Wisconsin Carol

September 6, 2026

I have beef with a woman named Carol.* She lives in Wisconsin, and she's my archnemesis.

It all started in October of 2023. My mom and stepfather were both gone, which meant 35 new hoops to jump through while also living my normal life. Among other things, it was time for their home in the middle of goddamn nowhere in Wisconsin to be cleaned out, repaired, and sold. My husband and I spent weekends driving 100 miles back and forth between our home and the Wisconsin house, making thrift store drops and runs to the dump in between.

In the midst of all of that, we also went on a three-week trip to New Zealand, something we'd been dreaming of for years and had been actively planning for 18 months.

A month or so before our departure, I submitted a bunch of documents to some government agency in Wisconsin. Their approval was needed before I could receive a final document, which I then had to submit with more paperwork to the same agency. The circle of life.

All of this had to be done before the house could be sold. We’d been working on cleaning and repairs for months (not to mention paying for utilities, snow removal, and other upkeep), so we were eager to get it listed. Getting the paperwork done was a big deal.

I popped everything in the mail and awaited its return. It didn't come and didn't come. I even drove up to Wisconsin on a couple of weeknights to check the mail at the house, in case it had been delivered there for some reason. Nothing.

I started to get worried, so I emailed Carol a couple of times. She had been my original contact at the office, and she was also the sole person in charge of this particular bureaucratic hurdle. No answer.

We left for our trip. Parts of it were genuinely the most peaceful I have ever felt in my life. In Maps, I had to zoom out to space to see my location and home at the same time.

We took a train from Picton to Christchurch. I've never seen water so blue. But then I'd remember that Wisconsin exists, and a little dark cloud would form over my head.

Eventually, it couldn't wait any longer. Our realtor kept asking about the paperwork. USPS Informed Delivery kept saying "No." On one of the last days of our trip, I needed to call.

It would be an understatement to say that I hate calling. I can't help it; I don't like talking to people if I can't see them. My hands shake. I have to write out what I need to say in advance. It's a whole mess. But I needed to do it. That night in Queenstown I set my alarm clock for 4 a.m. New Zealand time to make a transpacific phone call to Carol in Wisconsin.

Do you think Carol's ass answered? She did not. I sent another email, then called again from Auckland on the day before we left. Still no answer.

So we flew back to the U.S., fully passed out for three hours at LAX, and finally made it back to Minnesota.

But instead of settling back in to sleep off our trip, instead of enjoying our last day off before back-to-work, we had to pack our overnight bags for a trip to Wisconsin.

Yes, that's right. After flying halfway across the world, we had to jump in the car to drive to fucking Madison, Wisconsin, because Carol wouldn't answer the phone.

Even though we were exhausted, we decided to make the most of our forced vacation. We saw Lisa Frankenstein, a somewhat mediocre movie that will nonetheless live on in my memory because of its connection to the 100% ass time we had trying to sell the house in Wisconsin. "There's a worm on my diet plate!" has entered our household vernacular.

We ate at a random Chinese buffet, which Google tells me may have closed. I can understand why; it was a strange experience of mediocre food and plodding silence as people made their way from station to station. Including me. Usually I believe it's impossible to be unhappy at a buffet. The World Buffet in Madison proved me wrong.

We did stay at a nice hotel. Our room was on a higher floor, and it had a huge window that overlooked a city street. We left the curtains open all night. I couldn't sleep, so I just watched taillights until the sun came up. I was nervous to visit Carol. What if she still wouldn't give me what I needed?

The next morning, we wandered the halls of a government building and found the office from which Carol broke hearts and minds. We were first in line. After ten minutes of waiting, the window opened and I stepped up to the counter.

Carol's coworker greeted me first. She looked a little guilty as she informed me that my needs were under Carol's purview, then stepped away to tell Carol I had arrived. Carol turned, sighed, and made her way to the window. I explained that I had submitted paperwork weeks ago, and that I needed this done today.

She stepped away, typed something into her computer, and said, "Oh, I see. My spreadsheet says I approved it, but I never mailed it out."

Of course.

Ten minutes later, Carol presented me with an official-looking document, complete with a fancy watermark. Exactly what I had needed two months ago. But now I needed more: I had to resubmit this same document, along with more paperwork, to the exact same office Carol was currently standing in.

With some embarrassment, I informed her of this. She heaved a sigh and said, "I really hate that."

I blinked, taken aback. She really hated it? Carol, whose shrugging dismissal of her own spreadsheet had followed me all the way to New Zealand and back, really hated it? I had driven 300 miles into frozen Wisconsin after 16 hours pretzeled into an airplane seat, and Carol was the victim?

But I still needed to file that paperwork, and Carol was the woman to do it.

I could not look at my husband, or anyone, for fear of having a sleep-deprived, jet-lagged meltdown. Doing my best to conceal my baffled rage, I said, "Yeah, me too," and slid the watermarked document back through the window.

* It should go without saying, but Carol is not this person's real name. Don't go bothering any poor Wisconsin civil servants named Carol, you weirdo.