How it Was Done

Back in the day, I used to go trick or treating in the complex of apartments in Philadelphia where we lived between 2nd and 6th grade: four buildings, 20 floors each, 10 apartments on each floor. We did not mess around. We came to collect. We did not even take the elevator. That's just how serious we were. We wore what we always wore: hippie, house-painter, bum, witch, or a combo of two. Nothing fancy, nothing that could impede our collections. One year I wore my regular Sunday dress with a big rubber skeleton mask and I was sweating so much I started seeing stars. My brother Pete was so hopped up and jittery, he left me in the stairwell to cool off on my own. I don't remember if we ever said Trick or Treat or Thank you, but all interaction was kept to a minimum. No eye contact. No conversation. If Mrs. Gottlieb started asking you about school or how your mother was and you didn't just duck your head or turn on your heel, you got left. Ties were cut, we no longer knew you, you got left. Period.

We used pillowcases. Bags could rip and did not hold as much. By the time we came home they were full. Pete dumped his on the floor to have a look at his treasure. His eyes would get wide and he could never quite believe his good fortune. I would just walk back to my room and tuck it in the way back of my closet. A full pillow case.  No one ever inspected back then. If there were razor blades, battery-acid soaked chocolate, no one cared. It was all part of it. The main thing was: we did it. Probably not the full 800 apartments, but close enough. Candy every day until Easter. No one had to know. This never happened.

Don't Mind Me

It's hard enough not thinking about a possible end of the world scenario when you're around an 11 year old boy who knows everything about it, but lately we've also been talking about a possible zombie apocalypse. I mean serious, considerate discussions: how to barricade your home properly; what you should do if you get bitten, slow moving zombies vs. fast moving ones. I can only take the conversation so far. I'm just waiting for the earthquake that has to happen first.

What The Owl Said

Lately everything chafes. I gave a guy the finger after he cut in front of me on the freeway, after I had to jam the brakes, after a bag of groceries fell off the back seat and unloaded on the floor. But really it was without any steam. My heart wasn't in it, I didn't get filled with rage and self righteousness, slam my hand on the steering wheel and contort my face; it was more like a flag being lifted up a pole on a windless day. Ehn. This is what you do. This is what I do evidently.

Like I said, everything chafes. Lately everything feels mildly annoying. I try to look up but I can't. I write these words and then I think of leaving a comment: you're a moron and a jackass and no one cares; you're old and ugly and stupid, one half monkey, the other half mule. (This is how you're supposed to talk in the comment section).  There are always at least two people in my head, often many more, but usually it's one guy who functions and then the other guy who hits him in the head with a mallet. But then there's the guy who watches this on the conveyor belt along with a few buddies, drinking beer and making rude comments, throwing things. (When I say guy I don't mean guy, I mean a weird sort of Gollum creature). If there is a problem (and just about every day there's something that could fall into that category), the whole janky system gets jammed. All the guys sit back and wait. If they wait long enough, sometimes something unusual happens. Something unexpected.

Anyway. Yesterday I went to a party with some babies. The room was set up with all the sofas and chairs pushed back in a circle  with the babies sitting in the middle. All the parents of the babies were busy eating and talking to each other. They're around these damn babies all day long. They are relieved to stick them on the floor and have a moment's peace. I was on the edge of a couch with Harry, and we were  having a staring contest with one of them.

One thing for sure, babies know how to stare. They are masters at it. There are two schools of thought on this: one that they are soulful and all knowing, the other that they are dumb as a bag of rocks. Just a tiny, little empty head. Whichever side of the fence you are on though, you can't deny it's a little freaky. It makes you a little self-conscious. Har and I leaned one way and the little guy's eyes followed us. We leaned the other way and his eyes followed that way. Up, the same; down, again. None of us cracked a smile and I'm pretty sure we all could have kept going for an hour.

A friend texted me yesterday that I should write about love. What the hell do I know about it? It's the the best thing in the world and the worst thing in the world. That's all I can say. I've only been in love once and that was a long time ago. And even then I don't think I could have explained it. I was thinking about this after the baby party, while jogging  . Best thing. Worst thing. Best thing. Worst thing. Hush. Breathe. Stupid. Sweet. Baby. Protect. Pain. Joy. Love. Hope. Pretty soon all the words just blended together into my breathing. It was silent in my head and in the woods. Such a relief.

As I turned the bend to where the woods started to open, I heard the owl. Just one word. You know what it is. But it sounded clear. It sounded fantastic. It was LOUD as hell. Up ahead a few people had stopped  and were looking up trying to find him. Our voices were quiet, shy, not unfriendly. "Did you hear? He was here yesterday. He's huge." The sky was light where it met the top of the hill but the rest of it was getting dark. I stopped too and we all scanned the trees, trying to find him, trying to have a glimpse, looking up.

The Invisible Child

I used to eat lunch by myself at school. I'd sit at the end of the table wearing my big parka (I don't usually use that word parka, I think it's more mid-west style, but I really had a parka, one of those army green down coats with the hood that had grey fur trim; the hood came out from my face a bit to protect me from the subzero Himalayan winds), sitting in front of my tray, little carton of milk, dried out lasagna (which I loved) or a sandwich on dry bread with some sort of pink meat inside. I was fine with this. I preferred it. I was always hungry and I'm pretty sure I ate everything I was served with no complaints. My kids find this incomprehensible, well Mo just thinks it's a little sad, the others are flummoxed. You should hear the screams. Weren't you embarrassed? Oh My God! How could you do this? Mom! Why did you wear your coat? Didn't you have one single friend?

As far as they are concerned I am the poster child for a victim of bullying, the creepy loser that people talked about behind her back, or worst of all, the invisible child. The greasy unwashed hair, the big smelly coat. The LUNCH BY MYSELF.

I have no common ground to have this make any sense to them. I went to the same school from Kindergarden to 12th grade, all girls; I wore a uniform. I didn't worry about anyone looking at me or judging my outfit. I ate lunch alone because I was hungry and just wanted to eat, not because no one liked me; I had friends and was comfortable on my own. We all wore the same exact thing, my parka was my defining feature, the thing that made me unique and jazzy.

When I look over in the middle of my monologue, I see their faces go from incomprehension to pity. They pat my back, shake their heads slowly. Suddenly they see me in a new light and I look worse than they imagined.

They just don't get it.

Thoughts I Had Waiting in Front of the Toaster

-Is it better to stand here waiting or try to get something else done and risk burning my toast again.
-I wonder how much time in my life I've spent waiting.
-Probably a lot.
-I hate when people say you draw a person into your life because you need to work something out and that person happens to press the particular button that causes the thing inside of you that needs to be examined.
-But I kind of like it too, because I think it's true.
-Do you even know what you are saying?
-This toast takes a long time.
-That's because it's an english muffin.
-I wonder if I had been forced to play an instrument or take martial arts as a kid if I would understand that nothing happens right away, that everything is a process, and that you have to be patien--
-Ready.

Conversations In The Dark

                                             My neighbor's Halloween decoration

At night after about 10 or so, my street becomes a dark, quiet movie set. The houses all look like collapsible fronts or shells. I know there are people in them, maybe a light or two, but it doesn't feel that way. I was walking last night at this time, mulling over my day, when I saw Carlos standing on his lawn with Mr. Jing. We nodded to each other and then I kept walking, thinking about things.

Carlos, I have a problem.
What is it baby.
Well, it's not about me really--
Yeah, okay (he chuckles)
What do you do when someone lets you down?
Let's you down, what do you mean? Let's you down, how.
I mean does something you weren't expecting; does something you never would have imagined, something bad.
Something bad?
(I nod)
Something that was not in your agreement.
I mean...yeah--
I'd take him out--
No, that's not what--
I'd take him the fuck out.
I just, no, really? I'm not...
Done.
Don't you think that just opens another can of worms?
(He chuckles) There's always a can of worms, baby.
Well...
You asked me what I'd do.
(I shrug)
That's what I'd do. But you know there's many ways to take someone out. It can be literal or figurative.
(We look at each other, surprised and not surprised to be having a conversation like this in the street, late at night) Yeah. I suppose.

I hear someone clapping slowly and turn around. Mr Jing has gotten under the car in the driveway. "C'mon, " Carlos is saying. He is not impatient. "Chomper, get outa there".

"Is he stuck?" I yell from across the street. Just then Lester pulls off his leash and runs over to Carlos. As he does this, Chomper/Mr. Jing darts out from under the car and back into their house. "Oh hey, Lester got him for you!"

Carlos laughs a little, and waves a hand to me "Yeah. Thanks. He needed a little inspiration".

French Etiquette

I called my friend to apologize because I left the party without saying goodbye to anyone. She said, You went for the "French Leave". I thought she was finding a generously polite way to tell me I was rude, self absorbed and (vaguely) mysterious. And I loved it! Yes, that's it exactly; I was going for the French leave: head down, hand at my collar, clickety clicking in my high heels on the cobblestone streets and puffing a cigarette. C'est moi.

Au revoir. A Bientot. C'est ca. Un peu que tu me coqauvin jeanpaulbelmondo!

When I saw my friend again yesterday, I told her how much I love the French Leave and how I was going to use it from now on, and she said that the French think it's rude to interrupt the flow of the party to announce your departure and say goodbye to everyone, and that it's much more courteous to just slip out (and say goodbye the next day).

But of course this makes sense. How many times have you been at a party and someone is in the middle of a story and some guy gets up to put on his coat and say good bye and thank-you, and everyone stops to turn their head and look, get up, shake hands etc.

Fuck you Jerome! Molly here is in the middle of a story, can't you just tiptoe out the back door like a respectable Frenchman, fuckin jackass. Get the hell out already.

(sigh) I'm really not cool enough to be French.