Overheard on Halloween

I have an axe in my candy bowl and play spooky music out the window.
I wear a mask and hide in wait. With beer.
(Beer's for me, duh.) (Or anyone brave enough to ask.) ( Holla Beth!)

Anyhoo, here's a snippet of Halloween in Small Town, which is perhaps one of the few in MA that enjoyed it without snow:

"I am a grown-up dressed up to look like a kid because I am a grown up who wants candy but actually I am a kid. Do you like my mustache?"
(Yes. No. Yes? No, omigod! Kid, you're confusing me.)

"MOMMA! Dis yady as an axe!"
It's okay, say his parents. (I take the mask off -- I'm just a mom, I say.)
"I don cahr!"
It's okay, really! say his parents.
"I dohn wan dat yady's cahndy!" (I give some to his sister.)
"I'll take his."

"Are you B's mom?" (Yeah. Look at you! What are you?)
"Pretty Little Liars" (Five minute conversation ensues about whodunnit.)

"Love the music." (Do you rock? I say)
"Wuddayouthink?"  (Take two, kid.)

"It's just me!" (No it isn't.)
"No it is, it's me!" (No. It is not you.)
"IT'S ME  -- YOU KNOW ME!" (No I don't -- you're too scary.)
Rips mask off.
"It's me!" (Oooo, now I know you.)
"You're funny, I think."  (You think?)
"Can I have some candy?" (No.)  


It's been a long time since I laughed so much.You should laugh too...

(PS: the kid got the candy.)

An Open Letter To Toilet Paper

Dear Toilet Paper,

It is obvious you despise me.

You are never around when I need you! But when my kids do, or my husband?

Good god, man, I coming running with you.

We race off together and shove you through the crack in the door.

I always felt like we were a team.

Lately, not so much.

I think you are saving your succulent tissue for other bathrooms, because hell bells! You are never in mine.

I call to my kids, to my husband, to the random dog walker on the street: "BRING ME SOME TOILET PAPER!"

I thought you would do some kind of inanimate magic like stuff and roll yourself to the lazy Short Drunk People or The Kid, or even me. But no.

But no...

You're too busy sopping up the mess that the GFYO left from a spilt cranberry on the rug because goddammit, I forgot to get paper towel.

Alright, okay. I can wait until someone misses me enough.

I'll try to do a better job of making sure you are where you need to be. Just like the paper towels.

In the meantime, can you quit it with those gross cartoon bears?

No one needs to think about tissue stuck to ass.

And those women who keep talking about being "clean in the bathroom?"

Gross.

Just tell me that you're on sale, alright?

Meanwhile, I'll be drip drying in the loo.

Which is also disgusting.

Enough.

Love,

Picket

I'm Missing It

When my kids were little, I was never alone.

Despite the obvious fact that they were with me all the time, there was also this "thing" that happened: all the other grown-up people who were with their kids wanted to hang out. With me.

I miss those days.

Our baby group days.

My kid, she was kinda aggressive. She was the giant toddler who would roll over the mini toddler to get to the blocks. I think she tried to wrestle one kid to the ground once; I remember pulling her off, apologizing. I think I brought beer once. They never kicked me out.

"She is just bigger than the rest," they said.

"Holy fucking hell," I said.

"My other kid is really sweet and nice and oh shit I have to go pick her up..."

Then I was pregnant. Again.

Baby groups die when you get pregnant. No one likes an unknown.

Plus -- you have another baby, and it's a miracle if anyone gets fed other than him.

Baby groups?

Yeah, right: forget it.

I miss 'em though, the baby groups. It seems like lately my life is just the Three Short Drunks and no others. I manage more paperwork for them than I ever did as publicist. I drive carpools, but I wave to the parents/my friends from the car. The kids sit in the back mostly and I play DJ.

"Does your mom know this song?" I say.

Is she happy, I think. Does she wish I came to the door rather than my kid? Does she want to talk, or is she as tired as I am? Does she want to make a play date -- with me?

I can't believe I'm saying this, but I miss the days when I was knee knee deep in poopy diapers and strollers I couldn't fold and worries about crawling and sitting up and reading and "socialization." It was easier than to talk about parenting. It was easier than to group up in the morning before naps.

I miss the days when we would get together to figure it all out.

Sometimes

-- I think that the man in the blue car with the OCD wants me to bash his window in

-- I think the Big Gut guy might die when I'm around

-- I want to save somebody!

-- I am pretty sure my bed is the best place to be

-- (I can't leave it.)

-- I should call.

-- I should call or email or send a fucking smoke signal.

-- I have nothing to say.

-- I say too much.

-- I wonder if I was meant to be a mother.

-- my kids wish I wasn't theirs.

-- my husband wishes he married for mommy.

-- I look at the Small Town through the bright light of an October day from the barrel of my car's front window and I see the buildings like my old buildings, like my facade of childhood, and I think I can reach through the window and just touch it

-- when I drive down these streets in October, I see our station wagons and my soccer uniform

-- I can see my mother

-- I wonder if deja vu can be a constant kind of thing

-- I write

-- I write for no purpose other than writing

-- You will decide which is which