I would have went topless but ...

Instead I'm bottomless over at Mommy Pants.

how I spend my days

Trying not to domesticate the wildlife.

dishevelled mother standing in the fruit aisle of a grocery store

Her childlessness was apparent.

It might have been the disdainful glance at my kids, daycare grime ringing there nostrils, indoor voices echoing shrill up amongst the painted, metal rafters.

Or it could have been her spotless houndstooth wool suit. Houndstooth being one of those obvious materials with magnetizing properties known to attract crumbs, peanut butter grease and boogers. The staples of any mother of small children.

And while held mesmerized by its hypnotic qualities I unconsciously tugged on my own work shirt, which could loosely be considered professional if not for the remnants of crumbs, peanut butter grease and boogers. Mentally calculating the care of wool in terms of hand washing hours and trips to the dry cleaners. Do dry cleaners even have Parents With Children Parking?

But mostly I saw her as without children for the single pomegranate she placed inside her small reusable grocery bag. Pomegranates are too much work for too little gain, such a finicky fruit has no place during a lunch time rush when toast crusts are flying fast and furious. They would only be mocked by the bananas for their frivolity. And anyways after only just getting one child to begrudgingly admit that seeds are not to be eaten, pomegranates would only seem contradictory.

Although she was too far away to carry any scent to my nose, I imagined she smelled of free time and clean sheets.

And as she sauntered off towards the artichokes, in perilously high heels and toned calves, I sighed and murmured, "She's pretty," quietly to myself.

"Yeah," came a whisper from across the bananas, as she diligently bagged Royal Galas and popped a Mum Mum into a waiting mouth.

Our eyes met, for a moment, in recognition and we parted, wheeling our carts towards separate aisles. Her towards a stacked end display of diapers on sale and me to retrieve a box of animal crackers.

And as I turned down that aisle.

The houndstooth wool suit?

Wasn't there.

Stephen King had it all wrong, but it was probably because of his penis

Penises often have no sense of perspective.

And anyways, can penises know real fear? Can they?

I mean seriously Stephen King, haunted hotels? I think you were missing the point here.

Its a hotel! Where I have my own room and presumably my own bed. That is a away from my house. Where I can be by myself. And do nothing. Like a vacation. Only with ghosts but I'm good with ghosts as long as I don't have to wipe their bums or fix them snacks.

I mean I get your whole point, Stephen King, what with all the hauntiness and the ahhhh and the crazy husband in the maze, oh and those anemicy ghost twins.

First of all, Stephen King I wouldn't bring my crazy ass husband, he can be all crazy at home with our kids. And by crazy I mean do the laundry or clean under the toilet seat. I mean, we're talking having a total psychotic episode here. And that shit is best left at home.

And as for those sneaky little ghost twins? Yeah, I'll admit Stephen King, their creepy. But if that would have been me? I would have been all like, " Get your ghost asses down to the laundry room and get yourselves a mop and clean up all this fucking blood. Are you kidding me with the blood? On the carpet?," I will be damned if I am cleaning up any more messes (especially if I'm on vacation). And especially messes made by kids that aren't even mine! Oh alright Stephen King, cleaning up other peoples' kids' messes is pretty fucking frightening. I'll give you that. Well played old man, well played.

But what I guess I'm getting at Stephen King, is haunted hotels, shmaunted hotels. Its a little light on the scariness factor, don't you think? And considering the month I've had Stephen King? Quite frankly you've let me down. You've let me down Stephen King. Because this month? This month I've seen some scary shit. Let me break it down all spooky like for you.

Dropping your son off at childcare, driving all the way to work and then realizing you forgot to leave him his Teddy Bear.

The shit that is coming out of my kids noses.

Underneath the toilet seat!

My almost-a-year-without-a-pedicure feet.

Buried alive in my own dirty laundry.

Using the last crib sheet on a diarrhea night.

Using the last diaper on a diarrhea night.

Using vinegar and water to clean up diarrhea.

Vinegar and water, Stephen King. Vinegar and water.

And diarrhea!

That is some scary shit for you Stephen King.

Ghosts? Dead cats? Clowns with serious oral hygiene problems?

Stephen King do me a favor. Have a look at an effaced cervix or maybe a stitch up episiotomy and then, maybe then you will have some idea of what real fear is. Because that?

That is scary.

No disrespect to your penis.