Tonight, driving home from my third Halloween party, the huge moon shining through wispy clouds, I realized that the bad feelings I used to have about some of the spots along the freeway are gone. My ex has moved out of state. I no longer have to fight for time at Christmas, and my out-of-town children won’t be staying up the freeway with him in his bigger house.
They’ll be in my small house! Eek! But that’s okay. We’ll make it so that everyone fits. It will be tight and cozy, but that’s all right. We like each other.
I spoke with a few people at the party tonight, one on one, always the best way. I learned about one widower’s story, and I found out another friend’s only child was in a scary auto accident. Fortunately, she will be okay. I found out that an absent friend is a grandma again. Another friend told me that she had polio as a kid.
I usually skip dinner parties because I can’t eat the food served there, and then the questions begin.
“Why not?”
“But have you tried (fill in the blank) Prilosec? Pepcid? A new doctor?”
“Why don’t you (fill in the blank) see a new doctor? Call my cousin Helen? Talk to my friend Bill?
“What exactly is wrong with you? (Pull up a seat while I tell you all of my digestive woes).
But I am getting off topic here. As I drove the fifteen minutes back to my town, the traffic was light for a Halloween night. It was a Tuesday, so maybe that was why. I got off at my exit, drove another mile and turned onto the main drag through the neighborhood. Kids were still trick or treating. I could see them crossing the street. The block with the big Halloween display was hopping. Three adults sat around a fire pit in one driveway. The pirate at the Halloween house was still passing out candy. The neighbor across the street from him had put up orange barricades in front of their house. Really? They couldn’t stand anyone parking there? It seemed obvious that people were driving to our neighborhood to trick or treat. That’s okay with me. Not everyone has a safe place to do that. The more the merrier.
When I pulled into the driveway, I wondered if the bowl of full-size candy bars on the porch would be empty. I’d already made sure all the kids that live on the court got to choose theirs before I left for my party.
Funny, I thought I was going to write about the time I was at the restaurant downtown, sitting at the bar with my friend, Ruth, talking to the bartender about Tahoe, and me saying, “I’m from Iowa, and I’ve seen enough snow to last a lifetime.”
At that moment, the chatter three stools down from me stopped. I leaned forward and saw my ex-husband seated there. He had heard me. His fiancé was sitting next to Ruth.
“I guess we’re slumming it tonight,” he said. It’s been years, but I remember it being spoken with a nasty slur.
“My town, my bar,” I said. I lived three miles away. He lived at least nine.
That’s not going to happen again. He is out of state, Hurray!
The bowl of candy was still there when I walked up to the porch. Hurray!
Leftovers.
FIRST DATE, WORST DATE EVER! 