What the Hell'oween?

What the hell is the deal with Halloween? When I was a kid Halloween was a trip to Woolworths for a costume, and one night of Trick-Or-Treating. In the seventies a decent costume consisted of a flimsy plastic mask that attached around your head with elastic, and a thin plastic pillow case with arm, and head holes. Our Trick or Treat bags were always plastic bags from the grocery store. Our Trick or Treat bags also usually contained, apples, raisins, McDonald’s coupons, one lady even gave out seedlings in little plastic baggies with directions. Halloween was a low key casual holiday. What the hell happened?

Don’t get me wrong, Halloween has been and will always be one of my favorite Holidays. Come on, I am a fat woman and Halloween is the only time of the year that I can go buy as much candy as I want with a perfect alibi. Back in the day if I got any nasty looks in the candy Isle I can just say. “Yeah, I have so many kids in my neighborhood”. So what if that was my fifth visit to buy Halloween candy. They don’t know. But that’s all in the past. This Halloween I am not eating any sugar, maybe that’s why I am so annoyed. Not eating sugar would have been easy in the seventies when Halloween was just one day. Now I seem to be celebrating Halloween like the 12 days of Christmas!

Here are the Halloween events my children and I were invited to this year:

-Party with Mom’s Club-Party with Newcomers Club-Party at school-Halloween day Play group-Halloween party at Dean College-Halloween party at Police station-Trick or Treating at nursing home-Trick or Treating at Dad’s office-and finally Trick or Treating at Noni’s house (The Sunday after Halloween so she can give each of my children their weight in candy. Because all the candy is 50% off and she can’t resist a sale) Oh yeah and then there is Trick or Treating around the neighborhood.

I’m not even that popular and my calendar looks like Paris Hiltons! When did we all go so crazy over Halloween?

My kids each have two costumes, so they can save the good one for Halloween night. You know I am a cheap thrift store girl, but costumes new cost at least 19.95 and up. My kids each have more than one fancy Halloween candy receptacle. They get them at parties or from their grandmothers. I am supposed to be baking something for most of these events..."supposed to be" being the key phrase... But they wouldn't ask a mom who's a drunk to bring in booze! Why ask the fat mom to bake something? I know because I am fat so you assume that I am an expert at baking...so true.

I have tried to slam on the Halloween emergency break. I only brought the kids to a few events like Trick or Treating at their Daddy’s work . In fact we just returned from my husband’s office and their big plastic candy pumpkins filled to brim with candy. Alice can’t even lift her own pumpkin it’s so heavy with candy.

What the hell do I do with all this candy? Last year I would have easily scarfed down half of the candy by now and finished the rest off in time to go Trick or treating with the kids. However this year I am not in my usual hazy sugar bender. Being on the wagon has not only made me a grumpy ass bitch, but it has me wondering if the explosion of Halloween events is ruining Halloween?

I know your thinking someone force feed her a Snickers bar and shut her up. Hey if Halloween can become the 12 Days of Christmas then the candy queen can become a scrooge.

Driving Me Crazy

I am adopted and about 10 years ago I found my birth family in New Jersey (my birth-mother lives in a hippy sunshine day dream in California, but that’s another story). I found a bunch of dysfunctional Yankee's fans that look like me, and my Nan.

Nan lives in Westport Mass, about 45 minutes south west of Franklin. Nan is short for Nana, but Nan is much too cool and hip to be a grandmother. I also think that by calling herself Nan she thinks that the general public is being fooling into believing that she is my older sister. Nan is a tough cookie and at five feet tall and 100 pounds she could still easily kick my ass. She lives alone, she mows her gigantic lawn with a push mower, she shovels her house out in the winter, and did I mention that she has an outhouse?

Nan’s house was built about the time of the civil war; she was raised in that house. Then she married moved to New Jersey. Her mother eventually died, her sister moved in to the house. When her sister died, Nan and her husband, then retired moved back to Westport, and took up residency. The house was falling down, and the pluming was never updated but Nan’s husband loved living there. He fished everyday and tended their garden, and eventually died. Hence leaving Nan alone to live in a dilapidated house with out dear I say, a pot to piss in.

Nan being the tough old gal that she is makes the best of things and patches up the house as best she can. Did I forget to mention that she is in her nineties? Age is just a number, she climbs huge ladders and check s out the roof, she puts down plywood to sure up the floor. She even fell through the rotted floor once. She told me that her glasses flew off of her face and she had to feel around for them in the dark. However, she eventually found a ladder in the dark, lifted the heavy wooden ladder up through hole and climbed back up. Then she didn’t tell anyone because she didn’t want us to worry.

Nan does almost everything for herself but the one thing that makes her nervous is driving. Nan has a working car, a 1975 green SkyLark with about 45,000 miles on it that she keeps in her decaying garage. Being such an old car the SkyLark doesn’t have safety features like air bags, antilock breaks, or a guarantee that the engine won’t spontaneously fall through the rotted floor on to the street below . Nan can afford to buy a car, but she refuses to buy one. When I ask she always says:

“Honey, buy a car? Just so I can leave a nice car to my kids? Never!” Oh Nan, and her Yankee frugality, the only kind of Yankee in which I will always be a fan. No new car for Nan, when she needs to drive somewhere she asks a neighbor or calls me.

To drive Nan in a car there are a few things one must know.

1. Never drive in the rain.

2. Never drive in the snow.

3. Never drive at night.

4. Never drive on busy Holidays

5. Never drive on busy highways

6. Never drive when you are sick

7. Never drive when you are pregnant

When the day meets all of her criteria only then may you get Nan in to your car. If you are driving in the winter you have to crank the heat as hot as possible, until you have sweat marks under your boobs and your arm pits. When you drive with Nan in the summer you can never turn on the AC. If the weather makes you feel like you are wearing a wet wool blanket in a sauna, Nan will get into your 112 degree car and say.

“Oh honey, this feel so nice. I’ve been so chilled all day.” To which I am fighting the strong urge to pass out wondering where they sell smelling salts. You think I am kidding. This woman wears 3 shirts, gloves, and a jacket in the summer. In the winter she wears so many layers that she could fall out of a 3-story window and walk away. Why do you think she didn’t get hurt when she fell through the floor? She was probably wearing 3 tee-shirts, 4 turtle necks, 5 sweaters, and her heavy winter parka.

Don’t get me wrong I love driving around with my Nan. She is one of my most favorite people in the world. I love going on Nan adventures. One day we went all over searching for a bobbin. The bobbin broke on her sewing machine, and we couldn’t find a replacement. We went to sears, JC Penney, the mall, Benny’s, Walmart, and finally 5 hours later we find a cute little sewing shop. The shop’s sales lady explained to Nan that the bobbin was no longer in production.

“Nan” I asked. “How old is your sewing machine?”

“Oh Honey, I don’t know it was my mothers.” If Nan is in her 90’s (none knows exactly when she was born and she’s never telling) then this machine must be at 100 years old. The sales lady looked in her book and told us that the bobbin was discontinued in the 1960’s.

Nan and I returned to her crumbling little house empty handed. As usual she tries to slip me a twenty for gas. After verbal fisticuffs I take the money planning to hide it in her purse on my next visit. We say our goodbyes on the well mowed lawn. I haven't been in her house since she fell through the floor, if a 100 pounds little old lady fell through the floor a fat girl has no chance. We hug and kiss, then I drive home with the AC cranked on high. The second I get home I am planning to look for Nan’s bobbin on Ebay.

I have a sexy new boyfriend

A lot of you know that I have been happily married of 8 years. My husband Dave is smart, honest, caring, and hard working. He's a great guy, but not necessarily romance novel leading man material. He has grown rounder and pudgier over the years. His chiseled jawline has softened, his dimples filled in. The day I see a picture of my Dave shirtless, with flowing long hair riding a horse is the day I walk the beach in a string bikini. Don't get my wrong my husband is cute, but in a sweet computer geek way. For example he would be a great cover model for PC World, maybe even Pencil Pushers weekly.

He's cute, he is miles away from the windshield size glasses wearing shy nerd boy that I wooed 11 years ago at The Learning Company. We were co-workers at a educational software company. It's not a Nicholas Spark's novel, but it worked for us. Hence our boring no frills courtship began fat girl and nerd boy fall in love, get married, buy, house, buy dog, have kids, buy new house in suburbs, grow old fat and ugly together.

That was the plan and I kept up my part of the bargain. I am proud to say that I am fatter, sloppier, and less attractive than I have ever been. Especially now that I am a shut in, in case anyone is keeping track this is my 12th day being stuck inside with a sick kid.

So I am laying down to snap my biggest sized jeans, I am huffing and puffing when I walk up the hill to get the mail. I am not a quitter I am pushing 40 and I am waving in middle age with flabby underarms and sagging boobs with pride. At least I was until my new boyfriend came onto the scene.

Let me tell you one thing first, I am not a cheater. I would have been happily married to my sweet chubby hubby forever. I have always loved him just the way here is. But sadly that all changed when I met my new boyfriend.

My new boyfriend hangs around the YMCA. He works out everyday, you'll see him there every morning slick with sweat dripping down his budging biceps. Then he showers and comes out of the men's locker room his high cheekbones blushing pink and health, his wet hair sticking up all cute and shimmering like spun gold. When my boyfriend is not at the YMCA he is biking all over town. Just the sight of his tight little buns in black spandex send my mind into all sorts of Delicious naughty thoughts. Great you think so what's your problem you dumb bitch, jump his bones!

The problem is that he is married! The worst part of it is that he is married to me! My beloved pudgy-dorky, book-worm husband has transformed into a romance novel cover model! If fact I have seen him riding a horse bareback through the Franklin town commons. Maybe I was dreaming, but I am still freaked out. How can he do this to me? I trusted him and he double crossed me like this.

What is my problem? He has unwillingly turned me into the ugly fat wife. You've seen these couples, you are at school event when you are introduced to this gorgeous man standing next a fat troll. You smile at him and shake hands with her amusing that she is his mother, up from Florida for the winter. You tell her how much you love her grandchild. Then he corrects your mistake and introduces her as his wife. You shoot punch from your nose and then run for the closest restroom. You know this has happened to you.

Then you go and tell your girl friends about how some fat old hag has landed a sex pot. You ponder the match...Is she rich? Does she have him trapped in a prenup? Is she black mailing him? Did he marry her for a green card? Is she terminally ill and he can't bare to divorce her? The pair will be discussed for days. You know couples like this. You know you wonder.

For those of you who don't know a couple like that, well you do now! Now I am the fat troll and it's all Dave's fault. We can never go out in public again and forget about having sex. He can't ever see me naked! Now that he is so sexy the thought of him seeing my fat rolls is out of the question! I have also started to pee with the door closed, and I am thinking about installing twin beds. I can't risk him seeing my stomach in all it's flabby glory unfurled all over the bed.

I am stuck with a sexy new boyfriend and I have two options. One is to break up with him, but that would be too shallow to get divorced just because of his looks. Maybe I could work out and diet and we could be the sexy couple that everyone hates? Yeah right!

Crack Whore in Franklin?

This morning I wake up my beautiful 2-year-old, almost 3-year-old daughter Alice. I go to her dresser and pick out her clothes for the day. A beautiful purple velvet long sleeve shirt with embroidered flowers and her new cute little girl jeans. I pick out little purple socks and turn to see her slowly waking. I see her beautiful sun kissed brown curls cascading across her pillow. She sees me and smiles, then she looks at the clothing in my hand and her little eyebrows become furrowed as she yells.

"NO!"

"What is it sweetie?" I ask as if we don't have this fight at least 3 times a week.

"No shirt!" She screams and hides under her pink blanket. I gently pull the blanket back.

"Alice honey, you have to get dressed, you have nursery school today."

"No shirt! Hate SHIRT!" and then her head is burrowed under her Diego pillow. After we struggle over the pillow and the blankets she is laying on the floor in fetal position screaming.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! SHIRT! HATE! SHIRT!" At this point I am fighting all of my nasty thoughts. Like picking her up by her feet and banging her head on the floor until she is knocked unconscious leaving me ample time to dress her and deliver her to school before she comes too. Instead I take a deep breath and yell back like a 39 year-old-toddler:

"Fine! Go pick out your own shirt!" Then I storm out of the room, because that's what well adjusted adults do. Well that's what they do when their other sick child has kept them awake at night for 11 days.

I go down stairs and make my coffee and ponder whether giving up therapy was a huge mistake. A few minutes later I am feeling much better drinking a warm cup of coffee and rationalizing my insanity as simply being due to lack of sleep. I hear Alice bopping down the stairs and coming down the hall. I am a good mother I think. I let her get dressed by herself and she has come down stairs independently. As Alice enters the kitchen I nearly drop my coffee mug on the floor. My sweet daughter has dressed herself like a five-dollar-crack-whore!

Here she is the apple of my eye wearing a blue faded terribly stained Wiggles tee-shirt, skin tight fuchsia leggings, her brothers tube socks, and her black patten leather dress shoes. As you all know I am a hugely against stores that sell slutty clothing for little girls. You know the outfits designed by pedophiles and purchased by selfish mom's who want to use there children like life sized Barbie dolls or fat mom's who never got to dress that way themselves and are living through their daughters. Here I am the mom who believes in all her heart that little girls should never ever dress like teenage sluts. My daughter isn't even allowed to play with Bratz or Barbie dolls. Here is my daughter dressed worse than a teen aged slut, she is dressed like a teen aged slut, who drops out of high school, starts using drugs, get's kicked out of her house, and is turning tricks down by the bus station!

Upon seeing my little white-trash-princess I run upstairs to get a dress. My solution is clear. I simply slip the dress over her head and she is instantly saved from life at the bus station and safely back in nursery school. I then spend 30 minutes chasing a screaming Alice around the house with the dress. We run upstairs, downstairs, into the play room, out onto the porch, and finally I have her cornered in my bedroom. She is backed against my bed and I am holding her down with one hand and holding the dress over her head with the other. She is screaming. I am screaming. The dog is hiding in the closet.

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! HATE! DRESS!"
"I don't care you are wearing it!" We struggle and she manages to wiggle free, grab the dress and throw it behind my bed. The satisfied smile that creeps across her face really makes me rethink the whole child abuse route. I try plan B, I run to Dylan's room where he is sleeping sick in his bed for the 11th day, in case anyone is keeping track. I pull out his Thomas rain jacket, his favorite sweatshirt, and I even find a special Halloween dress of Alice's as well. The clock is ticking and I have about 10 minutes to get this kid in the car.

I offer the Thomas rain jacket first. Like the girls on QVC I hold the jacket up and display all of the quality workmanship. I explain how this is a special day. She gets to wear her brother's best Thomas jacket.

"NOOOOOOO!" The jacket gets thrown behind my bed. We repeat this three times and the sweatshirt and dress end up behind the bed. Now we have 3 minutes to get into the car. Those of you who know me understand that I can not be late. I would rather send my child to school dressed like a Rock of Love girl than be late. So into the car we go.

As we dive to her nursery school it begins to rain. Rain means the stylish Hannah Anderson clad perfect children will be dressed in their matching rain ensembles. They will be wearing their cute little raincoats with matching boots and umbrellas, over their always perfect little dresses, matching tights, and hair bows. These little girls dress as if they have personal stylists and have never ever spilled chocolate milk on themselves.

I park at the school and see that the parade of perfect children are walking the cat walk up to the school. Their perfect mothers wearing full make-up and stylish clothing accompanying them. I get out of the car and realize that in all the commotion I have not brushed my teeth nor hair this morning. I open Alice's door and hand her a black umbrella and her Dora backpack. We walk up to the school, then I remember that I might have a coat for her the back of the Subaru. I rush back grab the coat and notice Alice strutting up the walkway to the school. Not walking but strutting, carrying her umbrella with one hand swirling it to the side, and giving off a strong air of self confidence.

So here is my lesson if clothes make the man (woman), does this mean that we should all start dressing like crack whores?

Sicko!

Please call the police! I am trapped in my house. I have been trapped in here for 10 days. We are surviving on chicken nuggets, hot dogs, and boxed mac & cheese! We already ran out of Goldfish, cheese sticks, and granola bars! My captor is getting more unpleasant each day! I hear him calling for me from the play room.
"MOMMY!" I wait...Hoping the sound was just a large bird from outside.
"MOMMY! MOMMY!" I walk into the play room to find him sprawled on the couch with Bobby his stuffed bunny watching what is most likely his 5th house of cartoons on the TV.
"Yes, dear" I ask sweetly as not to arouse suspicion that I am a hair away from locking him in the basement and making my escape.
"I can't reach my juice!"
"Your juice? The juice right next to you on the couch?" I ask seeing a sippy cup of juice next to his little thigh.
"Yes. I can't reach it. I'm to sick to bend." He looks over at me with his sad hazel eyes and rosy red cheeks. This blond angelic little face belongs to a sick 5 year old boy. A very sick, grumpy, miserable little boy who counting today has missed 6 days of school and kept me and his sister trapped in this house for 10 days.

I hold his juice up to his lips. He takes a short sip.
"Done!" He yells. I drop the sippy cup back onto the couch kiss his hread and leave the room. Back at the computer I try really hard not to think of the things that I am supposed to be doing.

I am supposed to be running around my girls. I am in withdrawal for all of my friends. Even the friends I spend time with that I don't really like. I miss them all! What about my gossip? I don't know anything about anyone anymore!

I am missing the Bellingham library Ding-a-linga-sing-thing. The park! I even miss the rude librarian at the Franklin branch who always makes me feel like a bad mother! I haven't been to Saver's thrift store, or Saint Vincent DePaul for 10 days! Do you know how many bargains I've missed! I have had no time to stalk the Patrioyt players who live in the area. I even missed the sure thing sighting at church! I've missed two Sundays in a row! Just when I was planning to bump into him and introduce myself...and horrify my husband.

No Hanging out at on Wenesday at Target trying to catch a look at Tedy Brusci. I heard that Randy Moss just moved to Lincoln RI, but I am sruck here so what's the differnce?

I am a good mom. I was Mary Poppins for the first 3 days. Then I was Mrs. Doubtfire for days 4-7. Then by day 8 I turned into Rosanne, Now that it's day 10 I am Cruella De'ville! If only on the inside, but I am so out of TLC! I have also gained 5 pounds and lost about 48 combined hours of sleep.

I am done, I planning my escape! If they put out an alert, please foget you read this!