Time is running out.
Not that time really exists beyond the constraints of our limited consciousness as fancy-pants monkeys. I really can’t get my head around that, to be honest. But the math checks out, and so I have to accept that information until better information comes along.
That’s the process of being scientific, and it allows us to still love things like Halloween, because that’s what we knew back then, so why not enjoy what we can about our darker years as a species, since some of what we have now is just as deep down dark.
Yeah, all that, and Reese’s peanut butter cups.
So, yes, time is running out for Halloween preparations and for me to get my next collection published.
In the meantime, what about the modern Halloween classics?
My daughter still enjoys Halloween Town, and heaven knows I have seen it enough times already, walking through the room as she’s watching it. Still, I find it boring and, now, I feel a pang of sorrow when I see Debbie Reynolds. I miss her daughter, Carrie Fisher, and therefore I miss her mom by extension.
Recently, she saw Practical Magic with her cousins, and she was extremely upset at their cavalier attitude toward the domestic violence that Gillian endures at the hands of her boyfriend.
I was at work, but she locked herself in the bathroom and called the store. Then I had to call my mom to go get her with a white lie that made it seem like it was no big deal.
Because, 16. Everything is awkward and complicated at 16. But it’s my job to care.
And I do care about the domestic abuse. How could I not care? She didn’t deserve it.
“I thought you said you liked that movie!” she sobbed at me. “But how can you like a movie about a woman who is being beaten up by her partner?”
I sat there nodding, letting her vent.
Most of the time, people don’t want an answer as much as they want you to truly listen to them and consider the question honestly and completely.
“I started liking the movie when I wasn’t being abused,” was my only answer. “It came out in 1998, when I was a part of a coven of women who made me feel safe and loved, and so it was a storyline all too common with women, but it was not my storyline.”
This calmed her down some. And we have gone on to finish the movie. She even told me that she understands why I like it so much.
“You need to find an Aidan Quinn,” she told me.
“Girl, you know it,” I replied. “Gold star and everything.”
Then there is Hocus Pocus, which I love, but also have problems with. The main problem is… why do they have to use the word “virgin” so repeatedly, and shame Max with it? It is perfectly acceptable for a young man who cannot drive (i.e. he rides a bicycle) to still be a virgin. Hellfire, let him stay a virgin until he has sex with someone who cares for him, who isn’t drunk or anxious or lonely or bored or any other reasons why people have sex for the wrong reasons with people who are wrong for them.
At the risk of sounding all “leave Britney alone!” I have to say it: leave Max alone!
I would have been over the moon to have a brother like him, growing up. Or a boyfriend.
Ergo: It’s not okay to slut-shame girls, and it’s not okay to virgin-shame boys either.
And yes, it does damage. Sometimes small damage and sometimes very large damage.
If you strip away all the bullshit about original sin and the totally creepy obsession over the female hymen, then “virgin” means “blank page” so why not say that instead?
So, when I watch the movie, or more likely just walk through the room to get some more Capri Suns, more candy, more alcohol (I was very well known in our circle for my boozy pumpkin pie shots which I only made on Halloween), I would yell “blank page” over “virgin” every time. People would groan, but I also know that it got through to my daughter. And, hey, isn’t the only reason to do anything obnoxious but educational?
BTW, I adore Andy in 40-Year Virgin. Never let people define your sexuality. Or lack of.
Personally, right now in my life, I would love a boyfriend to watch Shaun of the Dead with and then fuck repeatedly until I felt like the inside of a carved pumpkin and he was wondering if his knife would ever be sharp again.
Sexual metaphor FTW.
Okay, let me post a poem. Before I do so, however, I need to say that I have looked through all of my poems and the one I titled barter is now titled mouth and will probably be the first poem in a new collection, that includes poems about various body parts.
In the meantime, I have continued with the concept of money and written this poem.
Men always say that Alanis Morrisette and her song “You Oughta Know” scares them.
Good. It should scare anyone who has been a jerk to someone who loves them.
Still, I am not planning murder. Just making sure we are all on the same (blank) page.
beach house in the West,
chic loft in the East,
all of the silver
laid out for the feast.
you shine star golden,
and I shine on too.
that is our standard,
and we follow through.
all of this comfort
I would place aside,
for a world in which
you have never lied.
I stand with rare art
and knife in my hand.
tell me why, husband?
so I understand.
perhaps that haute vase,
the one I abhor.
did you call my name
when fucking that whore?
your car, it is trash,
bright bits on the lawn.
bow down, beg me and
you might see the dawn.