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Dear Reader,

I have a beef with whoever invented the days of the week. Would it have been so hard to give us an even number? Either six or eight would be fine, I’m not picky. But no–they had to go with seven. It makes things difficult, calendar-inventor guy, and I’m not happy about it.

For one thing, there’s my hair. It looks best if I wash it every other day, but my schedule works best if I wash it on the same days each week. Thanks to your calendar, it’s impossible to do both. I can wash it on Monday/Wednesday/Friday, but then my Sunday hair looks awful. If I wash it on Sunday, then I’m stuck with Tuesday/Thursday/Saturday the following week, and holy hell does that mess with my schedule. Do you have any idea, calendar guy, how long it takes to dry my hair? I can’t go around fitting that into my schedule all willy-nilly on random days. But thanks to you, it’s either do that or deal with terrible Sunday hair. Thanks a lot.

It’s not just my hair, though. So many things would be simpler with an even number of weekdays: dividing household chores, planning workouts, even buying groceries. Think about eggs, calendar guy. They come in dozens, and if I eat two each morning, that leaves me eggless on Sunday. Sure I can buy extra, but that means my days and my eggs are never going to come out even. Do you know how frustrating that is? Do you know how many food products are sold in dozens? I take back what I said earlier. Six days is inherently better than eight, and I’ll tell you why. It’s not only about eggs and cans of soda. Think of the months, man.

The city picks up our recycling on the first and third Fridays of the month, but sometimes–whoops!–there’s a fifth Friday, an unexpected extra week of letting trash accumulate. Also, paychecks come every other week, which means if I want to budget evenly each month, I have to allocate a bit of each extra paycheck gradually over six months. That’s impossible, sir. Everyone knows extra money disappears the moment it hits your bank account.

Now picture this: A calendar in which each week has six days and each month has 30. It would be perfect! I know, you’re asking where we make up the extra five days (six in a leap year). We’ll stick those between Christmas and New Year’s. No one knows what day it is then, anyway.

Although, come to think of it, that still wouldn’t solve all my problems. There would still be an odd number of weeks in a month. Maybe we should try four weeks of eight days each. Maybe four weeks of six, and we invent an extra month? Six weeks of six, and we discard January and February? Those are terrible months, anyway.

Well, figuring out how to make it work is your job, not mine. You’re the calendar guy. Meanwhile, I have to go wash my hair. I’ve gotten knocked off schedule again, and I know just who to blame.

Love, Melissa

Dear Reader,

Last night, while I was trying and failing to sleep, I found myself contemplating the nature of time. (And then I wonder why I can’t sleep!) Even after writing a time travel novel, I’m not sure what I believe. Does the past actually exist? Do historical documents replace the events they describe? If there’s an error in such a document, is it actually an error, or has it then become true?

On the surface, the answers seem obvious. Of course the past exists, because we feel its effects in the present. But if Person A and Person B have conflicting memories of something they did, the objective truth is long gone. Does that make both versions true, or neither? The effects of that event felt in the present will be different for each person. Now, strangely, both versions seem equally true. If the story is something passed down through their families, Family A and Family B know different truths, which become stronger and more entrenched with each generation. So does that past event exist, or are the effects in the present the only truth?

Unfortunately, I fell asleep before I came to any conclusions, but the questions won’t go away that easily. Though I love fiction in which characters visit the past, I can’t imagine it would ever work in real life. If Person A traveled back to his memory and Person B to hers, they would never meet there to discover the real truth. Instead, they would each visit their own version of events. Memory is a time machine, but it’s a faulty one. It can only reinforce the truths we already believe.

Or so my thoughts ran last night as I tipped toward slumber. Maybe tonight I’ll try to solve the mystery of the Bermuda Triangle. That’s still a mystery, right? I’m certain that’s the way I remember it.

Love, Melissa

Dear Reader,

When I was a young mother–and I was a very young mother–I had a friend with kids the same age as mine. Well, I had several of those, but I’m thinking about this friend because of something she used to say. Every couple of months, she would sigh dramatically. “I guess it’s time to take the kids to The House of Mouse again.” By that, she meant Chuck E. Cheese.

I didn’t understand her attitude at all. She made those trips for her kids’ sake, but she hated the place. Her reasons were legitimate: the noise, the chaos, the expense. I never saw those drawbacks as serious enough to negate the main attraction. My daughter had a great time there. She was happy, she was entertained, and she was safe. The hours we spent at The House of Mouse gave me a chance to turn my parenting brain off and think my own thoughts. For a few hours, I rested secure in the knowledge my daughter wouldn’t need anything complicated. She wouldn’t complain she was bored.

Besides, I could sneak in a game or two of Skee-Ball for myself. I love that game.

To be fair, that friend was significantly older than I was, even though our kids were the same age. In the years since, I decided I probably would have shared her attitude if I hadn’t been so recently out of childhood myself. Last week, I had the opportunity to test that theory. It proved untrue. I’m 50 now, but I still had a great time visiting The House of Mouse with my niece and nephew.

For one thing, the people-watching there is exceptional. You’ve got kids, you’ve got parents, you’ve got employees in various stages of enjoying or tolerating or despising their jobs. For a writer, there are few more fertile grounds than Chuck E. Cheese for observing possible character traits to borrow.

For another, if you love the kids you’re with, how could you not enjoy their joy in being there? My nephew ran gleefully from the games to the slides to the pizza, calling behind him, “Aunt Ah-yissa! Come watch!” My niece, older and more knowledgeable, said, “Aunt Melissa, do you want to play Skee-Ball with me?” That girl knows the way to her aunt’s heart.

In between, there was time to talk and laugh with my sister and our mom while the kids were occupied and not needing our attention. What could be more precious to a constant caregiver than those fleeting moments when your care is not needed?

So no, Dana, I still don’t understand your disdain for The House of Mouse. The place promises to do one thing, and it delivers admirably. It’s hard to put a price on those moments when motherhood becomes briefly easier, but to my mind, the price Chuck E. charges is not too high at all.

Besides, I still play a mean game of Skee-Ball. Anyone want to join me? You get the tokens; I’ll buy the pizza.

Love, Melissa