Karma Strikes Back

A black cloud seems to be following me lately and I blame karma.  Oh, not that I’m being paid back because I tripped anyone at Kroger’s in an attempt to get to the front of the line. Nor do I recall recently screaming at any slowpokey drivers ahead of me on the freeway who evidently aren’t familiar with the little black and white rectangular signs with the number “65” on them.

No, I suspect it’s because I took a cruise recently and enjoyed tropical weather while my fellow Midwestern brethren suffered through yet another snow storm with negative wind chill factors.

Perhaps someone saw a photo Vince posted on Facebook of us sipping piña coladas on the Lido deck and invoked a special voodoo-type curse on us – all unbeknownst to me.

Bad luck, black clouds, voodoo or karma - call it what you like. All I know is that since we’ve been back, I’ve caught a cold, stubbed my toe to such a degree that the purple it turned rivaled the hot pink of my toenail polish, and bowled so badly that my teammates (who WERE in first place) probably want to ceremoniously rip the logo off my bowling shirt and kick me off the team.

Oh, and the pièce de résistance?  I dropped my nearly brand new cell phone in a sink full of soapy water.

Catching the cold was understandable. I mean, I spent hours flying the friendly skies to return to Columbus with all manner of humans. In February.  Human in February tend to be riddled with germs.  And try as I might, I always seem to forget Rule #1, which is: “Do Not Touch Face With Hands that Have Touched ANYTHING on Airplane.”  It’s an important rule, but I’m so busy listening to the flight attendant give her Safety Speech, I forget Rule #1.

Okay, not really. What I’m really doing is busily shoving my bag under the seat in front of me and trying to remove my jacket without elbowing the hapless person next to me and settling my iPad into the (germ-laden) seat pocket in front of me and folding my knees into an origami-like shape so I can endure the next several hours of flight in steerage, er, coach. When I finally finish all this, I’m completely disheveled. So I run my hands over my face to remove the sheen of sweat that has gathered and swipe my fingers under my eyes to dislodge the mascara and eyeliner that has inevitably run. What with, y’know, the raccoon look in makeup application being out and all. But this is precisely the moment I introduce germs to my sinus cavities. “Germs,” I say. “Meet Sinuses. Go ahead - have a party!”

And they do. Believe me, they do. Weeks later, I’m still sniffling.

The purple toe was pure accident. Well, not like anyone would willingly choose to stub their toe. No, I was merely attempting to give our scaredy cat, Jinx, some love and attention to let her know we were sorry we left her for a week.  I was so intent on getting over to her perch on the edge of the tub to pet her furry little head that I completely miscalculated the location of the scale on the bathroom floor.  My third toe took the brunt of the hit and within minutes turned a bright pink/purplish color. Since I’d had a pedicure not two days prior, it looked like I was intentionally trying to match my toe to my toenail polish.

Not so much.

My bowling average is, er, was 124, which is not a horrible average. For me, anyway.    But bowling less than 24 hours after returning from vacation was probably not the best idea. Sea legs may be good when you’re on a ship in the ocean, but aren’t so good when you need a steady approach to throw a ball down an alley. So I wasn’t surprised to find my average drop a couple points.

Okay, I could deal with that.  But I bowled again this past weekend and, trust me, I should’ve called in sick. I didn’t even manage to break 100 on two of my three games.  And my third game was still far short of my average.

Egad. My Spidey sense is tingling. Someone is out to get me. And I think its name is Karma.  

But, I swear, the recent loss of my cell phone has about done me in. 

I didn’t wake up Saturday morning thinking I was going to dunk my nearly newly purchased iPhone 5C with its colorful green case in the bathroom sink. If I had thought that might happen, I would never have considered hand washing my unmentionables. I would’ve tossed ‘em in the washing machine with my husband’s dirty socks.  Lace and silk be damned. They’d be far less expensive to replace than my cell phone.

I didn’t even realize the phone was in the soapy water until we heard horrible crackling sounds arising from the suds, which caused me to leap over to the sink to fish it out. Expletives may even have been uttered.

Now my hands constantly pat my pockets in a subconscious search for my cell phone. I blindly reach for it upon awakening, only to find it missing from my bedside table. Instead, it sits in a big bag of rice, which is supposedly sopping up all that water.

But I don’t think it’s working and I’m not holding out much hope since it has been in the rice for four days now. Yet I keep dropping it back in the bag in the blind hope that it might miraculously sputter back to life.

I wonder if Siri misses me?  I know I miss Siri.  Especially since I changed her American-sounding female voice to a male voice with a sexy British accent. Even when Siri wasn’t helpful, I still liked listening to her. I mean, him.

It?

And please don’t ask me if I have insurance on it. I don't. And I haven’t yet been able to face the majorly expensive undertaking of replacing my sleek green phone.

So I blame karma. But probably I should apologize to the cosmos. Just in case I did trip someone in line at Kroger. Or yell at the slow poke in the passing lane. 

But I don't think I should have to apologize for enjoying tropical weather in February. Unless it will bring my cell phone back to life. 

And then maybe I'll think about it.

Our Sleep Number is NOT Zero

As briefly mentioned in my last blog, Vince and I have a Sleep Number Bed.  

It was not purchased brand new at the Sleep Number Bed Store as we would have immediately developed insomnia upon learning the price of a brand new Sleep Number Bed. 

And that would have completely defeated the purpose.

Instead, we bought it second-hand from someone’s hair stylist who seemed suspiciously happy to get rid of it for a few bucks. I could only wonder why.

Nevertheless, we agreed to purchase it and she and her husband brought it over and set it up. This was a good thing because they kept returning to their SUV to fetch more pieces/parts and I wasn’t sure if they were constructing a bed or perhaps building a rocket ship in our bedroom. I fretted about moving ever again as we’d have no clue how to set up the thing.

Up until this point, I was under the impression that beds consisted of two major parts – a mattress and a box spring.  Okay, three if you include a frame. And let’s not complicate matters by discussing headboards and footboards and such.  We’re talking basics here.

My heretofore habit was to go to Mattress Mart, test a few different mattresses to find the most comfortable one at a price I could afford and then purchase the set. A day or two later, a couple burly men would knock on my door carrying the new mattress and box spring, which they would set in the bed frame.  And they would remove my old mattress and box spring and take them to the Old Mattress and Box Spring graveyard. All the while wearing those little paper booties so as not to sully my pristine carpet.  No muss, no fuss.

So initially I was skeptical of this Sleep Number Bed.

But once we discovered what our actual Sleep Numbers were (mine is 45 and Vince’s is 40), we pretty much never wanted to get out of our comfy bed.  Soon we began to scoff at plain old mattresses and box springs.  There was no adjustment ability there. No real comfort.

Heck, it was getting to the point where I could barely convince Vince to go on vacation since no other bed was as comfortable as his own.

This honeymoon phase with our Sleep Number Bed lasted approximately three years. Until recently, anyway, when it decided to spring a leak.

I knew we had a problem when I woke up early in the morning and blearily glanced over at Vince. Only I had to look down because he was lying in a pit about six inches lower than I was. He could barely climb up out of the abyss to get out of bed. And he was not happy. 

This was when I discovered that Sleep Number Beds are basically fancy air mattresses surrounded by and covered with heavy pieces of foam. There are hoses that attach to the mattress bladder that can be filled to capacity or the air can be released until the mattress is at the proper softness level.  Vince was sleeping (and I use the term loosely as very little sleeping was actually occurring) on a completely flat air mattress.

So we (and by “we” I mean Vince) pulled the bed apart and tried reconnecting things to fix the problem.  I heard a lot of grumbling. And the terms “bladders” and “connectors” and “O-rings” kept cropping up.  I think he even briefly considered using duct tape.

Those pesky bladders and connectors and O-rings. Always causing problems.

Eventually, the bed was reassembled and pushed back against the wall.  We crossed our fingers and went to bed.

Sometime during the middle of the night I woke up to use the bathroom and when I came out, Vince was sleeping on my side of the bed. How he managed to roll up out of the abyss and move to my side without making any noise and alerting me in the next room, I’ll never know. But he did. Sleep deprivation is not a pretty thing. 

For either of us.

The next morning, we downed multiple cups of black coffee and furtively counted the bags under the other's eyes. We wondered if there is such a thing as an O-ring repair specialist. Otherwise, we knew we'd have to ditch the fancy Sleep Number Bed and go back to Mattress Mart and pick out a plain old mattress and box spring. 

Because the big sinkhole in our mattress is not working.  After all, neither of has a Sleep Number of Zero. We may as well camp out on the floor. 

But Vince is nothing if not persistent and he's going to give the do-it-yourself repair thing another try. Only this time he is planning to employ a little duct tape. I guess we'll test the theory that duct tape fixes everything.

And we'll be keeping our fingers crossed. Again.  

But if that doesn't work and we have to make a trip to Mattress Mart, I hope the burly men in the paper booties will take our Sleep Number Bed and all those pieces/parts to the Old Mattress and Box Spring graveyard. They'll need the big truck. 

Ya Gotta Laugh

According to my trusty iPhone, it’s a frigid 3°F outside. My trusty desktop computer, on the other hand, says that it’s only 1°F. Hmmm. Those artificial brains – always competing.  But since I’m trying to think optimistically, I’m choosing to believe my iPhone.

Yeah, like two measly little degrees makes any sort of difference when we’re down to single digits.  Either way, it’s I-can’t-feel-my-toes-anymore kind of weather.

And I think I’m fighting off a cold.  I’ve been desperately popping Airborne tablets and these little gummy bear-type Sunkist fruit chews (“Each package contains 100% of your daily requirements of Vitamin C!”). I don’t know why I’m doing either of these things. I’m not convinced they work. But I also sometimes think that succumbing to illness is a mental thing. And I’m trying not to be mental about it. Ha.

So I’ve decided to concentrate on things that make me smile or laugh to get through the rest of my day.

Like my new tissue holder. I’ve named him Mortimer Snodgrass. Don’t ask me why – the name just fits. Isn’t he adorable?  I couldn’t resist buying him for myself when I was Christmas shopping.  In fact, I bought Mortimer’s twin brother for my father-in-law for Christmas. Don’t ask me why I did that either – it’s not like my father-in-law has ever shown any interest whatsoever in owning a tissue dispenser with a face on it in which the tissues come out of the nose.

But Mortimer just spoke to me. And he makes me smile every time I catch a glimpse of him when I turn to get a tissue. So even if I AM catching a cold, maybe it won’t be as bad if I’m smiling every time I blow my nose.

The other thing that makes me laugh whenever I think about it is something that happened the other day.  Vince decided that our comforter and the top pad on our Sleep Number bed needed to be washed, but they were too bulky to clean in our washing machine at home. So he and his son trekked over to the Laundromat down the street.  Meanwhile, I was at home doing other chores.

I routinely pile the clean laundry on our bed to fold it and put it away. This is Twinklebelle’s cue to jump on the bed to roll around in the warm, fresh laundry. She’s either getting her scent on all those clean clothes – or she thinks it’s her personal heated blanket until the warmth from the dryer dissipates, anyway.

Either way, I’m not crazy about this little habit of hers because then I have to take a lint brush to all those clean clothes so nobody will think I’m one of those crazy cat ladies who wears more stray cat hairs on her clothes than is on the cat.

On Sunday, though, since Vince and his son took the top pad to the cleaners, all that was on top of the bed were these foam baffles.  Not a problem when you’re merely placing laundry on it to fold it and put it away – but evidently a major problem when you’re a cat.

Even though I admonished her not to jump on the bed per usual, Twinks just gave me the I-am-a-cat-and-will-do-what-I-want look and jumped anyway. Per usual.

But she had never encountered foam baffles before. And she Did. Not. Like. Them.

She immediately popped up off of them where she hovered in mid-air for a second with a panicked look on her little kitty face.

But gravity being what it is forced her to land back on the baffles.

And she immediately popped up in the air again. A bunch of images flashed in my brain just then. Like those little balls in the Powerball drawing that pop up into the chute to make some lucky stiff a multimillionaire. And kernels of corn in an air popper when they finally start popping.  And a kid on a trampoline who doesn’t like it and moves as quickly (and awkwardly) as possible toward the edge of the trampoline to get off. 

Well, Twinks was all of those things.  She kept popping up and down on those baffles moving as fast as a feline can possibly move toward the edge of the bed, where she finally jumped down to the floor and landed with a big whump!

I had never seen anything so funny and I was practically rolling on the floor laughing. I mean, I felt sort of bad that the poor cat was traumatized by the foam baffles, but I was still snickering as I called after her, “Are you – hahahahaha – okay, Twinks?”

Before the question was even completely out of my mouth, Twinks had streaked out of the bedroom and was cowering behind the couch in the living room.

The good news is that she will probably never again jump up on that bed and roll around in the newly cleaned laundry. So we’ll save big money on lint rollers.  And maybe – just maybe – nobody will refer to me as that “crazy cat lady.”

Hey, an opportunity to laugh with abandon like a kid – and a chance to save a little money. Score.

So I think I should be okay today. Especially if I don’t go outside and test the I-can’t-feel-my-toes-anymore theory. And I’m happy to stay indoors. After all, I have Mortimer to keep me company.  Which is good because Twinks is still not speaking to me.

What's So Funny?

Sometimes I worry that I’m losing my sense of humor.  Like the other night when I was hastily throwing together something for dinner before Vince arrived home. 

The water was getting ready to boil on the stove awaiting the noodles and the beef and gravy were simmering away on Low.  Concurrently, I was washing the glass blender cup thingie from our morning fruit smoothie.  Once I realized the water had indeed started boiling on the stove, I left the blender cup thingie in the sink with the water running in order to rinse out the soap.  I figured I’d throw the noodles in the pot and would then turn around and shut the tap off.

Wrong.

Instead, I threw the noodles into the boiling water and then had to stir the gravy so it wouldn’t burn.  “Low” on our stove apparently means “Boil Vigorously.” 

So by the time I turned around to shut the water off in the sink, the blender cup thingie had filled to capacity and was overflowing – all over the sink. And the counters. And the floor. 

Grrrr.

But rather than roll my eyes and laugh at my boneheaded move, I got all growly.  I swear, it was like I’d left the water running all weekend instead of a mere moment.  There was so much water everywhere, I was debating whether or not to get the mop and bucket.  But I figured if I took the time to do that, the noodles would be overcooked, the gravy would indeed be burned and I’d probably smack myself in the face with the mop handle as I wrestled it out of the closet.

So, instead, I unhappily crawled around on the floor mopping up the water with a towel as more water dripped from the countertop above and onto my head.

And, naturally, it was at that precise moment that Vince arrived home and walked into the kitchen.

Sigh.

Fortunately, he was feeling silly and was (eventually) able to get me to (grudgingly) smile.

And with four hands to handle the work, neither the noodles were overcooked nor was the gravy burned.

So as crises go, this was minor.  But there was a time not so long ago when I would not have lost my cool over something so trivial. I mean, it’s not like I spilled a whole bottle of red wine all over the white carpet or sliced off a vital appendage or anything.

Part of it may be that I’m just getting old and cranky.  But part of it may be that I haven’t been getting enough sleep lately.  Instead of “settling down for a long winter’s nap” the night before, I was up at 2 a.m. haunting the hallways like The Ghost of Christmas Past. 

When I awoke the next morning to get ready for my day, I did rather resemble Ebenezer Scrooge, so I guess it all ties together.

Ebenezer Scrooge, by the way, probably didn’t need as much under-eye cover-up as I did.

But at least I recognize that I need to regain my sense of humor. And fortunately I haven’t yet morphed into the curmudgeon-y lady who shakes her fist at neighborhood kids who dare to walk across her lawn. But then, this is probably because there aren’t any little kids living in our neighborhood.  Besides, I’m not the one who is all that concerned about the lawn. No, that would be Vince’s domain, and if he wants to shake his fists at little kids, who am I to stop him? 

Actually, I would love to see that – and it would probably make me laugh.  So maybe I should go out and find some little kids and drag them to our house?

Yeah, on second thought, that’s probably not a good idea.  Prison would be a surefire way to lose whatever sense of humor I have left.

So I will have to work on this regaining-my-sense-of-humor thing. Like I should probably only look at the funny stuff people post on Facebook instead of the controversial stuff that gets everyone all riled up.  And I can only hope that my friends turn into instant comedians and tell me jokes and funny stories. 

And if none of that works?  Well, I could always take a nap.

But just in case, I should probably buy some more under-eye cover-up. Comparing myself to Ebenezer Scrooge makes me cranky.

Is Sending Christmas Cards Becoming a Thing of the Past?

When I was younger, I thought it would be fun to work at the Hallmark Company. I imagined a fabulous career writing greeting cards, especially once Shoebox (a tiny little division of Hallmark) was born because it was the home of the funny cards. 

But then I realized my verbose style of writing wouldn’t work for greeting cards. They would’ve lost profits because my cards would’ve been booklets. And there would’ve been a mass shortage of red ink as copy editors took their red pens to my verbiage. 

So, for the sake of an entire industry, I opted not to pursue that career. Besides, I didn’t really want to move to Hallmark’s corporate headquarters in Kansas City, Missouri. At the time, I couldn’t imagine why anyone would voluntarily move to Kansas City, Missouri. What am I saying?  I still can’t imagine moving to Kansas City, Missouri.

(My apologies if you’re from Kansas City, Missouri, or you live there now. I’m sure it’s a lovely place.)

Now, however, I’d be more concerned with the color pink than red, anyway. As in the dreaded pink slip.  I don’t know statistics, but it would be hard to imagine that the greeting card industry hasn’t suffered as a result of the whole social media thing.  Why send a card when you can wish someone Happy Birthday on Facebook? Why send a Christmas card if you can tweet a greeting to all your followers?

I could, of course, make up some statistics to support my claims.  But seeing as how I barely passed Statistics in college, I wouldn’t even know how to make up something believable and/or realistic. 

So let’s just assume that the greeting card industry has suffered. Just like the USPS has suffered. I mean, if you’re not going to buy a card, you don’t need to buy a stamp either.

My proof?  Well, does a sample population of one (me) count?  No?  Too bad.  It does for my purposes.

I used to frequently get cards and letters from family and friends throughout the year. And I used to frequently send cards and letters throughout the year.  Now?  Not so much. 

I used to look forward to Christmas when it was a pleasure to open my mailbox to collect all those fancy envelopes filled with pretty glitter-covered Christmas trees and Santa Clauses and Nativity scenes.  I loved to read all the newsy news and gaze at the enclosed photos from people I care about. It was the one time of the year when personal mail outnumbered junk mail, sales circulars and bills by about a bajillion to one. 

(See?  Bad at statistics.)

But now?  Not so much.  We have received only a smattering of cards from friends and family. We’ve heard more from people who say they are not sending cards any longer.

So it’s a tradition that I fear is heading toward oblivion.

It’s not that I don’t understand why.  I mean, it’s an expensive undertaking, for one thing.  Buying cards in bulk and purchasing multiple books of stamps ain’t cheap.  And it’s time consuming.  Especially for someone like me because I have to write a long letter to add to our cards.

And I have to print out pretty labels because my handwriting is becoming more and more chicken-scratchy as the years pass. (Legible handwriting. Something else that is heading toward oblivion?) 

So I recently bought labels made for laser printers.  Unfortunately, we own an inkjet printer. You’d think it wouldn’t matter all that much, but believe me, it does.  Printing labels for laser printers on an inkjet printer just makes for a smeary mess.  That’d be a sure way to piss off mail carriers all over the country.

So I had to run out and buy the correct labels and start over again.  That was not only expensive, but time consuming as well. The new labels were in a different format, so couldn’t just hit “print.” I had to copy and paste into a whole new document.  Thus, all the pretty little holly and ornament pictures I had added to each label went right out the window.  We were, by that point, going for utilitarian. 

And let’s not even discuss the fact that an hour after I returned home from the office supply store with the new labels, I ran out of ink for my printer and had to go back to the office supply store.

You can imagine how full of Christmas cheer I was by then.

Fortunately, I’d already written the letter to enclose in our cards so it didn’t turn all surly and Grinchish. (Yuh huh, that is too a real word.) 

When I finally printed out all the labels, Vince and I had to sign all the cards and attempt to write a personal note in each card. Sadly, by the time we got to the last few, we were just signing our names and sending silent apologies to those folks.

But we finished them – and they are all in the mail. So we feel a real sense of accomplishment. And, frankly, a sense of relief.

So now we wait for all those “Return to Sender” envelopes where we had the wrong address on the label or the recipient moved and we forgot to change the label. Then we’ll have to find out the correct address and resend the card, which will then arrive closer to Valentine’s Day than Christmas.

Huh. Maybe it’s a tradition that should head toward oblivion.  But still...  If it does, I fear I will feel a sense of loss every December when I head to the mailbox and it will contain only junk mail, sales circulars and bills. 

I’m gonna miss all those glitter-covered Christmas trees.

So Merry Christmas, everyone!  And if you haven’t received our card yet…it’s in the mail. 

Probably. 

Obviously, I'm Oblivious

I’ve been a little out of it in the last week.  Don’t ask me why.  Let’s blame it on being sleep deprived. Or blame it on my lengthy To-Do list. Heck, let’s blame it on my hair color.  Whatever.  I can’t even get huffy about that last thing because there have been some definite blonde moments lately.

Take last Thursday evening, for instance.  I had to run to two different stores to prepare for the surprise party we were having that weekend and it was getting perilously close to closing time.

But first I had to stop at the gas station.  It had been a couple weeks since I’d fueled up and the car was gasping so I didn’t think I’d even make it to the two different stores unless I stopped.

Knowing that time was of the essence, I had already flipped the switch to open the door to the tank and had credit card in hand. I got out of the car and was all ready to swipe my card with one hand while twisting the gas cap open with the other…except there was no partially opened door to the gas tank.  Instead, I was looking at a smooth, unbroken expanse of white paint.

Huh?  I was completely and utterly baffled. If someone were drawing me as a cartoon, there would've been a big question mark over my head.  But…all I could think was, where did the opening for the gas tank go?? 

And then I realized.

The last several times I had filled up a gas tank, it was on my Dad’s car when I drove them back from Cape Cod– and the tank is on the driver’s side. MY gas tank, on the other hand, is on the passenger side.

Yeesh.  Even though nobody was paying a bit of attention to me, I got totally embarrassed and felt my face flush beet red.

And then I hopped back in the car and drove around the station so my passenger side was closest to the pump and I could actually reach the gas tank.

As I filled up, I kept shaking my head and rolling my eyes at my dopey move. But at least I hadn’t already swiped my credit card.  Had I done that, I would have had to try to change directions at the same pump – and I guarantee you that either (a) I would’ve had to perform car maneuvers far beyond my capabilities, or (b) another car would’ve sneaked into my spot.  Confusion would have ensued. And then I would’ve gotten into an argument with a total stranger.  Hey, what can I say?  Gasoline is just too expensive for me to be filling up the gas tank for someone I don’t know.

Despite my misstep, I managed to fuel up and get to my two stores to order party food. And all before closing time.  Happy endings I can live with.

There have been other blonde moments recently, too.  (Wow. Who knew I’d prefer calling them blonde moments, over, say, early senility!)  But I don’t really want to tell you about swiping my Kroger’s frequent shopper’s card instead of my credit card at Costco (and getting frustrated when it wouldn’t accept it as payment), or wearing my shirt inside out for an entire day. The thing that concerned me most about that last thing is that nobody said a word.  Did THEY not notice? Or were they shaking their heads in sorrow for my formerly (somewhat) sharp mind and on my behalf mourning its loss?

Who knows. I am just hoping that I can catch up on my sleep a little this weekend and can brush away some of those cobwebs.  And, heck we have that whole “Fall Back” thing to look forward to.  I will be glad to gain an hour this weekend.  Let’s just hope I remember to change all our clocks so that I don’t show up for work an hour early on Monday morning.  I do that and for SURE they’ll admit me somewhere for testing.

So Happy October, everyone! Enjoy your weeke... Excuse me? What's did you say? 

Heh, heh.  Why, yes, I do realize it's November. I was, um, just testing you to see if you read all the way to the end...! 

Halloween Memories

Today is Halloween and we’re supposed to get thunderstorms or high winds or something in Central Ohio. Does this mean that Trick-or-Treating is cancelled tonight?  Dunno. 

I probably won’t turn on our porch light either way.  Last year was the first year in our new house and I didn’t know what the Trick-or-Treat situation was in the neighborhood.  Nevertheless, I bought a ginormous bag of candy in preparation.  And, mind you, it was the good stuff.  Kit Kats and Snickers and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups – none of that Dollar Store no-name stuff. 

But it turned out to be pretty dismal.  We got nary a single little ghoul or goblin.  Turns out there are very few kids in our neighborhood and the neighboring areas probably don’t want to bother with cul-de-sacs.  It’s either thru-streets or nothin’. 

I can understand that. I mean, the goal when you’re a kid is maximum candy collection because, frankly, you know there will be shrinkage.  You have to immediately discard the boxes of raisins and dental floss that some houses insist on handing out.  And you have to throw out any candy that has escaped its wrapper.  Probably your parents are going to filch some of your candy after you go to bed.  

But, most importantly, you know there will be candy in your bucket that you don’t like.

For me it was candy corn.  Yuck.  I couldn’t even give that stuff away. Try as I might, I couldn’t broker a trade with my younger siblings.  Even when they were barely old enough to string a complete sentence together, they were still too savvy to trade their Hershey’s bar for a couple pieces of plastic-tasting candy corn. 

I don’t know how much they focus on candy at my sister’s house nowadays, but my niece has spent the past couple years putting a lot of thought into choosing her Halloween costume.  Last year the kid went as “the body inside out” and she wore her “organs” on the outside of her clothes.  Her intestines were made out of panty hose and, well, I’m not sure what the other body parts were made out of. The pancreas and the liver looked particularly yucky.  But I had to give my niece a lot of credit for originality  – and my sister kudos for her creativity in crafting such an ambitious costume.

 

Rich Uncle Pennybags?

This year, my niece went as the little tuxedoed Monopoly Guy or Rich Uncle Pennybags from the Monopoly game. She looked adorable.  I don’t know this for sure, but I’m guessing that my sister was relieved that she only had to come up with a top hat, cane and spats for the dear child. Guts and brain matter not required.

But back when my sister and I were kids, we had to make our own costumes. Mom might have let us use a little black eyeliner, if need be, but that was about the extent of her involvement. Thus, our costumes were pretty amateurish, as I recall, and I don’t think we have a single photo of us as kids dressed up for Halloween.

Or is THIS the real Rich Uncle Pennybags?

I remember only one time getting a store-bought Halloween mask. I vaguely recall it being some sort of happy clown face, but don't quote me on that.  What I do remember for sure is that it had a flimsy piece of elastic stapled to either side of the mask, which was supposed to hold it onto my head. 

Yeah, like that worked.  My eyes were mashed into my glasses, which were mashed up against the eye holes that didn’t line up with my face so that it hurt every time I blinked. 

And it was hot.  With every breath I took, my glasses got steamed up and I had to stop and clear them so I could see. This definitely slowed down the candy collection process.

But I knew I couldn’t utter a single complaint because, well, I had begged my parents to buy me that mask and they had done so only reluctantly.

The mashed eyeballs-steamed eyeglasses problem wasn’t the worst of it, either. We’d gone to only a few houses before the elastic holding that hard plastic mask snapped and broke. Trying to fix it by sliding the now shorter piece of elastic into the space between the mask and the staple while rubbing the welt on my cheek AND holding on to my plastic Halloween bucket so that the candy didn’t spill out was a major undertaking.  Yeah, maybe that explains the “trick” part of Trick-or-Treat.

Thus, that was the first and last time I ever asked my parents to get me a store-bought Halloween mask. They were pretty savvy themselves, no?

While I don’t remember any Beggar's Nights getting cancelled due to inclement weather, I do recall many a Halloween costume ruined by having to wear our winter jackets over our costumes.  I mean, it’s not like we could fit whatever costume we’d devised from the rag bin over a bulky winter jacket. But the integrity of our costume was not of concern to our mother and her word was law, so we wore our winter jackets.  In retrospect, I can’t blame the woman.  She certainly did not want to deal with four simultaneous cases of sore throats, fevers and stuffy noses.

Ah well. Halloween is one of those “holidays” that bring back fun memories, whether you’re the kid ringing the doorbell or the person answering the door.

Hmmm. Maybe I will turn the porch light on tonight – just in case we get any brave cul-de-sac traveling ghouls or goblins. Wonder if I have any extra dental floss or little boxes of raisins lying around the house? Just kidding. At the very least, I think I can scrounge up a few Kit Kats.

So, whether you're escorting your kids as they Trick-or-Treat or you're the one answering the door, I wish you a Happy Halloween! Oh, and stay warm. (Maybe you wanna ruin your kids' costumes and put that winter jacket on over it -  just to be safe? Trust me - they'll thank you for it.  Someday.)