Gratitude for Rejection
A couple weeks ago, I pitched the New Yorker’s online humor column, Daily Shouts (a spin off of their Shouts & Murmurs print feature). It’s a satirical piece that was inspired by actual clutter on my dining room table and the ensuing anxiety that, in the end, could only be processed by laughing about the fact that we couldn’t set the table for Thanksgiving dinner if there were glitter tarantulas and porcelain Easter bunnies crowding the lazy Susan.
After following up with the editor, she kindly wrote me back to say that it was a pass and thanked me for the read. I was bummed it was a no, of course, but was thrilled that she had taken the time to write me back and thank me for my submission. I decided not to respond; I didn’t want to clog her email inbox with a trite thank you. But several days later, I was still thinking about my non-response and decided it would be proper etiquette to send a quick note of thanks. I thanked her for considering my pitch and told her I was looking forward to trying again soon. I got her automatic out of office message; not surprising since it is Thanksgiving week here in the U.S. and many folks are on vacation. Then, I saw a reply from another editor, who told me that the first editor had forwarded her pitch along, and told me it was going to be a pass but thanked me for letting them consider it. And she invited me to send future pitches her way to read. It felt like such a generous response, and I was filled with such gratitude that it didn’t dawn on me until a few minutes later that my pitch had been rejected twice.
Thanks to encouragement from friends, my writing community, and Instagram community, I’ve decided to go ahead and publish the story here. May you find gratitude in unexpected places this Thanksgiving, and always.
Moms Setting the Thanksgiving Table
By Layla Khoury-Hanold
Before I can invite guests to gather around my table to share a sumptuous spread, I must first conduct a seasonal inventory of my dining room table:
Gourds: four autumnal squash in various stages of decay, artfully arranged with intertwining stems. A paper hedgehog tucked inside an heirloom apple perches on top, peering at the detritus below: a pumpkin catapult, a purple glitter tarantula, a bag of bats, and a puddle of my flop sweat.
Assorted holiday decor: miniature hand-painted bunnies, one with a basket filled with beads or mangled jellybeans. Is it fall or is it spring? Where’s the Tylenol. Ah, here it is, next to the napkin holder stocked with last season’s holiday cards. Will this be the year I rise above the surging tide of shame and send out family photos where we are all wearing matching smiles and ascots, including the dog?
Stack o’ cookbooks: an aspirational collection of 30-minute recipes that are also completely plant-based, low-budget, guilt-free, and sprinkled with homemade fairy dust. A reminder that the perfect side dish everyone will be raving about for Thanksgivings to come is right here and a daily dose of doom that I am a bad mother because my daughter doesn’t eat handmade Paleo kale dinosaur nuggets.
Pumpkin spice latte hand soap: a prompt to stock the dispensers with seasonal suds, along with a stack of freshly ironed monogrammed hand towels, organic garbage can liners, and tryptophan-sleep-inducing pillow mints, and artisanal chocolate turkeys for turn-down service. Am I running a household or am I running a hotel?
Child’s nail clippers: a cue to cut my daughter’s nails while she streams her favorite movie and I pour juice into her mouth from a cornucopia chalice. The clippers are next to my to-do list—the dog also needs her nails filed. Both will request alternating coats of seasonal polish shades: Turducken and Cran-orange-ya-glad-it’s-Thanksgiving? Why am I the last to get a manicure in this house?
Crumbs and assorted sticky streaks: Single-tree, small-batch maple syrup from the six-year old’s waffle, assorted imported rice grains from the pumpkin curry my husband made three weeks ago, and petrified baguette crumbs from the charcuterie board from whatever holiday we last celebrated. Is that a mashed jellybean or pumpkin guts under the lazy Susan?
A bra: More of a bralette, really, because since 2020, I’ve given up on wearing bras with any structure or support unless I have an appointment somewhere. And only if it isn’t sweatshirt season, which it is (I think). At least it didn’t end up in my child’s backpack, like last time. Oh God, does Thanksgiving require a bra?
A personal planner: the corner that’s visible under the stacks of my child’s Pulitzer-prize winning prose about ironic hipster pilgrims reminds me that I have not written in it for six months. Time to write out my dream Martha Stewart-and-Snoop Dogg-approved Thanksgiving menu. And chronicle the mounting anxiety directly proportional to the clutter encroaching on my dining room table, my life.