FAQ
Because it is January one hundred twenty-third, and our country is a fiery turd, we felt it would be nice to get around to our readers’ most frequently asked questions. If at any point you feel you’d like to add a FAQ, simply use the “Comment” button and, unlike elsewhere in the world, at Dishwasher Cafe you can be sure your voice will be heard and answered.
Q: When you’re on the way from a weekend “campout” at the grandparents’ house straight to the YMCA to “swim” with two children, in order to mercifully fill two hours that would otherwise be taken up by pinching, hitting, and yelling… and you realize you don’t have any bathing suits with you, what do you do?
A: There’s a reason Target is right next to the Y. You will of course have to oblige the children in the use of a double-child-cart that is longer and heavier than your car, and thus have to plan your turns about a half mile ahead of time, while being kicked in the kidney and having your cornea scratched by someone’s lariat-swirling snow-hat.
But here is where the fact that their clothes never fit will serve you well: they are always, always too big or small for what clothing you have provided them, and so the “quick trip to Target to grab that item” is always, always allowable. Given, of course, that the secondhand store clothing in this town COSTS THE SAME.
Q: What if your male child chooses the exact same flower-and-ruffle ensemble from the swimsuit section as your female child?
A: No problemo. Enjoy.
Q: No but I mean what if he’s tried it before… like, several times… and the material real estate of the girls’ bathing suit is insufficient to the task of… reliably housing his anatomy?
A: Point him to the cooler items among the boys’ clothing, you know, like, the dinosaurs maybe?
Q: No dice. Kid knows the girls’ suits are wayyyy better and the color palette for all clothing designated “boys’” blows. There’s no unburdening him of this discernment.
A: Ah, yes. OK, here’s where you whip out a mix-and-match bit of hocus pocus. You ready for this?
Q: Yeah
A: It’s a quick move, a sleight of hand.
Q: K
A: First, point excitedly to the long-sleeve UV swim-top with LOTS of PINK FLAMINGOS SOME WITH SUNGLASSES ON HOW SILLY.
Q: mm hm
A: Then, when he smiles, offhandedly shrug and report that the dinosaur shorts will go with that fine on the bottom.
Q: Not gonna fly. Kid desires, at core, the frill.
A: Ah. I see. In these cases, you pray.
Q: You’re into that?
A: When pushing a submarine and navigating the cultural manure pile of gender and the iron-clad aesthetics inside the soulscape of a Minotaur who has been unwisely placed in a crowded public setting, yes.
Q: And what happens next?
A: On the high velocity path to the self-checkout you roll past the exercise wear for eight-year-old girls, of course, where you spot—because you are a stone-cold super-fox and your half-assed mealy-mouthed agnostic prayers have been ANSWERED BABY—a frilly set of running shorts with built-in yet roomy underwear in a pink-purple sherbet mix. You grab those excitedly (WHILE ROLLING) and become demonstrably quite taken with how it sets off the pink in the long-sleeved flamingo top. AS SOON AS the proto-smile begins to flicker into existence upon the Minotaur’s face, you seal the deal with the casual mention of the ripe possibility for “getting minties at the boop line.” Provided that you maintain your velocity or drop by no more than 5%, this compound maneuver will carry it off.
Q: And what do you wear for a bathing suit?
A: The one I found in the drawer in my childhood bedroom before we left the grandparents’ house.
Q: But its foam nipple-pads are twenty-five years old and turning rapidly to dust.
A: A little disintegrating boob-gel in the paddle-pool isn’t going to hurt anyone.
Q: Does that suit even fit you?
A: Nope.
Q: Got it. And the life jackets and towels problem?
A: Recall that there is a whole wall of faded wads of lifejacket material hanging along the north side of the pool deck, all of which say YMCA in magnum sharpie from 1986. Put a sudden and irrational faith in the idea that the Y must have loaner towels, you know, like hotels.
Q: And when the life jackets turn out not to fit very well and cause a thirty-minute sensory meltdown from the child who usually can “even” in this life?
A: Adjust the straps multiple times, pretending that this is going to make a difference. When you are finally forced to acknowledge that the child is not going to and never was going to be tricked into compliance, endure.
Q: Endure?
A: Sometimes that’s the only answer.
Q: But… a half hour sobbing tantrum in the chilly bathwater of the small pool while several families splash you and the sobbing child both in the face… that doesn’t sound fun.
A: It’s not
Q: …
A: Look on the bright side: the child you expected the problem from is inexplicably paddling in circles chattering to itself about a “chickie motor rescue” in a Liverpool accent, cheerfully offering plastic sea stars to children with observable disabilities. And in the end, when you finally persuade the sobbing one to just take the lumpy faded lifejacket off and paddle upon a noodle instead, it will only take a minute or two to decide it’s having the time of its life.
Q: OK. What about that towel problem? Because the Y does not turn out to be a hotel and has nothing at all to offer you not even janitorial waste? What do you do with three dripping people walking into the tundric cold of the family locker room?
A: This is where you’re glad you had the presence of mind to grab a tiny flannel from the Kid Tote as you were getting out of the car, recalling your father’s car-washing shammies of yore, how beautifully absorptive they were.
Q: What does any of that have to do with anything?
A: See above regarding prayer. Apply the turquoise plaid shirt-wad to all three people in turn in the dressing room, where the children tell you in one way or another that your naked body is weird every time, shivering so violently you can hardly rub the children’s legs down, and close your eyes while they yell about how cold and awful this is and how they will NEVER COME BACK TO THE Y. It is permissible to hiss ME NEITHER DUDE while you squeegee on your jeans over wet legs WHY DID YOU WEAR JEANS
Q: How does that even… like… work?
A: It doesn’t. Eventually everyone partially air-dries while wailing, and you stuff a banana into their mouths, the banana you always have in your purse, so that it’s harder for them to complain through the fruity sludge.
Q: Is that really advice?
A: Objection. Leading question.
Q: What do you do with all the sopping wet stuff that you don’t have a bag for when you’re done?
A: Again I would draw your attention to the flannel shirt. Tie it all up in the flannel shirt in a dripping parcel. This will be the tidiest part of your day, in fact, this squelching little wad of plaidly knotted arms and its bulging (but staying-in-place!) cargo.
Q: And the fact that, beyond the banana, you have no snacks? How do you get them home on half the calories they need to approximate the behavior of mostly non-murderous citizens?
A: Vending machine popcorn.
Q: OK but how do you deal with it when they get their lightning fast racoon paws out while you’re using the card reader on the vending machine and make a random item selection?
A: There’s not much you can do in this case. You wait for the incorrect item to vend and then get the machine to read your card again so you can get the correct item.
Q: What about when this happens multiple times because you can’t bat the raccoon-hands away fast enough and you now have two or three bags of things nobody wants and you’ve spent six dollars on them and still have no popcorn out of the two bags of popcorn you require to get everyone home alive?
A: You cheerfully call it “the presents for strangers game” and you stuff the three unwanted bags back into the bottom of the vending machine and instruct the kids to wait and watch for someone to come by and find the goodies— how surprised and delighted they’ll be! Then re-scan your card twice and pay four more dollars for the popcorn.
Q: Sounds like we just paid ten dollars for an only marginally not-nutritionally-catastrophic snack.
A: Correct.
Q: But surely you’re going to make up for it with a homemade dinner.
A: Incorrect. I have already called in the take-out order.
Q: A bit consumery aren’t we?
A: A BIT
Q: What do you do about the popcorn that’s now all over the Y floor?
A: THEY LIKE THE MOP OK GET THE RACQUETBALL COURT MOP AND GIVE IT TO THEM THEY WILL PUSH THE ERRANT KERNELS AROUND UNTIL FIVE WHEN IT IS SAFE TO SAY THE DOORDASH WILL HAVE ARRIVED
Q: Are you OK?
A: IM FINE EVERYTHINGS FINE
Q: OK one last thing.
A: WHAT
Q: When you head out to the car, and they start the dangerous illegal race through the parking lot for the coveted Driver’s Side, which almost always ends in someone getting actually physically injured, whatcha gonna do then? Hmm?
A: Fine. I will tell you one last thing.
Q: Shoot.
A: <lowers voice> Get there first, whatever it takes. Run, let things fall out of the tote, drop the wet wad of stuff, whatever. Just get to the car first. Then quickly remark audibly on how dirty and salty the car looks as you turn your back and usher Child A towards it in a compound move, strategically blocking the driver’s side access to Child B, who will now notice the salt.
Q: Why?
A: Because Child B’s only greater desire than getting the driver’s side back seat is to lick car salt when no one’s looking.
Q: What?
A: Shut up man. Just let him think he’s getting away with it while you buckle the other one into the driver’s side. Which, to be fair, it was HER turn to have.
Q: Um, are there any other places to get better advice?
A: THERE ARE NOT.
Q: OK, thanks, I guess.
A: YOU ARE WELCOME.
Q: Have a nice d—
A: I WILL.
Note to self:
Million Dollar idea - back seat salt licks!
Only sell in vending machines at YMCAs and in the bathing suit aisle of Target, next to the dinosaurs.
$$$$$
Booking time on Shark Tank ASAP.
This may be the greatest FAQ I've ever bothered to read. Why can't corporations be more human and alive like this? (Obviously, their AI-writing souls can't handle the pressure.)