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I'm pretty much done with Halloween.
Let it be cast aside like so many other things I used to love: Donny Osmond, Hello Kitty erasers, pleated jeans and green eyeliner.
It just is not fun when you own a house and have to devote your night to answering the door every three minutes. Especially when the front door is on the middle level of our house, and there's nothing to do there but hang out in the kitchen and eat. And I already did that tonight, so I'm pretty much all set with this whole Halloween thing.
Unfortunately, it's only 6:45 p.m.
I think I'll just stick the whole bowl of bite-sized Snickers out on the stoop with the pre-painted pumpkins I bought in desperation at Jewel two days ago. I'll put up a sign that says, "Only one, you greedy little snit!" And I'll put Baxter, who is wary of anyone coming to our house who is not, well, us, on a chain to watch the stash.
I can see it now. The little goblins will approach our house. Baxter will begin his low, back-of-his-throat growl. They'll advance to our front door. He'll strain to the end of his chain and bare his teeth. They'll move forward to the candy bowl. He'll start his one-note-but-oh!-it's-a-high-pitched-one barkbarkbarking, which won't stop until they flee in terror or I lumber down the stairs from my office, whichever comes first. Yeah, that'll keep me in the black for most of the night.
The next time some kid holds out his bag, wordless, and just stands there waiting for me to give up the goods, I'm going to stick my big, stinky, naked foot in his ratty pillowcase.
"What?" I'll say, mixing it around, trying to snag a piece of Pal gum with my toes. "What?"
"All right! I got TWO Snickers now!"
"I got eight!"
"Oh, she's handing out something good!"I am thinking about thinning our supply of canned vegetables. The next kid who comes here looking warily into my goodie bowl gets a can of green beans. Or maybe a can of my Libby's Lite fruit cups. I'll pop off the top and plunk a single, wet peach in their loot bag. I mean, really. You take what you get from people. You don't rate their goodies before you're even off their stoop, knocking their expensive grocery store pumpkins over with your big, stupid roller blades.
OK! With the doorbell! OK! Jesus, out there, relax! I'm coming!
Baxter appears to be suffering down in the laundry room, where he is penned up in punishment for making inappropriate noises at our guests. He is making strangled cries for help. I am stubbornly staying away from his greedy and loving arms. He's too anxious for me right now. I'm having my own issues.
I've decided there is no more candy for trick-or-treaters so old they can drive themselves around my neighborhood. No more candy for people who are old enough to shave, to remember when "Ice Ice Baby" was popular, to have to worry about the ACTs.
My friend Colleen left me a message earlier tonight. It seems she is greeting trick-or-treaters dressed as a witch. I am greeting them in pajama bottoms that are too short, my diary-x T-shirt (size 3x) and a my hair yanked off my head by a headband. Oh, and no bra.
Now that's scary.
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