What Ya Gonna Do When They Come for You

The Stud and I once watched one of those true crime story shows (-- wait, before I go any further I need to correct my language to dispel any misconceptions: we didn't watch a show like that "once" because we watch shows like that all the time; in fact, there are probably three 20/20s and a couple Primetimes in the Tivo right now --) in which a man claimed that despite his wife's blood spattered on the walls and the floors and the steps to garage, he did not kill her: she just bled a lot. We howled over that, as we scanned our kidless, relatively clean house which was completely blood-free.

"Oh, my silly wife: there she goes gushing blood on the walls again!"

"Honey, did you hemorrhage in the garage today?"

"Sweeeeetheart, you left more of your brain matter on the kitchen cabinet!"

We were wicked, wicked funny back then, but we were also wicked stupid about the future that would soon become our lives. So now in life imitating TV imitating someone else's life, I know what to say when the cops come knocking. Oh, officer, I'll laugh, they just bleed a lot.

But unlike the above-mentioned dude who is sitting in jail somewhere, I will have photographic evidence to back up my claims. Like this

for example.

(Notice how I put out the educational dinosaur puzzle, but no! It's swording and slashing and clubbing right until the first kid falls with a wound, leaving DNA evidence all over my rug.)

Confession or Step One

My name is Ms Picket. And I need to confess something.

Peer pressure from my so-called friends (you know who you are JESSICA and LISA) got the better of me and I did what I swore I would never do. It starts with Face and ends with Book. I really can't say the word out loud, much less type it for all the world to read. Which is an obvious hyperbole: I do believe only half the world is reading this.

Admitting it is a good thing I guess, but I still feel all needy twit for doing so. I mean, isn't the whole social networking thing a little, um, unnecessary when I have in fact no net to work? Does that even make sense? Do people work their nets? What in the hell am I even talking about?

The whole point of my ramble (yes, half the world, there is a freakin' point) is that my whole week long foray into the world of the Face ends with Book has resulted in a rather hilarious walk down memory lane. Who knew so many of my elementary school classmates would grow up to be social networkers too?

Anyhoo, one of the first old friends to "friend" me -- a concept I find funny and also horrifying at the same time, kind of like asking someone to dance and standing around waiting for hours for an answer -- was Kristin (she of the hair caught in the blender days and not the Kristin of Going Country).

Kristin and I were pretty much inseparable from first meeting. I think we had matching missing front teeth and that probably sealed the deal. We had the same teacher in first grade, but even when we didn't, we were in the same "special class." Which is a really indelicate way of saying a "gifted class" which is a really pretentious way of saying "a class for kids who were bored and potentially disruptive and needed to be pulled out of traditional school for a few hours a week to build outer space cities out of cardboard boxes." Naturally, I loved special class. And so did Kristin.

Once, when we went on vacations with our families, we decided to each keep a journal we would share when we returned. The journal would not be about the places we visited or the food we ate; it would be loaded with all the words we liked the most. One of mine was inflammable (and it still is, truth be told).

When John Lennon died, we were ten and obviously deeply impacted by his passing and so spent an entire weekend making a "Gentle Beatle" collage about peace and music and love.

We made up plays to Shel Silverstein poems and performed them for our parents.

We had code words -- "d" was for "deodorant" which was terrifically deceptive. We had our own short hand -- instead of saying "hi, how are you, i'm fine," we'd say "hi... and all that jazz" which was terrifically efficient.

We decided that the lemon that was tied to the tether that you swung around your ankle (you know the one) smelled like pee. And then proceeded to smell it for about an hour.

In seventh grade, I switched to a new school. I was playing soccer; she was diving. We both found out that boys were pretty cool (maybe even cooler than journals filled with cool words; we were half-right about that) and by high school, I had moved out of the state. We'd see each other at parties from time to time and spend hours laughing and hugging and chatting and drinking. In college, when we both were kind of swimming upstream, we did the same laughing and talking at Dead shows: she shaved her head once, I was pathetically trying to grow dread locks. Good times.

My sister would bump into her parents so I got some updates over the years: she had graduated, she had moved, she got a job, or another job, she was happy, she was newly married. And every time I would hear dribs and drabs from her now seemingly distant life, I would think, "would she still remember our code words? our plays? would she remember how much stinkin' fun we used to have?"

So Face ends with Book comes along, I grudgingly sign up, and who should come knocking on my virtual door? And who should start reading my virtual life as Ms Picket? Kristin. (Half the world, say hello to Kristin. Kristin, say hello to half the world.) Turns out she has three of her own Short Drunk People, grew her hair back into a more conservative style, and moved to the 'burbs, which sounds eerily familiar. I imagine from time to time, she even gets the occasional whiff of pee, which though a lot less funny than it was in 3rd grade, she probably still laughs at. I'm kind of beside myself that after 30 years, she and I can totally build virtual outer space cities together again.

If the blogging world is like really inexpensive group therapy and/or a virtual bridge club where all the guests drink and swear and bitch and moan and make you feel totally welcome even if you have stains all over your shirt, then maybe the Face(fuckit)book thing is not as completely lame as I thought. And maybe accepting that is the first step to recovery.

My name is Ms Picket and I like the Internet.

The Ants are Marching

Except these dudes are not coming in two-by-two: they are coming in Russian army style, line after freakin' line. I believe they have tiny helmets on and tiny bayonets.

I am totally taking out my tiny machine gun and blowing them all away.

*****

Except I do not have a tiny machine gun and I'm sorta a pacifist. (Though I did once throw myself in the middle of a fist fight the Stud was in -- defending my honor, he was, that chivalrous fool. He is 6'4"; I am 5'3"; my black eye proved he did not need my help. My mother was not impressed. Ahhhh... youth.) But I hate these miserable ants with a passion that should put me on the PETA watch list. I loathe them. I despise them. I am thinking in lieu of the tiny machine gun, I might teach the GFYO the whole magnifying glass and sun trick. Which seems cruel, and also, he might burn our house down. Which would mean the ants had won. They could march through the ashes of our home (looking for discarded popsicle wrappers no doubt) and no one would even SEE them.

*****

I tell the Three Short Drunk People, "who needs a dog? we have these bloody ants!" and R says, "the ant is BLOODY?! where? i wanna see!"

*****

I go to the hardware store (truly one my favorite places; even the crabby old she-man behind the counter amuses me; I will make that hag smile some day, I swear to it) and I search through the pest control aisle. There are many many products for killing ants. They all seems wickedly toxic. I mull over a fly swatter. I leave with nothing.

*****

The entire front line of the Russian Ant Army moves across my cook top. I decide the kids will eat cold, leftover chicken tonight. They are not pleased (they rarely are with my culinary wizardry -- Jerry Seinfield's wife can suck it) and I say, "do you want grilled cheese sandwiches with ants in them?" And B says, "jeez moooooom: it's just an ant" and I say "you are so afraid of bugs it is not even funny; do not get all cooler than thou with me now, missy" and she says, "you need to get a grip." Which she actually didn't say, but I know she was thinking it. Because I have mad skills that way, like ESP and shit.

*****

I sit in front of the fan. Directly in front. My kids are hot and in a heap and watching Shear Genius. The contestants are cutting hair to look like famous cartoon characters: Marge Simpson, Betty Boop, etc. I need a hair cut. I unloop the ponytail holder. I check the length of my mop mane and lo and freaking behold, there is a mother lovin' ant in my god damn hair.

*****

I consider burning the house down myself.

She Yawned, She Cried, She Grew Up?

I'm tired.

Tired in all ways that a girl can be tired: body tired, brain tired, heart tired.

After the non-stop-woo-hoo-aren't-we-fun-and-young of the weekend (which was quite possibly the longest ever), I am feeling old. Old because my ability to bounce back is not what it used to be -- which means that I can't lounge in bed until noon and order pizza and fries and extra-large diet cokes and re-hash the night with my homies. Then nap and shower and resume.

I am old because this Independence Day, the Three Short Drunk People were truly the independent ones. I did not need to worry about them drowning so much; I sent the 7 year old out solo in a kayak from the mainland to a nearby island and she made it without one freak out (by me); I could let them roam the island solo (and pee in the woods without help); they could manage the buffet all by themselves. And God love those small dudes, they made their own breakfast at least once over the weekend.

I am old because there have been too many funerals for my friend's parents lately. They seem to be coming like weddings used to come: every couple of months there's another call with more news and more details and more times and places to gather.

Until recently, the last funeral I attended was my grandmother's when I was 22. I was nervous because it was in a big Catholic church, and my father was an atheist who broke from his parents and 8 Irish siblings because he was a rebel and he read philosophy, and also because I really didn't know too many of the aunts and uncles gathered or really the grandmother who had died and I was pretty sure, going in, that I had no idea what to say. Which was true.

When Aunt Number 5, thanked me for coming from so far (which I hadn't really; she probably had me confused with someone else), I said, "Oh, it's my pleasurrrrre."

Which I knew right away was probably foot-in-the-mouth kinda stuff.

When my mother's mother died a couple years later, there was only a memorial service: no wake, no open casket, no praying. My brother in law sang "Morning Has Broken", funny stories were told, my oldest sister who delivered the only official eulogy seemed like a grown-up to me for the first time. Besides that, all I can remember is crying for about a month.

When my grandfather died of a broken heart a year or so after that, I was holding my 2 week old first-born in my arms in his living room as he breathed one last breath and left. My mother and her brothers were off to the liquor store for the dinner that night -- The Stud in hot pursuit, speeding through country roads trying to catch up to them. Unsuccesfully. So it was just me, B, and my middle sister's husband and my middle sister there; she holding his hand, speaking so calmly and so poetically and sending him off in nothing but love. That's when I knew she was a grown up.

A couple more kids later, mortgage payments out the wazoo, a career started and sold, first gray hairs, and the freakin' PTO, and I am still not sure that I feel like a grown-up. Sometimes, when B talks about third grade, it's not that I feel like I am in third grade, but I remember my BFF Kristin so well and I remember that dude Paul I totally dug who I think was a Mormon and moved away and I remember my mean teacher and the deaf girl who got her hair caught in the blender, and so I think I know what B is feeling. Sometimes, when the awesome babysitter Samantha has boyfriend problems and wonders about getting married, I feel not so much like I am having boyfriend problems or wondering about getting married, but that I know exactly how she is feeling. Which I probably really don't anymore, but the point is, I think that I do.

So when I find myself at wakes for the fathers of my friends, or writing notes to friends when I can't be there, it starts to dawn on me: Ms. Picket, you ARE old, maybe not old enough to know when to go home before the hangover kicks in, but at least old enough to starting seeing a generation one up from you start to pass the torch along.

And Ms. Picket, you are old enough to have solo-kayaking kids who are starting to need you less (which dude, is a trend that shows no slowing down), so let's make, um, a little note to yourself: you, my friend, ARE the grown-up.

You Look Like a Monkey

And you smell like one too.

The 4th of July, it turns out, is not much more to the Three Short Drunk People who live in my house than a big town-wide birthday party. They see a party on someone's porch and they figure they are invited and barge right in. They see other people's snacks at the beach and they figure they can help themselves. And most of the time, it works out alright.

The Small Town has been in feverish celebration mode for two days straight now. We can hear the bands (that start at noon) from our backyard. Currently, it sounds like really awful karaoke. (Note to bar bands: do not under any circumstance perform Jefferson Airplane in public. No one wants to feed their head.) The streets are jammed; Japanese tourists with maps! Stroller convoys! Madras everywhere!

Drinking starts early and ends late. Everything is grilled and arrives in a bun or on a stick. I have seen way too many dudes marching around with plastic lobsters sewn onto Red Sox hats. Lobsters and the Red Sox pretty much equals freedom and liberty here.

Our model boat, built this morning for the Regatta at 3:00, clearly had a busted GPS: it raced off at the start and three times in a stinking row tacked 180 degrees and headed right home to shore. The GFYO did NOT fall in however, so we all considered it a win-win.

God Bless the small town, but I seriously need a nap, possibly a blood transfusion, and a decent parking spot.

You Cant Judge A Book By Its Cover

I'm making a party mix for a friend's Fourth of July party. She hired a band before, but this year: she asked me for music. Not for a chip or a dip but for music.

And I agreed. I always do that.

My mom will be at the party this year.

She and her brother played the best records when I was a kid. And that's inspires me.

I am screwing the Deadhead Dad who will complain no matter what (because it's not the Dead all the time) and I'll probably upset the work-out moms who want cheesy hip-hop bang-bang music.

It is so good to be the music maker.

I'm gonna include this tune from the brilliant Bo. I wish I made mention of his passing earlier.

Seriously friends, if this does not make you want to get up and shake it.... then, shit: I don't know what.

I Would Like To Thank the Academy

The GFYO was out to get me last night and I am also almost done with the David Sedaris book, so when aimeepalooza presented me with this



I exclaimed "screw exhaustion! screw the pile of laundry! screw making breakfast for anyone! let's celebrate!" Ms Picket WON something today and so all is right with my tiny world. Plus I adore aimeepalooza and so should you.

But (there's always a "but," right?), there are rules to this award so I'll oblige:

1. Pick five (5) blogs that you consider deserve this award for their creativity, design, interesting material, and also for contributing to the blogging community, no matter what language.
2. Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.
3. Each award winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.
4. Award-winner and the one who has given the prize have to show the link of Arte y Pico blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.

Naturally, I wish I could bend the rules a tad and pick more than five of my faves -- you can find many of them on the right side of this page and you really should find them.

So here goes:

CarolynOnline introduced herself to me by inviting me to drink beer (like a couple of bums) at the park. No matter that her park is like six states away from mine -- when has time and space ever been an obstacle to friendship? It turns out she is living the Southern version of my life. Also, she happens to be a seriously funny writer and all-around excellent person who will be passing this award off to JenW at Serenity Now, who deserves it big time.

Kristin at Going Country hates the New York Times and climbs into cisterns like a champ. Because she has battled bats and chipmunk-eating dogs with some serious snark, it is obvious to me that one day she will make a fine member of the Good Mother Club.

StartswithanX is just a seriously good time. And I don't mean that in a-number-scrawled-on-a-bathroom-stall kind of way.

Always Home and Uncool is probably out of the house more than he thinks. He also has a memory like -- is it elephants with good memories? whatever -- he has an incredible memory: he recognized a photo of the Stud as a child. Turns out the two played Little League together. Plus, men talking about their kids is cool, goddammit.

Jake and Ellie's Mom did not Invent Motherhood but she has good taste in music and is starting a new business and I am all for the girl power.

Go forth and grant awards, award winners!

Turns Out I Am Replaceable

Samantha is the new babysitter. Samantha has the coolest cell phone ever. Samantha is the prettiest girl on the planet. Samantha has the BEST taste in music and the NICEST boyfriend and the COOLEST friends. "Samantha is coming today?" shouts the GFYO (because he generally shouts more than talks) and when I say yes, yes she is, I see that his happiness is equal to his sisters' and equal to my own. We ALL love Samantha.

Samantha is camp -- not in the John Waters kind of way -- but in the singing songs by the campfire kind of way. She has taken them swimming, eating, dock jumping, playground playing, bowling, painting, and today she took them here:

HERE was supposed to be this amazingly cool action picture she took of my kids on a roller coaster type of thing at a local carny and emailed to me from her awesome phone. HERE was one of the best pictures of three happy kids every taken. HERE is not upload-able due to "internal errors." (Before I get all huffy about that, I realize: do we not ALL have internal errors? And so I have decided to give the whole computer industry and/or internet some slack. Sigh.)

So anyhoo, just imagine the picture taken by the amazing babysitter who spends 9 hours a week with my kids and pretty much saves my life and my sanity and definitely has seduced the three Short Drunk People with her wicked cool ways. (I wish she was here last night when the GFYO was possessed by some devil until three in morning with a) a possible ear infection, b) night terrors or c) a willingness to seriously want to fuck with me. But I digress...)

At about 6pm last night, I got the chance to babysit the neighbor baby who arrived diaper-clad and slightly sweaty. Which of course is like the.best.thing.ever, a mostly naked bald baby just up from a snooze who laughs at all my jokes and never talks back to me. I took some pictures of we two on my awesome cool phone to send to his mom so she would know that I am also a kick-ass babysitter like Samantha, but lo and freakin' behold every picture pretty much looked this:

Not quite a sweet ride on a roller coaster but still. I didn't let the baby drink the beer and that says something, no?

****

Despite being massively sleep-deprived, I am all kinds of cheerful today because thanks to the amazingly great aimeepalooza, I have a trophy for my trophy case. Which is empty. But not for long! Stay tuned...