PICKET RETURNS

Where should I begin?

The psychoanalysis of kids with their candy?
The book I was just in? And that people pissed on at this place.

(Was here on the radio, PS)

Should I begin with the fact that I have seen unlimited angst in the "world" we made online?

Or that the street of Ms Picket is similarly troubled?
Or that sometimes you need to run away?
Or how pissed I am that the Tooth Fairy does not issue a "code of behavior"?

Santa, too. Mad at them both.

Or should I spend time writing about how I've spent too much time being angry -- about.... you name it.

Whatever.

I started this experiment to write.

I realize that my need to experiment hasn't changed.

Don't tell me where I should begin.

Just tell me I should.

While I Go Gas Up The Truck...

I've written this post about a thousand times. Well, maybe ten.

In my head, this Dear John letter is pure poetry, but every time I try to put it to paper, it never sounds the way I want it to sound. It never says all the things I think it should. Plus, when it comes to quitting: I'm sort of notorious for changing my mind.

(It might be useful to play the video below... Go ahead: press play. I'll wait.)

My mind is made up now...

When this idea started, kicked off by the Kid, turned to reality by me, I never imagined anyone beyond he and maybe two friends would read it. In all honesty, I doubted even he would. Which he didn't, at least regularly: but that's okay.

Turns out, I loved the anonymity of type-type-typing into what I thought was an abyss. Turns out that abyss was ironically crammed with people like me. All of us, alone, waiting for the echo of our words and being surprised by the voices that bounced back -- voices which were not our own, but something different, someone different, someone...

This blog saved me in measurements only a small few will understand.

That small few might be large now, but for me... It meant a small circle of random women and men who collided at one time in one perfect space. Their stories, my stories: they became a mix that made for a perfect concoction in that one long, awesome moment. Their words, these people got me to go deeper inside my head and in equal parts, let me get outside of my head...

I am so grateful!

Me and Carolyn made our book.

In May, I'll be featured in another one, Torn. (I hope you'll read it.)

My kids are becoming old enough to have experiences that aren't mine. I can't write about them in good faith anymore -- it seems uncouth and uncool. That being said, I am grateful for every inappropriate word I wrote here about them, and us, and our lives: I think I might like those words more than any of the pictures I took.

Right now, I want to write fiction and maybe, at last, the book I swore to the Kid and everyone else I would write. This does not mean that I'll stop telling my truth. I just want to start telling it differently.

I hope you keep telling your stories. I hope you keep speaking your truth...

Thank you for hearing mine. Thank you so, so much.

I've loved every bit of this.

Goodbye from PostPicketFence and the Three Short Drunk People and the Kid too....

"Pack the old love letters up...

We will read them when we forgot why we left here."

Bad Cop Confessions

There is no singular story behind feeling badly, because when you become a mother, you sign up (unknowingly) for a lifetime of feeling like shit. Birth a kid or get one another way: your guilt ramps up no matter how you conceive, and also, the minute you do.

Currently, my three Drunk Kids want nothing to do with me.

Sometimes, I even think they hate me.

I am definitely the bad cop.

I have no idea how, or desire, to change that.

The Kid is the good cop.

We can talk circles and squares around it, but the truth is that I'm better at the bad cop. I have more patience to be mean. He's more willing to go Chuck E Cheese: he wants to give them what they want.

I do too -- just not all.the.time.

We weigh our ways and wishes and balance them between our kids. It works.

Mostly.

Sometimes I get tired of my badcop-ness. Sometimes I want to let someone else be the heavy. I want to be the "fun" parent and not the mean one who is around to make homework happen or chores checked off.

On the weekends, for example, I'd like to be the one who monitors bowling or soccer or playground fun. I'd like to come home to a house ready for the week ahead -- laundry done and delivered, dust sent and gone, toilets scrubbed, beds made, dinner on the table.

I'd like to be the good cop.

Freewheelin: Honoring Suze Rotolo

This image pretty much sums up my romantic teenage years. I think I tried to recreate this album cover many times. I should have put myself in Bob's place, but the truth is, I always wanted to be Suze...

Suze Rotolo (the woman on the album cover) died this week. I have no idea what became of her life after her "life" with Dylan. She was always frozen for me there: in love, loved, wanted, happy.

He wrote songs about her and spoke about her influence in those early years: she was his muse for a while: "Don't Think Twice.."and "Boots of Spanish Leather." She introduced him to the politics he would later write but never care much about. She welcomed him into her world, which inspired the beginning of his best work.

They broke up.

She moved on.

She never spoke of him to the press and that made me love her even more.

Suze Rotolo will always be my example of feminine inspiration: she was beautiful and smart and way more than a clinging girl on an album cover. I adored her, but more importantly, without her, there wouldn't be as much amazing music in the world.

Thanks Suze. You mattered.

Here's the song you made happen.

I know somewhere Bob is humming it too.

Sleep tight.

You wasted nothing.

Letter to Carolyn

I am back in the land of an internet connection that does not run on pig grease or whatever shit they use out there where my mom lives. I brought all the Drunkards back with me, though the plan had been to leave two (Ro getting braces tomorrow; SamtheDog going to the Vet) and The Kid would swing out Friday for the weekend and more skiing.

But guess who got paged to the Ski Patrol yesterday afternoon while all three of her kids were in afternoon ski camp?

Imagine me running (running!!) in ski boots with a mushroom shaped blue helmet on her head toward the “ski patrol” which, as luck would have it, looks just like every other run down shed on that mountain, so naturally most of my running was in crazy, wobbly circles. By the time I reached the shack, I was in a full on dripping-sweat and in dire need of oxygen. Bridget on the other hand was splinted and slinged and weepy. Haven’t gotten x-rays yet but I'm thinking it's more likely a sprain. Yay snowboarding!

Also, I had a dream where I had a miniature baby that I carried around in a zip loc bag. You (CarolynOnline) kissed the baby’s teeny head and told me to zip it up in the inside pocket of my bag so we could get into some swinging club where some hot dude (who was maybe on the run -- FROM JAIL) was waiting for us. I think we were on a Nancy Drew-type mission. When we got inside, we had to weave past all these long flowing curtains (I think I saw this on a CSI Miami episode) and when we came out on the other side, it looked like the lobby at Blogher.

I said, Hell no, and you said, follow me.

We pushed our way through people and came out on the other side right in front of this giant, giant purple pool, all lit up, really beautiful and elegant, and with all our clothes on, and with my bag with the mini baby inside, we took a running leap and jumped in. We were laughing our asses off, like pee in the pants kind of laughing. (Somehow I knew that the baby was fine. No worries about the baby.)

Then the hot dude who was from Pennsylvania (I memorized his address) told us we needed to scram because the cops were coming.

I woke up.

This is the first page I googled with the address from my dream.

Turns out? Even the internets love a good story.

PS: Me and the Kid rocked DC, including the Avett Brothers at Constitution Hall. They played this song, which is my favorite.

This + This (should) = Love (plus update)

Do not doubt the power of 9 and 11 year old girls to throw down their crazy so big it makes even garlic and butter back off. The shrimp stayed perfect despite their freak out, but me and The Kid ended up shoveling it in -- starving-child style -- while we tried our best not to listen to their slamming doors and stomping feet.

So flipping romantic, right?

****

GIRL LESSONS UPDATE:

PS: I took pictures of the dresses. In my closet. They all sucked -- the pictures more than the dresses. Here's one.

Hoping Neighbor Girl will come take better ones in the dress I chose... well, that I think I chose? Also I tested out my heel-walking this weekend with Jess and Cooper and sang Karaoke and never fell once. Yay...me.

PS: Does anyone miss CarolynOnline as much as I do?

Seeking Girl Lessons

Spent two.five solid hours trying on dresses and shoes at Marshall's for my upcoming DC trip (no kids) with The Kid.

Decided it might be nice to look sophisticated for a change, possibly sexy.

Do you think the mirrors in places like that are trick ones? Because when I tried on the two choices at home...

WTF back fat? You were not there earlier today...

Good God.

Also, since my feet are so small and slinky high heels so not my area of expertise, I looked and walked like a bound-foot Chinese girl/drag queen. I might not know sexy, but I am sure this wobbling, hobbled bit I do in heels -- isn't it.

I need some girl lessons,

And a stylist. And a trainer.

Sooo... we'll begin here:

These are pictures of the shoes arriving tomorrow -

Sofft Galliana">Sofft Reyna">

Yup, not a stiletto. No matter: I still might walk in those. Or fall flat on my face in those.

Come with me on this adventure of learning sexy lady-hood!

Because I'm gonna post pictures of me in dresses -- ME IN DRESSES! -- or at least some ideas of me in dresses during the 10 days before I need to choose and pack. (Think: artistic.)

Which means: there's gonna be some awkward photos of me. Possibly wobbling. And trying to look sexy in self-portraits or in the ones my friend Mo takes.

It's gonna be awesome! And really, really sexy and/or the funniest shit you ever did see.

If I were gambling girl, I'd go with the latter.

I Have Declared an End to Dinner

Alert the media, Michelle Obama, the grocery store and probably my mother-in-law too: I have thrown the gauntlet into my last fry pan. Dinner is officially off.

"What's for dinner?" they say. I could say fried pickles with a side of chocolate sauce, but it wouldn't matter: the Three Short Drunk People wouldn't even hear me. They would be too busy ripping their hair out and rolling on the floor in fits of dramatic disgust.

"Why do I have to eat this thing that is too hot/too gross/too smelly/too funny/too sweet/too sour?" and they won't hear that answer either. They'll be too busy wiggling in their seats, too busy shoving their palms into their faces, too busy debating the merits of pork chops with their inner food critics. They can't hear my encouraging and gentle words threats of "EAT for crying out loud EAT!" because their inner food critic will be commanding me to "pack my knives and go."

Tonight, in the middle of yet another Storm of the Century, I declared that dinner was officially cancelled. Forever.

Since I don't want to end up on Dr. Phil (or in court), it should be noted that I did promise to provide cheese and apples and some tortillas plus my spatulas and the griddle and whatever is available in the pantry too. I think I said some other things, but mostly my declaration sounded like this, "Oh yeah, Short Drunk People? You think you can do better? Have at it!"

And then I added, for effect and also because I meant it, "And when I cook something you might like? Forget about getting a bite because I'm eating every bit and if I can't, I'm licking whatever is left behind!"

I have not resorted to these drastic measures because I have worn nothing but giant boots for weeks, nor have I done it because I think my back is permanently damaged from lurching my torso into unhealthy shapes while trying not to fall on my ass while lugging in groceries. (Oh! The irony!)

This has nothing to do with the snow or the winter. This is simply because the Three Short Drunk People are the harshest culinary judges known to man (or reality TV) and I just can't take the heat.

So, I'm getting out of the kitchen.

Forever. Or tonight at least.