Thursday, October 26, 2006
Things Zombie Hates Thursday Hallowe'en Special
I did not die. You may or may not be pleased to learn this. I can never tell with you jackals.
I think EB is off on a clocktower-esque type killing spree at the moment, though. I tell him he needs to get rid of this excess aggression in a constructive manner and that is what he comes up with?
I'm so proud.
Anyway, ZOMG TEH HATE COMETH.
The Disappointing Nature of Hallowe'en These Days.
When I was but a wee Zombie, I loved Hallowe'en. In fact, I still do - but it was those Hallowe'ens of my youth that instilled my current deep-seated love for the day.
When I had my son, I thought, "Brilliant! Now I can go Trick or Treating again! I shall use this small human as an excuse! He can't eat candy, but I can! Wee!"
You see, I remembered that when I was small, I used to bring home quite the haul on this most joyous of days.
In fact, often, my friends and I had to pause in the Trick or Treating to actually stop off home, unload the pillowcase to make more room, and then dash off to fill it up again. This Trick or Treating was done at night. This was also done unaccompanied by parents, after we were of a certain age, because parents are slow. And my friends and I were not going to be slowed down by some drag-ass parents dawdling about on the curb when there was loot to be had on the next block. No, sir.
Indeed, I have many fond memories of these nights. Sure, it was Pennsylvania, so there might be some snow coming down or something, but that did not stop us. Nearly every house in our neighborhood had the porch light on, signifying that there was candy available if we banged on the door and shouted a lot. The smell of pumpkins, smashed the night before by the older kids and left to rot on the sidewalks and streets, wafted on the air.
And the candy! Oh, the candy. Tons of chocolate - Reese's Cups and Snickers being my favorite - and even whole cans of pop. Okay, so sometimes an old lady would sneak in an apple or a fucking toothbrush, but that did not detract from the glorious amounts of sugary, tooth-rotting goodness that overflowed from the hands of kindly neighbors.
SO, just imagine my chagrin on my son's first Hallowe'en.
There, of course, had been a lack of Trick or Treating in the preceding few years, because I was apparently considered to be "too old" - turns out people get sort of surly at you if you show up on their doorstep and beg candy when you're 13. Who knew? You live. You learn.
Instead, I whiled away those years, longing for the time when I could take my mother's place as Lord of the Candy, and hover above my own children, saying, "Okay, now I have to check all of that for razor blades, hypodermic needles, and cyanide. Oops, this Reese's Cup looks tampered with. I better take that. Oh, and that one, too. And that one. And that one. Well, hell's bells, it looks like ALL of these Reese's Cups have been tampered with! I can't have you short people getting stabbed in the mouth or poisoned, so I better just dispose of these in a safe place."
A safe place being my stomach, of course. Wink wink, nudge nudge.
Also, while I longed, I had been relegated to handing out candy myself to the small people at the door for those years. I did not mind this, except for those times when the kids would ask, "What are you supposed to be?" and I would end up surprised and have to say, "Er, nothing. I always dress like this," and they would get kind of nervous and scuttle away. Little shits.
Anyway, back to my chagrin.
Now, Trick or Treating in this town, at the time, had been moved to the middle of the day, for safety reasons. A little girl had been nabbed off of the sidewalk a few years before, and this, naturally, caused some public disturbance and made people all hyper and "BUT WHAT ABOUT THE CHILDREN?" and so forth.
So I understood that we couldn't Trick or Treat in the dark, even if I wasn't too happy about it -- but Lord of the Candy! My son's first Hallowe'en! This was going to rock!
Thought my dumbass self.
I don't know what happened during my Non-Trick-or-Treating Years, but apparently, people in general have stopped giving much of a shit about this most sacred of autumn evenings. My best friend (a fellow Hallowe'en enthusiast, with a baby 3 weeks older than my own tiny tot) and I got the kids all tarted up and off we went out the door, delirious with the prospect of finally having a decent excuse to beg candy off of strangers, despite our advanced ages - "Uhm...Trick or Treat? It's for the baby. In the stroller. Uhm...he's 3 months old...ish. But it's for him. Really."
But do you know what happened that terrible day? We got jack shit, that's what! No huge haul like I remembered from my youth! We were lucky if every fifth house had a light on! The bastards!
And it's only appearing to get worse as my kids age - even now that we Trick or Treat in a different state, it's no better. So I can't just blame Pennsylvania. It's a nationwide epidemic. You're all bastards.
What's the matter with you people? Do you know how disheartening it is for me to watch my youngsters tramp up and down the street for a long time, in the bitter cold, wearing kick-ass costumes, only to manage to gather a half of a plastic pumpkin-bucket's worth of candy?
And not even good candy. No, there's no full cans of pop in there! There's no tampered-with Reese's Cups for me to take away from them!
There's not even any goddamned apples! Or tooth-brushes! Even the health-freaks have given up! And you know it's a sad day when someone that's so gung-ho about oral health that they would actually pass out toothbrushes on a day that it is to ruin your dental work - nay! the ONE DAY it's down-right acceptable and encouraged that you ruin your dental work - has decided to stop giving a shit about the teeth of the neighborhood at large. That's a sad day, I say! A sad day!
No, instead of all that good (or at least acceptable) stuff, there's 900 Pixie Sticks, which, UHM, NO, WHAT THE HELL. That's like crack for kids. Stop that.
And there's Mary Janes, which, EW. No one eats those. I mean, we got those when I was little, but we promptly fed them to the dog or left them sit in the candy bin until next year, by which time you'd think they would be petrified with age, but no, they still look the same as they did when you got them - because I am under the impression that Mary Janes are much like the fabled Christmas Fruitcake - there are only a few of them actually in existence, and people just pass them around every year, back and forth, like a retarded, artificially-caramel-flavored version of tennis.
Same with Bit O' Honey. NO ONE LIKES THOSE, EITHER.
This, of course, doesn't mean my kids aren't happy with their haul. After all, they don't know any better. They don't have any previous, glorious, wonderful Hallowe'ens to look back on and sigh with nostalgia over.
And so, I can't figure out what causes more hate - that my kids don't get to experience the magic I experienced when I was that age, or that they haven't got any tampered Reese's Cups for me to gank out of their buckets under the pretense of looking out for their small lives.
Baking Cookies at 1 AM.
It's 1 AM-ish and I am baking cookies because I stupidly agreed to bake them for the kids' school parties tomorrow. And could I get around to doing it at a reasonable hour? Of course not! But can I let the children down? Of course not!
So I will bake pumpkin cookies for roughly 70 children at 1 in the morning, because I am not bright enough to say no when asked to do something like this. I think, at the time of the asking, that it sounds like a lovely idea and, sure, it will be no trouble at all and two cookies per kid sounds just fine.
Duh. Shut up, Zombie.
I better get my black-and-orange Tupperware back, though, or some heads are going to roll, is all I'm sayin.' I know how those public school teachers are woefully underpaid and probably just fiending to get their hands on my festive plasticware.
I won't have it, though. I've carefully printed my name on the bottom of each one, with a Sharpie, boldly marking my territory.
Jesus, I've turned into my grandma, industriously writing her name on the casserole dish she's sending over to a funeral, to make sure none of the bereaved make off with her Corningware.
I guess this means that if I send food to your funeral, you best keep your mitts off my crockery, or I'll be all sorts of pissed off.
We will see if Hallowe'en has perked up at all this year, friends and neighbors. I am not optimistic, but we will see. You tell me if your kids fare any better than my poor wretches have the past few years.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have somewhere in the area of 9,000 more cookies to eat - I mean, bake. BAKE.
Good night and good luck.
link | posted by Zombie at 9:11 PM |
Ve Haf Vays of Making You Post a Comment.