Supermom Needs a Nap - In Costume

October is here – the start of the holiday season.

I love Halloween, or I used to when it meant drinking too much and kissing people in masks.  I saw the added value of Halloween when my children started trick-or-treating, because they brought home candy and the Mothers wouldn’t let them eat it…so I got to.  But what I thought was the one holiday exempt from judgment has just become my worst nightmare – because it involves crafting.

When the kids were babies, costumes were fairly easy to come by.  Somebody always thinks it’s a good idea to buy your baby a hat in the shape of a frog or a Fleur de Lys or a bottle of catsup.  After you coo and thank them profusely, you tuck it into the bottom drawer until you are reminded that Halloween is upon you; you then slap that frog/fleur/catsup on your unsuspecting child’s head and everyone declares you a genius. However, once your child can talk, they have an unsettling habit of forming opinions.  So even though you thought the family dressing as the New York Dolls was a fun idea, your children may not. But not to worry, costumers make a costume for every person, place or thing out there.  I came to love it – I would dress my little thieves in their ready-packaged uniforms and trot them to my neighbors to make off with a year’s supply of Kit Kats (or a month’s, depending on how my football team was doing that season.)

Done.

The Urn

Had it been Wednesday, Jane would have been sweeping but as it was Tuesday, she was dusting for that is what Jane did on Tuesdays. As she dusted, she hummed a song her mother used to listen to as Jane was growing up. She had long since forgotten the words but the tune lurked in her mind’s background, surfacing mostly when she did household drudgeries. Currently, Jane was paying particular attention to a lamp that was purchased more for style than illumination, flushing every speck of dust from its arms. Satisfied with her efforts, Jane turned a touch too briskly, causing an iron urn to topple from its station on the lid of the stand-up piano. The clatter startled her with its volume. A single marble rolled from the depths of the vase across the floor, coming to a standstill at the edge of the area rug. Jane lifted the urn and inspected it for damage; none spotted. She had inherited this piece from her mother as it was passed through the female hands of the lineage. Most of the women eligible to receive it eyed it ruefully throughout their youth, hoping it fell into someone else’s life. There was little remarkable about the urn; a nice patina faded into a uniformed rusted brown, some subtle coils and leafs pounded into it for decoration; not fancy, nothing that stood out. Its conformity lent well to each household it had inhabited.

Not On Paper

I am the first one to the Layover Suite, which is no surprise; I’m always the first one here.  I switch on the lights and open the blinds.  It’s about 3:30pm in Los Angeles.

We’re not supposed to be here at this time; we should be down on the platform, waiting for the train.  But we don’t go; we know it won’t come.  Since France and Germany are both asleep, there’s little reason to go to the platform anymore.  They are our best bet these days, yet even they have started leaning towards conventional.

The recession in America is lasting longer than anyone expected.  That coupled with the impending national election, has the country being pulled apart once again.  You’re lucky to get a group of Americans to agree on anything, let alone something that doesn’t fit neatly into a preconceived notion.  No, we will all be here for a while longer.

They Never Listen

Adam is going to kill me.

They’re going to turn the phone off.   Where is the money in our checking account?  Mortgage… groceries…  $400 at Beverage Warehouse?!?  $700 at… where?  Oh right, that sample sale.

I can’t run this house on Adam’s salary.  He doesn’t get that.  He never listens. I’m the one who always has to find ways to cut.

We can’t afford that vodka anymore.  The cheap stuff is fine.

I need a drink.  3:30. Dammit.

What’s on the VISA?  Over the limit?!?  How?

Oh, Christ, not again.  How did this happen again?

The Experiment

“Mr. Taylor, how do you do?  My name is Mr. Trent.  I’m the Lead assigned to your Experience.” Trent walked in, extending his hand to a rumpled Mark Taylor filling up the entirety of an oversized chair.  “Has someone offered to get you something to drink?”

Mark nodded, “Yes, thank you.  I mean, they offered… but I said no.  Maybe I should have some coffee?”

Mr. Trent shook his head slightly.

“I… I didn’t sleep much last night.”  Mark added nervously.

“Is this room acceptable?”  the other man asked.

“Uh… yes.  I guess.  I didn’t really understand what they were asking about the rooms.”

“We offer several different environments for your Experience.  We suggest the environment in which you would likely feel most comfortable.”  Mr. Trent explained.

“Oh, well, this one is fine.” Mark said looking around.  He laughed once, “It looks like my shrink’s office.”

Mr. Trent looked at Mark intently.  “I can show you some other rooms.”