Do It Wrong


Sachin is not going to make any mistakes. He’s going to be a trillionaire.

One of the things that always stalled me from doing things I wanted to was the question I asked myself, “What if I’m doing it wrong?”

This didn’t just apply to school assignments or writing lecture notes or a resume or a job, but my haircut and my clothes and my house decorating skills and my parenting. What if I do it wrong???  

Oh, THE HORRORS. And so, I told myself there are right ways to do things, and wrong ways. I found these ways based on examples of people who I admired. Scratch that, I found these examples based on people I thought I was supposed to admire. Like, my parents really rich doctor friend who had a doctor son and a doctor daughter. That’s admirable. I want to be rich and smart and admired!

Except I’d find my mind wandering and thinking about the new graffiti on the sidewalk or the cute scene in Amelie or the girl with pink hair or the new Sweet Valley High book that I wasn’t allowed to read. (I was only allowed to read “real” books, and so my brother gave me Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man when I was 12, when he found out I was reading a SVH book, and my parents thanked him for that.)

On top of being afraid of mistakes, I’m a people pleaser, so if you tell me to do something, I’m gonna do it. If you tell me I’m wrong, I’m going to believe you. If you tell me I’m a lousy person/writer/mother/cook, I’ll believe one negative voice over throngs of positive ones, because my deep-seated fear is always there: what if I’m doing it wrong?

I was paralyzed with indecision. I remember when Keshi was a baby, I went with my sister-in-law into a baby clothing store with a gift voucher. “What do you want to get?” she said, motioning to all the cute onesies in front of us. I stared and my gut twisted and eventually I told her to pick. “I can’t. I just don’t know!” And that was about a piece of clothing that would be barfed and pooped upon.

So of course I couldn’t make my own decisions.

One of my favorite scenes in a novel is from The Outsiders, when Soda Pop eats chocolate cake for breakfast with Ponyboy. I think this is meant to convey how abandoned and neglected and uncared for these boys were, but in my teenage mind, this is what I thought: YOU CAN EAT CHOCOLATE CAKE FOR BREAKFAST?

Of course you can’t eat chocolate cake for breakfast. That’s clearly A Mistake. It’s Wrong. No no no. I did it anyway, for two months in seventh grade, keeping the cakes frozen so they’d never go bad. I don’t remember what else I used to eat for breakfast, but that? I remember that.

I have gone on to an illustrious career of making lots and lots of mistakes, but here is the thing that gets to me: most of the mistakes I make are not the ones that I’m told are mistakes (being a writer, self publishing, reading romance novels, eating gluten for goodness sake, marrying Gregg, living in an old creaky house, eating chocolate cake for breakfast, dying my hair blue). The things that were mistakes are always the things I was told were The Right Thing.

It was the Right Thing for me to choose a career that my parents wanted me to have. (No, it wasn’t.)

It was the Right Thing for me to marry a successful Indian man. (Uh.)

It was the Right Thing to read Ulysses. (Biggest mistake of my life!)

It was the Right Thing to live in the suburbs. (Barf. I hated the suburbs.)

And so on. I have so many examples, mostly from listening to what other people wanted from me–my parents or my brother or other family members. It’s not that they were always wrong about everything. It’s that when I felt like something was a mistake, instead of listening to myself, I didn’t trust myself. I trusted other people, because other people are better/smarter/more important than me. Right?

It turns out that I’m not indecisive. I’m afraid that other people won’t like my choices, and other people matter more than me. I’m afraid that I have terrible taste. I’m afraid I’m a terrible writer. I’m afraid that if I give a dollar to the homeless man, someone is going to yell at me and tell me that the guy is going to only use it on booze. I’m afraid to listen to crappy music. I’m afraid to run outside because I’m sure I look like a dork. I’m afraid. I’m afraid. I’m afraid.

There are so many reasons for my line of thinking, but most of them aren’t fodder for a public space. Just know that if you feel the same way as me, you’re not alone.

I’m taking the long route to undoing all my fears, of making terrible decisions left and right, decisions that make me wildly, wildly happy. Yellow bathrooms and funky glasses and polka dot shirts and jobs that don’t pay nearly enough and are definitely not going to make me admirable in most people’s eyes, but make me bubble with laughter at the end of the day. Big, huge, stinking mistakes. Decisions! It’s such a relief.

So, I’ve been on a journey to do it wrong. I’m over chocolate cake for breakfast, though. I’ve moved on. It’s cookies for me.


Full Blast



I would like to state for the record something very, very uninteresting: I have absolutely nothing to blog about anymore, and that’s why this space remains old and musty.

These are the things I have been doing with my time: renovating a bathroom, working in a library, writing a new book, reading, occasionally watching clips from old episodes of 30 Rock on YouTube, playing with my kids, and talking to my husband.

I use most of my creative energy now talking in puppet voices to the boys in the morning. (My left hand is named Monsieur Frere and my right hand is his wife, simply known as Madame. He likes to say, “You hurt my heart,” where heart is pronounced “hot,” and this, for some reason, makes the boys crack up laughing. That is fine with me.)

I use the rest on my new book. I really like my new book, even though it is a hot mess. Lost and Found was great fun to write, but New Book is like me, ripped up in tiny little pieces. It’s much funnier, and it’s much sadder. My working draft is almost finished and ready to be read, and then I will have to spend another few weeks to few months making it more…well, just more.

Here is a thing that I learned recently, not just from writing my book, but just from being alive: I was always afraid of what people thought of me. I mean, anxiety-ridden, crazy afraid. Like, “That person probably thinks I’m ugly,” and “I know so and so hates me.” I was self-conscious.

For instance: if I was listening to an annoyingly bubbly pop song (fine, it’s  ”Call Me Maybe” and YES I LOVE IT AND I ALWAYS WILL), I would make sure my windows were rolled up, because what if someone on the street heard me? THE HORROR. I went back to wearing jeans instead of big poofy skirts because I didn’t want people having opinions about my clothes. I didn’t decorate my house because what if I decorated it in the wrong way?

Lost and Found is a good book. I think I did well in writing it and making it enjoyable and there is tons of me in there. The insecure parts of me, especially. (So that would be most of me.) It was me proving to other people, “Look, I can do this.” New Book is me saying something else entirely. It is just being. 

And that’s what I’ve been doing, too. Just being. It’s a bit difficult to explain, but I’ll just say: I am done second-guessing myself. I am ready to paint walls in bright colors (which might be the wrong colors) and keep the windows rolled down even as Carly Rae sings her heart out as the hipsters walk by and hear my musical tastes. I am ready to wear my knee socks with the hearts all over them, even if people look at me, and my bright yellow tights with my polka dot shoes. I’ve been dressing crazier lately, and one mom said to me, “You’re so confident.” I’m ready to be looked at and judged. That’s a lot for a wallflower.

I’ve always loved this blog because I’ve been me the whole time here. You don’t see the quiet and shy me, the wallflower. You don’t see my crazy nervous habits or how my shoulders slouch. I am not usually me in social settings. I’m not even me with my kids. I keep busy so I don’t have to be anybody at all. It’s a lot safer that way. But you. You see me exactly how I am in my head. I think, now, everyone else is seeing that version of me, too.

It’s exploding all over the place. I painted my bathroom bright yellow. I put non-generic art on the wall. I talked about how pulp fiction is good for the soul to my students. I forgave myself for not knowing the answers the whole time, and for being afraid to make mistakes. I still have bad days (I might be having one right now, which might be why I’m writing this as a reminder to myself). I do. But the good days are so much bigger and brighter and full of me-ness. I am just…I feel like my whole life has been me on a dimmer switch, and all of a sudden someone turned me full-blast.

That’s why I have nothing to blog about lately. I’ve been using all that energy being me everywhere, all over the place. It’s…well, it’s amazing.

So, I don’t know what to do with this place, now that I’m becoming less of nothing, more of something. I don’t want to let go, because I don’t know what I’d do without you. You are some of the realest friends I’ve never met, precisely because you don’t see the outer me. So this isn’t my declaration to stop blogging. I want to keep this space forever, or, more realistically, until the zombie apocalypse.

This is my declaration of, “Thank you for helping me. But now what?”

I bought this print from Emily McDowell’s etsy store recently, and I’m going to hang it near the front door, so I can read it every single day.

Thoughts On Failure Encouragement Card / No. 174-C

So, now what? I think it’s going to be something amazing. Thanks for being with me, always.

Chapter Book Suggestions for Early Elementary Kids

This is a list of books that many, many kids I know, ages 5-8,, love.

Caveat: Most of these are based on interest, not reading level, and it would be difficult for anyone but a very gifted kindergartner to read these on her or his own (and that doesn’t add in comprehension while reading).

But! Never fear! The research (which I am totally not citing right now because I can’t find my binder o’ library magic) suggests that it does not matter whether your child reads by herself or is read to, reading skills improve REGARDLESS of whether the kid is the one reading…as long as you read for at least 20 minutes a day.

So! Go ahead and read to your kids, instead of having them read boring BOB books (which are fine…they’re just not fun). They will be just fine, and are more likely to become readers because they won’t see it as boring. Win for everyone!

All links are to Amazon, but I ain’t got no affiliate situation, so I suggest you get these from your local library, where things price out to the magical tune of SOCIALIST FREE DOLLARS.

Ivy & Bean

Not only is Ivy and Bean illustrated by the amazing Internet rock star, Sophie Blackall, but the books are really well written and fun and funny and real. Even though I only have boys, they don’t mind reading about girls. Recommended for ages 5-7.

Judy Moody and Stink series

I admit to not loving Judy as much as I love Stink, because I think Judy’s  a tiny bit of a brat, but all the kids I know like them both equally. The books are light and well-written and full of sibling rivalries. Recommended for ages 5-8. 

Boxcar Children

Good for kids who like mysteries but who are too young for anything really dangerous or scary. There are a bazillion of them in the series. The pacing on these is generally excellent and it keeps kids very interested. Recommended for ages 6-9.


Magic Tree House

I think Jack and Annie are the perfect introductions to the wide fantasy world of time travel, even for kids who aren’t into fantasy yet (and hey, kids are too little and sweet and moldable to care about subgenres, hooray!). I do not know a kid who does not go nuts for these books. Recommended for ages 5 and up.


Oh, Fangone, Third Grade Barbarian, you’re just so fun. Great for kids who prefer comics (which any librarian worth her salt will tell you totally count as books). Recommended for ages 7-9.


I am a good mom because I hate these books but every child I know LOVES them, so there. Get them for your kid who likes comic strips. They’re dumb but WHATEVER. Recommended for ages 6-9.

How to Train Your Dragon

I love the first half of this series way more than the second half, but like any good series, I’m going to keep reading because I want to know what happens. They’re about a weak boy who’s supposed to be the salvation of all humanity and dragons, like Harry Potter of the Middle Ages, with great illustrations and LOTS of laughs. Recommended for ages 7 and up.

Stone Rabbit

The librarian at our local branch told me about Stone Rabbit when I was pulling my hair out looking for age-appropriate comic books. This totally fits the bill.

Warriors series

Kids told me about these books, so you know they’ve got to be great. They’re a fantasy series featuring animals, so any child that’s in love with animals best go read these. There’s also a Seekers series that is similar. Recommended for ages 8 and up.


Clementine is sweet and hilarious and gets into too, too much trouble (on the first page) and never stops. There are four or five books in this series, and there hasn’t been a new one in too long, Ms. Pennypacker. I might like these books more than any kid I know. Recommended for ages 5 – 9.

Big Nate

Okay, I haven’t actually read any of these, but based on the rate of checkouts at the library, they’re great books.

Anything Roald Dahl

You know, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, James and the Giant Peach and Matilda. We started The Witches, but that was deemed “too scary,” so we’re waiting on that one. Recommended for ages 6 and up.

Elephant and Piggie 

Okay, this is a little bit young, but the plus side of these books is that kids can read them themselves. AND they’re hilarious. Mo Willems is the new Dr. Seuss, and everything he writes is magic. Recommended for ages 3-6.

The Mouse and the Motorcycle

These books hold up from your childhood. Fun fun fun. Recommended for ages 5-8.

Captain Awesome 

Captain Awesome is awesome. Recommended for ages 6 and up.

Rainbow Magic

These books could also be called “heroin for first graders.” Yowza do kids (mostly girls, but not exclusively) love them. FAIRIES AND MAGIC AND RAINBOWS YEEHAW. Recommended for ages 5-7.

I will have a chapter book post for late elementary kids…some time later. Also, I’d be happy to keep adding to this list.

Please add more in the comments!

Books I’ve Liked Lately

Don’t ask me when I lasted updated this section of the blog (poor neglected blog!), but I have some serious control issues with your reading interests, meaning YOU NEED TO READ THESE BOOKS. (Also, wow do I have…eclectic…tastes.)

Tell the Wolves I’m Home

It’s 1987 and June’s beloved uncle just died of AIDS, and it turns out he had a few secrets.

I could tell you more, but it will be better if I don’t. I will warn you that this book will make your eyeholes leak like nothing else. Like, more than Fault in Our Stars sort of sobbing.

I think I cried through every chapter. It’s beautiful, and beautiful written, and compelling. I haven’t read something YA that’s this well-written in years. There are a few very, very minor issues I have, but they’re so minor and the writing is so beautiful that I didn’t really care. It reminded me in some ways of To Kill a Mockingbird. 

The Day the Crayons Quit

I don’t usually recommend children’s books, which is dumb, because I’m a librarian that knows a lot of children’s books. This picture book is cute and funny and we read it three times in a row the first time we got it from the library. Love love love. Holds up after multiple readings, with many different kids.

The Signature of All Things

This book is a bit meandering, but it’s still a beautiful, if long, novel, about God, feminism, sex, marriage, love, sisterhood, evolution and…moss. Yeah, really. It grows on you. (Ha.)

Help, Thanks, Wow

This isn’t really a book. It’s more like a…long pamphlet? Still, it’s a nice little book on prayer, but get it from the library instead of buying it, because you’ll be done with it within the hour.

The Plan

This is a romance novel that reminds me in all the best ways of Christina Lauren and Alice Clayton. Super fun romance.

We Are All Completely Besides Ourselves

This is a story of a girl whose siblings mysteriously disappear, and it just gets stranger and stranger as the story progresses. This is another one of those, “The less you know, the better it will be when things are revealed” novels.

I think that’s all for now…Well, I have lots more kids’ books I could recommend, which prompts this question: would you like me to do a post on children’s books? I have SO MANY suggestions. (I miiiight work as a children’s librarian now. Maybe.) (Shhh! Let’s not talk about work!) Anyway, would you like suggestions? SO MANY?


Treating Depression Like an Illness


I will readily admit something to you: until recently, I did not treat my very own depression and anxiety like a chronic disease. Instead, I looked at it as a personal character flaw, despite the overwhelming evidence that it was a genetic disposition: e.g., family members present similar problems, these symptoms presented themselves right at adolescence when I got my first period, I have tried dozens of nonmedical treatments and they have not worked long-term. Etc.

Of course, if anyone asked what my opinion on whether depression/anxiety was an illness or a personal character flaw, I would tell you hands down: illness. It was just a personal flaw for me. Because I’m special like that.

Part of this specialness comes from when I first tried out medication. In short, it didn’t work. Not even a little bit. I tried a few, to no result. Then I went to therapy (oh, SO much therapy), and slowly, over time, I got better. I think I stayed “better” enough until last spring.

Last spring, and summer, were hell. HELL. Anyone who was emailing or texting or talking to me then would know that I was not myself. I was always anxious. I spent every moment I could in bed, sleeping, trying to sleep, reading, pretending to read, trying to stave off anxiety attacks. I cut off my hair in an attempt to get back to feeling better. I stopped blogging. I restarted blogging. I started a new job. I tried a few other life-altering things, including therapy. But nothing was working.

In my many years of therapy, all of my therapists said to me, “You wouldn’t deny a diabetic for taking his insulin, so why not try out medication?” On the surface, I agreed. In reality, I didn’t. (What? You can’t tell therapists the truth. They’d think I was crazy!)

In reality, this is what I thought: some diabetics, like my very own father, could control their disease through diet and exercise. So why couldn’t I cure myself? I just wasn’t trying hard enough. Obviously.

Then, of course, came a point where my dad couldn’t control his illness and had to take medication. D’oh.

So, I think I changed my mind about treating depression like an illness when it became glaringly evident that I had absolutely no other choice but to try it. I also think that I finally realized that I had nothing to work on in therapy. I mean, I had things, but not like before, when a therapist could have bought at least one of those crappy Mercedes with my payments. At least. Probably more like one of those crappy BMWs.

The thing that changed, that switched for me, was that before, I kind of hated my life. I didn’t have anything in particular to get well for. Crappy job, aimless, no kids, no real life, etc. I didn’t care. I’d been depressed since I was eleven years old, so it’s not like I ever even had a chance. (Wow, when I think about that, I’m actually quite impressed I did so much unmedicated. I studied micro-freaking-biology! I won scholarships! I got ENGAGED to a normal human being! And then MARRIED!)

But this last spring, I had: an agent, a job, two kids, a house, a dog, a husband, great friendships, and and and…I missed my life. I wanted it back. It was like when I decided to take Sudafed so I could go in to work, even though Sudafed makes me high as a kite. Better high than not working, I thought, and took it. I think that’s where I was: okay, better high as a kite than losing my life to depression, a life I didn’t want to lose. My motivation was different.

I tried again, and at first it was a huge disaster, but eventually, earlier this winter, I finally found a really great combination. It took months and months of tinkering, but I’m finally at that sweet spot with all my medication. I can honestly say that in some ways I’ve never felt better.

I used to wonder how people had so much energy throughout the day. By the end of every day, even in my “good” years, I was completely spent by the end of the day. I thought that was just me, but it turns out it was low-level chronic depression. I’ve never been very energetic in the evening, but it got so bad that I was going to bed at 8pm every night and sleeping until 7 the next morning. (I thought it was anemia.)

It’s not perfect. I had a bad day today, and had to take some emergency back-up medicine (which I refused to take until 5pm tonight, because I never, ever learn my lesson) because I was having a full-on anxiety attack. It was one of those moments, like the moments that led me to seeking medication instead–am I actually emotionally distraught over not finding my cell phone in my purse, and there are too many wadded up tissues in my pocket, or is this PERHAPS a medical condition, and not childhood trauma rearing its ugly head? (I am now picturing a therapist having to ask, “What do the wadded up tissues REPRESENT?”)

So maybe this new perspective is a little better.

I feel much better now. Like “myself,” except a version of myself that I didn’t actually know existed until this winter. I didn’t feel this way training for marathons, or drinking, or falling in love, or any other over-the-top feeling. I’ve NEVER felt this peaceful and calm and like I can actually see what the world looks like for the first time. Life is HD, and I can totally see every actor’s large face pores in my new medicated state and oh is it face-pore-glorious. (Seriously Dustin Hoffman. Those are some impressive nose pores.)

So, here is what I say to those of you who think you can solve your depression without drugs: better living through chemistry, man.

Housework Question


Okay, not a real post, but a question: how do you split housework between you and your significant other? I’m asking all families, with or without kids, married or not, working outside the house or not.

Here’s what we used to do:

Me- take the kids to school, school lunches, all the cooking and cleaning, homework, school volunteering, bill paying, taking care of pets, errands, laundry

Gregg- Clean up the kitchen every night, walk the dog at night, read to the boys and put them to bed every night, all the house repair stuff, including dealing with contractors, etc.

And here’s what we do now:

Me- school lunches, all the cooking, homework, school volunteering, taking care of pets, errands, laundry, clean the kitchen half the nights, read to the boys at night

Gregg- takes the kids to school, bill paying, cleans the kitchen half the nights, walks the dog at night, vacuuming, mopping, all the house repair stuff, puts the boys to bed after book reading

So, it’s more even than it used to be, and some of it is necessity-based: I have to be at work usually before the boys are awake, and Gregg is at work too late to even think about cooking. I’m a morning person, and things like school lunches and laundry can easily be done in the morning. I found that I used to be too tired from being with the kids all day to read to them at night, and now I find myself looking forward to it. We all usually sit on the bed at night and read. We’re reading the first Harry Potter and Gregg and Kesh are always reluctant to stop. (A lot of it goes over Sachin’s head, and on those days, one of us will go in another room and read another book to him so he’s not bored.)

I like how it’s going. Some days I’m so completely exhausted I fall asleep at 8:30, but it’s still a good life. I do think sometimes Gregg could pitch in more, but the truth is that I care about a lot of the stuff that Gregg doesn’t (like whether my children are taking a bath in a dirty bathtub or not).

I used to feel that I needed to do ALL the work because I was the stay at home parent. Even if I go back to being a stay at home parent, that ain’t how it’s going to be from now on.

How do you split it up?

Things I’ve Given Up


1. Trying to get people who don’t like me to like me.

2. Trying to write blog posts without lists in them.

3. Consistently clean floors.

4. That I can be as happy off medication as I am on medication.

5. Wearing a bikini.

6. That, as my mom told me in middle school, my eyebrows would thin out as I aged.

7. Trying to let other people’s ideas about my life mold my life.

8. Sit ups.

9. Thinking I need a better house/body/relationship/skirt/moisturizer to be happier/prettier/more fulfilled.

10. The days of updating this blog frequently.

11. Any type of bra that is manufactured for girls who don’t need bras.

12. That my opinion is more important than anyone else’s.

13. Being angry for someone cutting me off in traffic.

13a. Being angry for someone doing something mean. They don’t mean it, and if they do, they deserve my sympathy, not my anger.

13b. Okay, I’m trying. I’m not Gandhi over here.

14. Being mean, even if it’s just to myself.

15. Caring if I take shitty photographs.

16. Keeping up with trends, or food fads, or celebrities.

How about you?

10 Things Making Me Happy Right Now


10. Throwback Thursday. Seeing old photos is the funnest.


9. Wine. Specifically this one:


8. WP_20140227_005

(Running, not dorky sock and shoe combos, but that might be a bonus.)






(This is old, but who cares. It can make me happy right now, right? Yes.)

4. FebBlog 003

(International Delight Hazelnut Coffee Creamer should win some kind of Nobel Prize for Happiness.)


Not so surprising chickens. Don't tell Gregg I let them out. Shhhh.

2. IMG_0075

1. WP_20130309_002

Because joy is contagious.

Twelve Reasons Not to Have Kids



1. If you are a blogger, and a female, even if you never, ever, ever speak of your children, you will forever be known as “that mommyblogger.”

2. Stretch marks like a tiger. No, a zebra. No, a new zebra-tiger hybrid.

3. The glass ceiling is even lower for moms. You have to crouch just to fit in the room.

4. You will never, ever have time, and constantly be tired.

5. Stitches. Not just c-section stitches or ladyparts stitches, but the possibility of stitches on your children, all of the time, which is much, much worse than ladyparts stitches.

6. Caring about breastfeeding debates. You will just want to go back to caring about what Putin is doing to poor Crimea, which has far more gravitas than which ladies fed babies with their boobs and which did not.


Keshav - June 2005 - 013

8. Trying to figure out how to make a healthy dinner between work, after-school activities and homework without the aid of a time machine.

9. You will dream of punching anyone who decries McDonald’s because McDonald’s saves your life every Tuesday and Thursday. (Even though you used to decry McDonald’s.)

10. Not being able to listen to the news in public, ever, because those dying soldiers are someone’s children, and you’re going to end up crying. A lot.

11. Tuition payments.

12. Your heart walks around outside without you every day, and one day, it will not need you anymore, and leave.

An Open Letter to Everyone Who Thinks I’m Unemployed


Dear Neighbor Pointing and Giving Me Pity Eyes;

I know you think my life is sad, walking my dog at 11AM in the morning, but I’m on a mid-morning work break, and the dog is old and totally needs the walk. I swear, I’m not unemployed. I have two jobs. I’m a librarian and a writer. Sorry, an author.

Three if you count being a mother, which we’re doing now because we’re feminists and raising kids is yo, totally hard work. Just ask that lady from The Hours. Actually, I didn’t watch The Hours, or read the book, but I totally got the gist from that one YouTube clip. Four if you count messing around on the Internet. (What’s that? No one counts that? Okay, then back to three.)

And I know it seems like I’m not working, walking my dog, but I’m thinking about the next plot point in my novel, which, bee-tee-dubs, is going to be great. It’s going to be like Kierkegaard meets Faulkner meets The Hours. Actually, that sounds totally terrible, but you get the idea. It’s going to be great.

Besides, I’m not the one who uses “literally” all the time, like, “literally, I am looking at these kids and laughing!” I know you’re literally looking at the kids and laughing, because I’m standing right next to you, and I can see you. Literally. You don’t need to use the word “literally.” Ever. It’s the word “figuratively” that could be used. Like, “I have the worst headache in the world right now…figuratively, because I haven’t surveyed all the world’s occupants to find out if my headache is the worst, and besides, pain is subjective and complex.” That’s what you mean. We don’t need you to point out the literal. The literal is point-out-able already, because it is literal.

And listen, mister, just because I don’t make that much money doesn’t mean my jobs aren’t important. Think about the children whose minds I nurture, being a librarian and a mother. The children are our future!

Excuse me? Your pity eyes are because I stepped in something? You said, “What’s that doo?”, not, “What’s that you do?” and then you pointed to my shoe, which I thought was some kind of degrading salute you created from reading too many post-apocalyptic novels, but was really just you pointing to the poo on my shoe? 

Oh, okay then. Thanks. I’ll scrape it off before I go inside.

So, The Hours is really good, huh? Literally, I had no idea.