you steal Elizabeth’s show and tell?

Carly: I…I…I just wanted that Pog so badly.

Angel: Mmmhm. Mmmhm.

Carly: I never stole again. I swear. Not even grapes from the grocery store.

Angel: Not even grapes?

Carly: Not even grapes.

Angel: Mmhmm. Mmhmm.

Carly: What are you writing down?  

Angel: Moving on. Sixth grade. You submitted a picture to an Abercrombie and Fitch casting call but you had braces and a not-so-secret garden in between your eyebrows.

Carly: What does that have to do with me getting into heaven?

Angel: We’re judging you. Eleventh grade. Teddy Winkler.

Carly: He had a car!

Angel: And back hair. Freshman year of College, frosh week pub-crawl.

Carly: For the last time, it was a dare.

Angel: You ran naked through downtown Montreal in exchange for a free pitcher of beer.

Carly: Exactly!

Angel: Mmhmm. Mmhmm.

Carly: Well what about the good things I’ve accomplished? My poem about Hannukah was published in the Canadian Jewish News when I was eight. That’s got to count for something. And what about that time when I didn’t know if the flight attendant was a boy or a girl and I didn’t even ask him/her? That takes serious will power.

Angel: I’m afraid I’m going to have to put you on the waitlist.

Carly: Well that’s not so bad. I was on a waitlist once at Humber. And I got in!

Angel: Would you like to go over how that program turned out for you?

Carly: I’ll see myself out.

In Training

It's 6:45 AM in San Sebastian, Spain. We have to catch a train to Barcelona. It's two weeks into our trip, so we know the drill. Clothes are laid out, backpacks are packed and our food for the day is in a plastic bag – two-foot baguette poking out local style. But no matter how high our baguette rises up out of our shopping bag, with a backpack on we look like tourists and therefore, we look well, stupid. But after managing to order the taxi in Spanish, I feel proud and resilient.

"Two tickets to Barcelona," Carly* says into the glass window at the station. The man behind the glass sees our backpacks and hears our accents.

"Dos... Barcelona," I say. We pay, he hands us the tickets and gives us instructions in Spanish.

"Huh?" we say.

He rolls his eyes and waves his hands in front of him. We're used to communicating with hand gestures, which is more dangerous than you think. Try asking for a straw at a café. Yeah, I did that. In public.

We walk in the direction he's pointing, look back but his help only goes so far. He’s dismissed us and returned his focus to his power trip, I mean newspaper.

"Jerk," I say, under my breath. We find the check-in counter and a kind lady explains that we have to take the elevator down to get to the other side of the platform.

While we're buying waters, we see the train pull up. Shit. We're still on the wrong side. We make a run for it, fifty-pound backpacks bobbing up and down behind us. We get there just in time to hop on the train. The doors close. Phew.

A group of men make exaggerated hand gestures at us. Here we go again. We ignore them and try find our seats. One man looks at me and shakes his head. I sense that something’s up.

"Barcelona?" I ask, palms turned up, raising my shoulders. The group of men erupt in laughter.

"No," one of them says. Uh oh. The train picks up speed. We rush to the front of the car to the ticket man and try tell him our problem. He hears "Barcelona" and he shakes his head like a disappointed school teacher then pulls out his cell phone.

We take our seats, for now, not sure whether to laugh or sulk. Thirty pairs of amused eyes stare at us. We're on the local train. So basically it's like we got on the subway in Toronto and asked to go to Montreal. Two security men approach and exchange whispers with the ticket man.

"Don't laugh," Carly warns. Sulking it is. Arrangements are made and after forty minutes the train stops and we are escorted off. The local train waits while the Barcelona train pulls up.

"Gracias," Carly says.

It is now 8:30 AM. We climb on with heads hanging low and our baguette riding high.

* Yes, we're both Carly and yes it gets confusing.

I Have Friends. It's True.

I have a friend Carly and she works in a bank.

“So are you like the person I talk to when I need to get my debit card fixed?” I ask her.

“No Car, I’m in securities,” she says looking at me like I’m the fool.

I have a friend Rachel and she works in a bank.

“So are you like the person I talk to when I need a money order?” I ask.

“I’m an accountant Car,” she says slowly. A-COWN-TANT.

I have a friend Reva and she works in a bank.

“So are you like the person I talk to when I apply for a new credit card?” I ask.

“No, Car. I’m a personal banker,” she says. Now I’m even more confused.  

I have a friend Natalie and she works in a bank.

“So are you like the person I talk to when I want to cash a cheque?” I ask.

“No Car, I’m in audit,” she says.

I have a friend Steph who is going to be a psychologist.

“So are you like the person I talk to when…”

“Yes,” she says.

  

Fome Sweet Fome

When my house burned down my family and I moved into a strange family’s home. I say “strange” as in the “unfamiliar” sense; I will keep my judgments on the wall of insect portraits to myself. The strange family conveniently went travelling the world for a year and was desperate for people to rent their house. So they burned ours down. Just kidding. We moved in record time. Because we had no baggage (insert emotional trauma joke here) we just had to walk through the front door. We were grateful to have a place to call home, or fome (fake home). But waking up to a portrait of strange daughter on the wall of my room became a little creepy, and having strange nanny (who was left behind to spy on us) yell at me when I walked in with my shoes on was a little… scary. Let’s just say when strange family returned, we were eager to move out.

Fome #2 is a rental house around the corner from fome #1. We got some of our furniture back from the fire restorers so it was nice to be amongst our things again. A month ago I came back from school for the weekend; my parents were out of town so I had the house to myself. I came home from Friday night dinner and went to check that all the locks on the doors still worked. I do this by going to each door, unlocking it, opening it, closing it, locking it and trying to open it while it’s locked (yes, homeland security has already tried to recruit me). I went to the basement door: open, close, check; front door: open, close, check; backdoor: open, stranger on the porch, close, FUCK. I froze. A man in a black hoodie (how cliché?) was staring at me. I screamed and he jumped over the porch railing and ran to the side gate as I ran on jelly legs to the front of the house. I turned on the alarm - idiotic thirty-second beep beep - and peeped out the window as the robber ran across the lawn and down the street. And then I cried. Hysterically. The police came with a van filled with dogs who sniffed around the house and accused me of being the robber because the address on my license did not match the house I was living in. Stupid dogs. I promised myself never to stay home alone again.

But that’s not to say we didn’t get robbed anyway. Three years later and our rebuilt house is almost ready, so in July we’re moving out of fome and moving into home. Sundays in fome are now open houses. Owners want to sell from under our feet. More strangers in strange home, etc. My mom works in her study, I nap in my bed and my dad naps on the couch while people roam in and out of fome. One roamer roamed through my mom’s bathroom and swiped her perfume right off the counter. So what’s the moral of the story? Don’t throw Stones in strange houses. PUN INTENDED!

Hallmark Fail

Jesus: Happy Father’s Day Dad.

God: Thanks son. What’s this? A card?

Jesus: Yeah, it reminded me of you.

God: “To the World’s Greatest Dad”. I guess that’s pretty accurate. Thank you Jesus.

Jesus: You sound disappointed.

God: Well, to be honest, I was expecting something more personal.

Jesus: Like a crucifixion?

God: Christ, I thought we were over the Easter incident. 

Jesus: I hate it when you call me that. 

My 'V' Day

I’m losing something today, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. I’ve been anticipating this day for three weeks now and as it’s gotten closer, I’ve gotten more nervous.

“This may hurt a bit,” he says then tells me to undress. My mom told me that I wouldn’t have to get fully undressed.  It’s just below my belly button anyway. But I do, reluctantly. I’m wearing my Tuesday underwear and it’s Monday. Oops. But that’s not my biggest problem.

“You look so much like my daughter. Her name is Carly too.” (Believe it or not, that’s not the problem either.)

The room is cold.

“Did you see Lady Gaga perform at the Grammys?” he asks scanning my body up and down.

“Yeah. She’s cool,” I answer, convincing myself that it is normal to have this conversation under these circumstances.   

“Andrea likes her too,” he says.  “Don’t worry, she’ll be in soon to hold your hand.”

I nod. He motions for me to lie down on the bed.

“Is this going to hurt?”

“Not too much it’s very very small. You’ll barely feel it.”

Phew.


“There it is!” he says, poking my belly button. Oh boy.

Andrea enters the room.

“All ready?” she asks.

“Yup,” he says. I close my eyes and squeeze Andrea’s hand and wait for the prick. “Say goodbye to your little freckle,” the seventy-year old dermatologist says.

Farewell little guy. Happy Valentine’s day.  

The Write Stuff

I’m in creative writing portfolio class. A class filled with unstable futures, fragile egos and scarves. A class where you learn that in the writing world first impressions mean everything. This takes the pressure off icebreakers….naaaht. 

“I write for the Gazette,” the girl beside me says. The race begins. Introducing competitor #1: The Intimidator. There are head nods, murmurs, seat shifts.

“My story’s getting published in a magazine next month,” beams the brunette in the corner. Miss Credible knocks The Intimidator into second place. We’re off to a strong start!

“I’m the creator of Tripod Productions,” the guy on the other side of me says tossing his grey cashmere scarf over his shoulder. Hm, a creator of something that has no follow up after the title. And Oh-Cocky-One joins the race, tailgating Miss Credible for second.   

“Hi, I’m just here because there’s no exam ha ha,” the I’m-going-to-be-the-most-annoying-pants-too-short-person-in-the-class says looking around for approval. Good effort Monsier Shut-Up, but you’re playing with the big boys here. Why don’t you invite your pants down to your ankles? They can have a party.

“I just like to write,” the guy behind me says. We didn’t see this coming. Casual-and-Cool passes Oh-Cocky-One and Miss Credible! Watch closely as Casual-and-Cool furrows his brow, takes off his thick frame glasses…wait for it…wait for it….my golly he’s done it! He’s massaging his temples and takes the lead!

My palms are sweating. My moment’s nearing. I'm nervous. Should I make a joke? Oh my god. Did I even just think about making a joke?

“Hi, um, I have a blog.” Crap. Anyone can make a blog. Anyone can make something about nothing. Retreating into fifth place, I try to zip my sweatshirt up my face.

Nothing due till April. From here on in, the race is steady. This renders class time useless. The prof doesn’t even want to be there. 

“Ugh can we all just go home?” he whispers to me when we we’re waiting outside the room before class one day.

There’s not much teaching material for the course other than “don’t put bad shit in your portfolio”, so he usually makes up lectures as he goes. This week’s lecture: depressing grammar. We’re asked to identify the dangling modifier in the following sentence:

The cause of our school’s failure at teaching basic skills is… After four years of university I still don’t know what’s a dangling modifier, so I use this time to blog. Who can blame me? Heightened-Sense-Of-Self has readers waiting! 

                                            Cartoon by: Jacob Fox dailysnoozecomics.com

Uploading to The Facebook

“Do you ever mobile upload?” I ask my friend--

“Hey don’t use my name. Use a cool name like...Spencer.”

Okay.

“Do you ever mobile upload?” I ask my friend, Spencer.

“No, my girlfriend and I aren't kinky like that.”

“Mobile” and “uploading” are foreign concepts to Spencer. He doesn’t own a cell phone nor does he have a Facebook account. So after class I usually update him on things like YouTube and texting.

“There’s this thing called text messaging where you can say things to people without talking with your voice,” I told him last week. He told me to go to hell, before pulling out something he called a notebook. But sometimes I forget that I make stuff up just to play with his head. Like today.

“What are you talking about? Kinky?”

“You said mobile uploading is taking sexual pictures and upgrading them,” he says.

“You mean uploading them.”

“Right, whatever.”

“I was just messing with you. Mobile uploading is when people take a picture of what they’re doing at that moment and post it on Facebook,” I say.

“Firstly, fuck you. Secondly, isn’t that kind of invasive?” he asks. “The Facebook is getting out of hand.” 

“Just Facebook.”

“Huh?”

“There’s no ‘the’ in it. Saying “The Facebook” is like saying people have “the sex”. You’re ridiculous. I’m going to blog about you.”

“Blog?”

“Yah, I’m going to write about what an interesting person you are and get it published in the Arts and Humanities Journal.”

“So people are just going to know about this conversation?”

“Yeah. Come on, it’s for my blog.”

 “As long as you don’t mobile upload me onto the Facebook. It’s invasive.”

“Never. I’m not kinky like that.”

"Dude, pads are still manly. I swear."

Cartoon by: Jacob Fox 

Check out more of his cartoons here: dailysnoozecomics.com

Flagel. There, I said it.

On my way up to school last week, I stopped at the bakery on Bathurst Street. You know, the part of Bathurst that might be confused for a Polish shtetl. Well, if you haven’t been to the bakery, you should go. Mention my name, I'm famous there, I swear it. Well, actually it's not me that's famous; it's my dad.

“Where’s your daddy?” they ask as soon as I push open the chiming door. My dad gets his coffee here every morning. The women behind the counter love him because he tries to speak Hebrew with them. When I go without my dad, they gush and pinch my cheeks. No matter how many people are in front of me, they serve me first. But man, a simple order takes forever.

 “Uh, he’s out of town,” I say.

“He’s out of town? What! Tell him he must tell us when he goes. We worry about him!”

“Ok, I will. Um. Can I get some flagels?” I’m a bit uncomfortable saying the word flagel. Flagel. It’s the same uneasiness I get saying the word Hummus or Jeggings. (Shudder). 

“Oh, I give you zucchini bread.” 

“Oh no, that’s okay. I just want some…” 

“No, take the zucchini bread,” insists the woman with flying bangs. She’s the main one and she runs the show, shouting instructions at everyone in Hebrew as she pushes her way to the kitchen and back in a matter of seconds. She wears a bright pink T-shirt with a smiley face under crazy hair. “Bad Hair Day” is written underneath. The two other women who work there flail their fake nails in the air as they shout customer orders through their dark lip liner. They’re banned from the cash register. Only Flying Bangs takes the cash.

“No thanks, I really don’t need…”

 “No, you take it. It’s gluten free,” she says swinging herself around and reaching to the top shelf for the gluten-free-zucchini bread. Yum.

 “Really, I don’t…” 

“You have roommates, yes?” 

“Yes.”

“They like it.” 

I surrender and take the zucchini bread.

“Okay, can I get some flagels please?’

I look over my shoulder at the old man sitting at the counter near the window. His false teeth are in his hand, and he is picking tuna out the crevices.

“Tuna?”

“No, flagels,” I say trying not to vomit.

 “Okay, how many?”

“Six please. Assorted.”

She grabs a paper bag and starts collecting flagels from the basket. I am breaking records here. I am going to be in and out in ten minutes. She is about to hand me the bag then says, “You like knish?” 

There’s another one of those words.

“No, no thank you.”

“How can you not like knish?”


Please stop saying knish.

“I give you our new knish.”

No, I can't do this. These flagels aren't worth it. I look at my phone and pretend it's ringing.

“I’m sorry I’ll have to come back,” I say motioning to my phone and walking backwards, the gluten free zucchini bread under my arm like a football, “It’s my dad!”

 The women shout, beg for the phone. 

 “I’m sorry I have to go!”

 When I get back to school, my roommates greet me in the kitchen as I place the paper bag on the counter.

 “Sweet, you brought back the zucchini bread!”