Another Hallow's Eve done and Snickered away. Frozen Snickers, that is. I tossed one in the Frigidaire for later consumption. To be had AFTER the entire tray of brown rice sushi from Kroger; the mineral water and the honey wheat beer; a sample of each mini-candy bar in our arsenal, au naturel; a carrot AND a handful of whole grain Pringles dipped in my daughter's onion dip; that barely-there slice of Red Baron frozen pizza; a wee shot of a custard-style drink reminiscent of egg nog; and sometime BEFORE a cupcake from our neighbors, topped with two of those candy corn-flavored pumpkin-shaped candies, and the four pizza bites I tossed back for good measure.
I was slightly hungry. At least until that tray of rice-wrapped shrimp with mayo sauce wriggled its way down my gullet -- the rest was purposeful overkill. After all, the fishies might get lonely! I'd worked up an appetite, what with all of that last-minute activity to create a festive trick-or-treating atmosphere for the costumed kiddies who annually cruise our cul-de-sacs in search of sweets and treats. Last year, I discovered a clearance bin of packaged fake spider webs. They came home with me. My kids helped me adorn the bushes and house . . . it was all so coo-o-l. A black light from Home Depot helped funkify things, reflecting in that almost magical way off all things white, including the costumes. I was hooked! next year would be even better. But NOT costlier.
This year, I invested in four bags -- two white, one green, one black -- of the incredible stretching web at a total of eight bucks and enlisted the reticent assistance of my son. In a rapid flurry of search and create, I demanded creativity and action out of us. "C'mon! Think. What can we use? Whatever we have. Let's put it together!" My kids may be of the opinion that I went a bit manic in my hasty efforts. It felt a bit like one of those timed-challenge reality shows. You know the ones where the contestants have to shop, design, display, and use their spaces or foods or products with a few hours or a day or a weekend? Things get a bit crazy in the making, but it pays off in the end. And no one fell off the ladder!
We raked a generous pile of fall leaves onto the sidewalk to create crunch beneath the feet of our candy-seekers. We spun webs from the house to the bushes to the redbud tree, spanning heights and dropping low enough to coerce the taller walkers into ducking. I transformed a fuzzy black scarf into a spider hiding in the fern. A military jumpsuit crammed with sweatshirts and blankets, dressed in a Bronco jersey, cleats, and a helmet, kept vigil in a rocking chair near the driveway. We wrapped strings of orange lights on the river birch. The giant Pink Panther of Zachary's historical ring-toss fame several years back occupied another rocking chair leading up to the front door. Several monkey teddy bears of varying sizes found their ways into the limbs of several trees on the footpath. For the second year in a row, my daughter and her boyfriend carved up our pumpkin, creating a classic candlelit jack-o-lantern for display in our whimsical wonderland.
And the visiting kids had a blast. Touching the stuffed animals; reaching for the gauzy film of the 'cave' they were entering. The parents complimented the decor. One harried mom and a lone cowboy dad found themselves caught up in our giant sticky web but escaped without further incident to ring another doorbell with their toddler superheroes and tv characters in tow. I donned my traditional from-the-closet last-minute costume: I've been a gypsy, hippy, military jet pilot, and teen cheerleader . . . and, now, my husband. (It seems he's highly useful fodder for this blog lately.) My neighbor friend stopped by for a visit and couldn't stop laughing at her usually feminine walking partner, bedecked in business slacks (do they make my hips look fat?), button-up shirt, power tie, slicked hair, pen in pocket, and penciled mustache. The fact that I was in character -- voice an octave lower but not exaggerated, shoulders squared and my chin tucked a bit, feet in a toes-out stance, one hand jammed into my pocket, the other holding a brewsky -- disconcerted her. Just a touch. When I invited her into the kitchen, "Hey, babe, how about a beer? I won't bite. I don't hit on married women," she hesitated. "I feel kind of strange going in there with you . . . him . . . " she stammered through her giggles, "It's so strange. You. Like this!"
She urged me to visit her husband, which I did. Again, remaining in character. Sitting. Legs wide. Burping as I clutched my beer bottle, by then filled with lime mineral water. Talking on about work and how much more comfortable thongs were than boxer briefs. He sat there on his couch, trying to place who I resembled. "Uh, yeah. Some say I look like a young Tom Cruise . . . 'You can't handle the truth!'" He shook his head, "No. Nope. More like one of those slick car salesmen." He took my picture, saying aloud how he thought sleep might be difficult that night after seeing me in my manly countenance. I told him my work there was done.
All that remains from the bewitching hour is a dull ache in my burdened belly and a living room full of panthers, gorillas, and a half-unstuffed jumpsuit which formerly weighed almost as much as a real man. I've yanked the tie from my neck. Returned my husband's good work clothes to his closet. Washed the feathered mascara from my upper lip though a four o'clock shadow remains behind. Picked up the helpful boy from his bonfire party -- dropping of his girlfriend at her home in the process by means of another of those wondrous Tennessee side roads which lead to somewhere, anywhere, and back again. The lights are out. The candle snuffed. All of the opened Twizzlers and Twix handed out. My teeth are flossed and my blog now written. Except for two things . . .
Did I mention that my fifteen year-old son attended a party last night, too? Guests were urged to dress for the occasion. He made plans with a few other boys and donned girl's clothing. However, his biceps and reluctance to step into character hurt his interpretation; his father was so proud. I guess cross-dressing runs in the family?
And I'm immensely glad that none of my children trick-or-treated this year. I don't need the candy!
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