Friday, November 27, 2009

Butter's Good

Every August, the Discovery Channel airs Shark Week. Invariably, the producers of a show do something absolutely ridiculous, like pulverize an entire herd of sheep and dump the chum into the water to see what happens. Generally, an armada of bullet-headed sharks arrive out of nowhere and turn the camera man's shark cage into a frothing, chaotic feeding frenzy. The narrator describes how the sharks go out of control, occasionally chomping at steel fragments of the shark cage or fiberglass sections of the research vessel, completely disoriented and eating everything in a fantastic orgy of food.
Every November, there is Thanksgiving. Americans, already fattened to the brink of physical boundaries find themselves at tables laden with more food than most countries will ever see. Passing, grabbing, stuffing, gorging on food that barely registers on the taste buds. I am pretty sure that at our table, some one passed the butter, and while it was temporarily in his hands on the way to the naked dinner roll, he just went ahead and ate some of the butter. Plain. Because, hey, it was there, and this is the day we eat, dammit.
But, my parents were here. And that is a first for us. In all the years of my marriage, we have always gone to my parents' house. Although my sister and her husband were at his family's house this year (hehe), my kids were here, my husband was here, my parents were here. It was Thanksgiving Dinner at Our House. Things are always different at my house when my parents are here.
This was an ACTUAL conversation between my kids and my mother last night:
Scene: family room, Hot Wheels strewn all over, nearly comatose adults watching football, kids actively playing and begging for dessert. Adults represent a chorus as in the tradition of the Greek Theater.
S: Can we have dessert? I'm hungry.
Adults: Moan. Don't talk about food.
E: What do we have for dessert?
Grandma: Lemon cake.
S: Ew. I hate lemon cake. (S hates everything right now, and has not even had lemon cake. For the record.)
Adults: Too much food. Don't talk about food. Was that pass interference?
G: There is rainbow sherbet in the fridge.
S: Oooh. Yum.
Grandma rises and serves ice cream to the children. Children go off to kitchen to eat ice cream.
One Adult to the next: I think I might have eaten butter. Like plain. Off the butter dish.
Adult #2 responds: Yeah, I heard about that.
Grandma, from family room: Kids!?!? Please hurry and eat your ice cream so I can clean up your cars.
Kids: But what about the lemon cake?!!?
Grandma: You can have the lemon cake after you help me clean up your mess.
Kids: Oh, man. That's not fair.
Grandma cleans family room.
Kids watch.
Adults: First Down! Off sides! Penalty! Kick! Score!
Kids return to kitchen to eat lemon cake.
Grandma retreats to kitchen to serve it to them.
Adults remain on couch.
Grandfather: You know, the kids have been fairly well behaved this week.
Parents: It's tough for them when grandma is around. What with having to supervise the cleaning in between desserts. The Pilgrims had it easy compared to my kids.
Adult #1: Was that butter or some kind of margarine? I'm just asking, what with my cholesterol.
Adult #2: Nope. Butter.
Adults, as one: Too much food. Stop talking about food.
Curtain.

Saturday, November 21, 2009

Update

NotCinnamon will be taking this week before Thanksgiving off. But don't worry. My family is visiting, so there should be PLENTY of new stuff on Friday. Thanks!

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Catalogue Season

'Tis the season to be buried under a deluge of catalogs each day at the mailbox. All I can think about when I open the box is, !!The beautiful forests!!

But, of course, I go inside and pore over the "magazines" with the greatest attention. I thought I'd save you the trouble and identify some of this season's sure-to-be-best sellers, as well as let a few close friends get a glimpse of what they might expect to receive from me this holiday season.


From Wireless:

"The Complete Writer's Kit" Step by step directions, inspiration and advice. Contains a guideline to be published in Six Months or Less (caps theirs) and a 52 card deck for fighting writers block.

As I am married to a writer, and became friends with many writers during his six years of training to hone his writing skills, I thought this would be a hoot to send to him and all his writers friends who are supremely talented and struggling to get their voices heard during this time of economic downturn and vampire fetishism.



From Fresh Finds:

I am torn between the Snuggie and the Slanket. "The Slanket combines the warmth of a plush and cozy blanet and the comfort of your favorite robe. Eat read write...all without the Slanket slipping off!" The Snuggie, on the other hand, "is the best way to relax without feeling restricted...it boasts over sized sleeves that leaves hands free to use a laptop, talk on the phone, read...even enjoy a snack. One size fits most." Most? What gargantuan hippo cannot fit into a Snuggie?

And if I ever want to know why one size only fits most, I have only to look through the rest of the catalogue: specially designed pans create edible bowls (from the Cookie Monster school of etiquette), Hershey's s'more maker (when the fireplace and/or microwave won't do the job), automatic cookie press, edible dessert bowls, devilled egg transporter, 101 Things to do with a Tortilla cookbook, dumpling mold and recipe book, microwave bacon cooker, scone maker, 32 ounce cereal bowls (I wish I were kidding), a bagel guillotine (sadistic French), and a cereal server that promises to serve cereal faster (than the open the box and pour into 32 ounce bowl technique that I've been using all these years?). Indeed, a veritable cornucopia of useless things that will make us fat (ter).

Of course, I got my Heifer International catalogue. This, couple with the World Wildlife Fund catalogue make me feel even guiltier for browsing through the crapalogues. I can adopt a goat in sub-Saharan Africa in your name that will provide milk and income for a small village....or I can get your dog a Slanket. Hmmm. The thing is, goats are a bitch to wrap.

From the luxury end markets, I got a Tiffany's holiday catalog. This year's Tiffany's gifts seem remarkably fiscally responsible. Even Tiffany's is subject to the economic whims of the time: the most expensive item I could find in it this year was a $23,000 watch. Although, I concede this is a pricey timepiece considering the band is leather.
Grandinroad offers holiday decorations with "decorator looks." You can get thematically unified fake trees. This year, bright pink trees with turquoise balls seem very popular. SO natural. $15 will get you gift wrap for a bottle of wine. I especially like the half-trees for sale: faux trees are cut in half vertically and save space, while remaining the room's centerpiece. Ah, nothing says Christmas like half a fake tree. For $59 more, you can buy a bag to store it in.

From Solutions: a clever way to wrap money gifts. (Apparently, stuffing cash in a card was to easy) A kit for $7.95 includes 2 buttons, a fake 2 dollar bill, and instructions for folding a bill into the shape of a shirt. Go ahead and give the person the extra $7.95 shoved in the card. For dog lovers, there is a board game for dogs: "Funagle is the interactive game that asks the question, 'what can you get your dog to do?'" Unless the answer is, "my laundry," then I am not interested in what my dog can do.

Don't get me wrong. I WILL be doing my holiday shopping online. I WILL probably buy something from one of these catalogues.

BEWARE.
Blogspot and I are having difficulties. Itt won't let me correctmi stakes or edit right now. I will try to post later.

Friday, November 13, 2009

My vacuum bites the dust

Apparently, my current infatuation with my pressure washer has angered my other home appliances. Their jealousy prompts them to act out in outrageous ways: burnt Eggos, leaky fridge, shrunken pants. Bummer.
But one appliance has taken this way too far.
I have a beloved vacuum. Its purchase represented the first time I didn't go to Target and buy the cheapest vacuum on the shelf. It was a Significant Purchase. Dyson Animal. It just sounds fierce. Plus, its purple and turquoise fun-ness puts me in the Miami Vice mood every time I use it. I can do that Phil Collins drum move from the theme song with the cleaning wand.
Its genealogy of 1000 prototypes has served it well. Distinguished British heritage, never loses suction, distinctive cousin of the highly effective Airblade hand dryer, all well tested and proven.
My Dyson has been through it all--dumped out houseplants, coffee grounds, spilled baby talc, disemboweled stuffed animals--and yet it still sucks up Legos with no trouble.
Until yesterday.
Yesterday, I was changing the filter (a very necessary part of maintenance and use, per my manual) and a deceptively important piece of the vacuum broke off. Now, the filter doesn't lock into place, and when its never lose suction five cyclone sucker turns on, the crap it sucks blows right out the side.
That's not good.
This is tragedy. Now, I don't know what to do. Do I rebuild the built in vac for my house at God knows what price? Do I buy a new Dyson Animal? Do I invest money in getting this one fixed since it has served me well for nearly a decade? Is it time to move on? Oh, appliance gods of the world, help me seek the answer to my question!
I am setting up a poll. Please vote to help me decide what to do.
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC28-ANIMAL
Fare thee well, you served me loyally, and I shall miss you.

As we progress out of mourning, here are some other options:
Canister Vacuum (medium grade)
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC23-MOTORHEAD-US

Or, replace with a more compact model since I no longer have a lot of carpeting:
http://www.dyson.com/store/product.asp?product=DC25-ALLFLOORS

Or, replace with same model we are mourning.

Please vote and help me commune with the appliance gods.

Thursday, November 12, 2009

Power tool porn

Sometimes, the fantasy doesn't live up to the reality.
For instance, I am sure George Clooney would cheat on me, and despite our fantastic good looks and fame, we would be miserably unhappy and I would have to sneak cookies past my Pilates instructor, chef, and nutritionist, and then I would feel guilty, and I'd have to go shopping in Italy to assuage my guilt, and then, I would have to buy something for George to make up for the enormous amount of money I'd spent, so I would jauntily jet back to the Villa at Lake Como with a beautiful gift like a Doucati, and have to apologize for my naughtiness and he would forgive me and we would spend the evening together admiring our beauty and watching reruns of Bones on TV in our deliciously soft hotel quality linens.
OK. So, maybe that fantasy has some possibilities.
But there are other disappointments. The fantasy of children is nowhere near the reality. The children don't just drop by in their perfect pajamas, smelling sweet, to kiss us goodnight. They're here all the frickin' time. And they're noisy and want stuff, and ew.
I read today in the Wall Street Journal, courtesy of a posting on Facebook, that bamboo fabric is basically rayon viscose. It is chemically engineered, and must undergo an incredibly toxic process to become a fiber, and is not ecological at all, or biodegradable, or even luxurious. It's pretty much the same stuff as my pretty pink Barbie nightie from when I was four. Disappointment. (Thanks, MS, for the reference).
Porn, too doesn't always work out as planned. In theory, your man is going to find it hot, and you are going to find it hot, and there you'll be, all bothered and desperate for each other and suddenly your sex life will be invigorated and perfect. But what really happens is that the plot is ridiculous and the dialogue so hideously bad that you take turns mocking it. And then, in a close-up, the high def TV reveals the worst complexion any woman has ever had, and all you can think of is the horrific rashes that STDs cause, and then you're both revolted, and turned off, and you turn on football, put your fuzzy socks back on, and try to forget the whole thing ever happened.
Running is a fantasy I occasionally indulge. I'll be all lithe and smooth while out there running in my (of course, new) running clothes. And this time will be different than the last, because I'm in the right place for running. And, I take my ipod and whip my hair into a stubby little pony tail, and take off down the street. And like 200 yards later, I have a stitch, and I've tripped like 4 times on cracks on the sidewalk in front of a crowded stoplight, and I run something like Phoebe from Friends, and the whole thing is best done in private on the treadmill at a speed more approximating a walk.
But today, TODAY. I pressure washed the carport, and oh, it was as good as I imagined. I broke down and bought an electric washer, which is inferior to gas in terms of psi, but superior in terms of storage and loudness, and I put it to use. I washed and bleached the trash can, the recycle bins, the kids plastic outside toys, the steps, the concrete, the decomposing hot tub, EVERYTHING. It's all gleaming. A terrific success. Nothing is stinky or dustbunnied, or leafy, or spiderwebby. It's all just clean. And my feet are pruny, and my pants are soaked, but lo, the carport is clean. And the magical washer has found its place in the shed for the next time I need it to work its wonders of cleanliness. My pressure washing fantasy has been fulfilled.

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

Thank a veteran, send your kid to school

Well, fake Hurricane Ida breezed through. And I got rid of one child--I mean one of my angels went back to school today (sniff.) The other one is home in honor of Veterans' Day. This day, while clearly only a token of appreciation to everyone who serves in the military, is a mystery to me.
First, it is mispunctuated to the point of ridicule. Veterans' Day=day to honor all veterans. Veteran's Day=day to honor one veteran. The entire universe needs a refresher on the use of the apostrophe, and how a) to use it with plural/singular agreement and b) it has nothing AT ALL to do with plurals.
Second, veterans everywhere have most often transitioned to non-military jobs. They are doctors, lawyers, firefighters, engineers, professionals and non professionals alike. MOST OF THOSE PEOPLE ARE WORKING TODAY. A few veterans who went into the Postal Service are stoked, and those who became bankers are good, but the rest of them are WORKING. What the hell kind of holiday is that? S is not in school (he's too young to even enlist, although I have considered compulsory service in a military academy). How does sitting at home and watching cartoons today honor veterans? M is working, and many of his non-traditional students have served in the armed forces. They're going to school.
Don't get me wrong. I am all about honoring veterans. But is canceling school and offering free breakfast at restaurant chains what we had in mind?
Before I digress into a totally political tirade (of which most would agree, so why preach to the choir?) let me just say, I would like to honor veterans by sending BOTH of my children to school. Watching a giant-headed octopus trying to catch a firefly with his tremendously stumpy and disproportionate arms really isn't a salute to the ultimate sacrifice. (Translation for non-parents: S is watching Oswald, an "educational" cartoon voiced by Fred Savage.)
Unless today is ALSO International Parents' Day. Which of course, would never be celebrated by allowing children home from school. Instead, it would involve hordes of babysitters in everyone's homes, chauffering services, launderers and work substitutes, and lots and lots of martinis. Which, come to think of it would be a nice way to let vets take the day off, too.
Don your poppies and your yellow ribbons, and hug a veteran today.
Even if you have your kids in tow.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009

Weather Day Rules

Unexpected days home are even worse than weekend. First, kids expect everything to be a giant amusement park. I should relax all rules, guidelines and expectations. Second, I have no plans for them. I was taken off guard, don't want them here, and can't send them outside. Even if it has completely stopped raining, I think it is poor form to allow children to play outside if school has been canceled due to weather.
In fact, the rules are more stringent on unexpected days off: I am adopting a punish first, ask questions second policy.
There will be no:
bickering
poking
pestering
bothering
whining
wrestling
fighting
needling
throwing
running
arguing
disobeying
disrupting
sassing
ignoring
touching
groping
yelling
skipping
screaming
being uncooperative
confronting
debating
OR
in any other way annoying me today.

Any infractions will result in death.
Immediately.

Monday, November 9, 2009

From WeatherChannel

Weathergirl, NotCinnamon: I'm standing here in the rain, Anchorman Joe. It's raining.
Anchorman Joe: So, WNC, is it raining there?
WNC: Yes, Joe. It IS raining here. And it is also supposed to be windy.
AJ: IS it windy?
WNC: No, Joe. It is raining.
AJ: It sounds awful.
WNC: It IS awful. Mobile is canceling schools because it is raining.
AJ: That sounds like a good precaution, WNC. I mean, you never know WHAT can happen when you mix children and rain.
WNC: You betcha, Joe. Kids could get wet. Or splash in puddles. Or get wet. And I bet there's a tie-in to Swine Flu somewhere here, Joe.
AJ: So, to summarize, it's raining and schools are closed.
WNC: Yup.
AJ: Thank you for that information. What will children be doing since there is no school on Tuesday now, WNC?
WNC: Well, I suspect they will be driving their mothers insane. They won't be able to play outside because of aforementioned rain, and cable may be out because of the (you know) RAIN, and those houses with DirecTV will be absolutely screwed. And, of course, those children who are ALSO out for Veterans' Day will be driving their parents insane for a midweek weekend, as it were.
AJ: Surely, that sounds like a plan, WNC. Those children are resourceful, and thank goodness they won't have to sit in dry classrooms when it is raining out.
WNC: Indeed, Joe.
AJ: So, what will mothers be doing while the remnants of the remnants of Ida rain down upon us?
WNC: Well, Joe, according to my sources, the mothers will be drinking heavily, regardless of the time of day. Indeed, since it is dark and cloudy, it might as well be 5 PM.
AJ: Mothers certainly aren't as resourceful as children. But, let's hope that plan works for them. I mean rain isn't something to be taken lightly.
WNC: Sure isn't, Joe. It is both wet and wet.
AJ: Well, we hope for everyone's sake, that everyone survives the rain.
WNC: We have heard from our sources that it is very likely that everyone will survive the rain, but that it is entirely possible that children and/or their mothers might not survive being inside for the next two days.
AJ: Indeed. Thank you for mentioning that, WNC. That is certainly one of the under-mentioned tragedies of rain.
WNC: Indeed, Joe. Tragic.
AJ (shaking his head): Tragic. Rain. Remnants of remnants of a hurricane. Tragic.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Don't move it like that, or, Why I have so few friends

Cici calls me today and tells me this horrible saga about a near-accident in the Megamart parking lot today. And she tells me (me, of all people!) that she worries she lacked compassion for the party involved in the story.
Compassion. Clearly, Cici calls me because she subconsciously wants reaffirmation in the lack of compassion department. She could have called Hitler and received lessons in compassion. But, no. She called me.
I consider my weakness in compassion to be genetic. Ironically, I would say, my sister and I have adopted a zero tolerance policy toward humanity. No Three Strikes. No mulligans. No exceptions. If you somehow demonstrate weakness, frailty, or incompetence you might as well forget it. If you can't accept your failure with grace and a martini, well then, we're not interested in your story. Don't come to us for compassion. Being the daughters of a shrink, I think I speak for both of us when I say our lack of compassion can be traced back to childhood. My parents, polar opposites on the compassion scale, treated us with either doting love or a shrug and a word about gumption. "If it hurts when you go like this, don't go like this." (I am not sure if this is related to my sister's subsequent hypochondria, but it would be an interesting sideline.)
So Cici's freaked out driver was traumatized by a non-near-accident, and couldn't pull herself together. Now, I say. You don't need to call the woman's family. She accepts potential risks of driving by driving. No one was hurt, nearly hurt, or even sort of nearly hurt and neither were their vehicles. So. Pull yourself together, woman, and move on.
Everyone feels as though they are the center of their own universe. And here we are, carrying our giant universes around like bubbles around us. And if that disproportionately huge universe receives a nick (maybe because it was soo huge), everyone freaks. We need to reduce our universes to solar systems, and insulate ourselves a little less. There are plenty of people on this planet who need our compassion, I'm thinking that some one owning an automobile and driving through the MegaMart parking lot is not high on the global list. And yes, I think compassion should be meted out on a relative amount. Compassion is related to deep sorrow and tragedy.
Now, the next time I come whining to you about how I gained four pounds, hand me a martini and say, "stop eating."

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Ten reasons why parenting bugs me today

I'm not what I would call vain. Especially. Or maybe I am, but no more so than before I had kids. Obviously, I've let some things slide. My size 4s are in the rear view mirror, as are perfectly retouched highlights. Make up? Oh, that stuff I put on before going out to dinner with grown ups. Or to the OB appointment. Blow dryer? Yeah, I own it, but it smells like fire when I turn it on, so I never get a total 'do.
But things have reached rock bottom. And tonight I draw the line. My pedicure is an abomination. The paint is all peely and chipped. The cuticles are dry and flaky. My heels? I could probably walk on hot coals these days. Bad, bad news.
I don't know what happened. Back when time was mine, dinner did not have the prefix Mac-, and the only thing that woke me on the weekends was lunch, my pedicure would NEVER have gotten this bad. I would have a pro do it on my lunch breaks, or I would do it during a football game on the weekend.
I used to do so many things, back when I had time. M and I would buy books about walks to take in our region. When we lived in Baltimore, we would go to Amish Country, or to Washington, or to Annapolis. We tried new restaurants. When we lived in Toronto, we took Maddie to the parks, go apple picking in the fall, go antique-ing, try new restaurants. And way, way, back, in Evanston, we'd go to football games, long campus walks, and try new restaurants.
A new franchise of Chic-Fil-A does not count as a new restaurant, the kids whine after one lap around the cul de sac, and I can't think of my last day trip adventure (that didn't involve a zoo, or a themed musical number, or a kids' museum). What the hell happened?
My toes are just a symptom of the invasive and corrosive nature of parenting. My time, gnawed and nibbled upon, is a fraction of what it once was. My thought process, once linear and coherent, now rambles and zig zags depending on who is demanding what loudly in to which ear. I move to abolish the phrase "can I?" from my children's lexicon. My ability to recall names, dates, events--poof. Gone. I need a Garmin Navigator for my own brain.
Is my time filled with the wonder and charm of childhood? Sadly, no. Surely, there are adorable moments. And I hold on to those like Kate Winslet to a floatie. Those moments sustain us, because the bulk of the time is filled with "don't touch your brother." "Keep your hands to yourself." "Don't push your brother" and then, at full volume "I TOLD YOU TO KEEP YOUR HANDS TO YOURSELF!!!!!!!" And then they cry. Like it's my fault! I asked nicely. Three times. And then, then they look at me with those giant Puss-N-Boots eyes, one giant tear streaming down their cheeks, and say, "you don't have to yell, Mommy."
Crap. I just can't win.
It's not that a perfect pedicure would fix this. In fact, no one ever even sees my toes because all I ever do is shuttle the kids around in the car. BUT, just the IDEA of a pedicure matters at this juncture. The idea of having the time to carefully tend to myself seems like a bigger luxury than it actually is. (Let's be honest, the cardboard diet still hasn't flattened my stomach enough to let me see my own toes, so I could ignore them). But, the idea of warm water, soaking feet, scented lotions. Ahh.
I could be doing that right now. But instead, I am going to spell check this, and then go up to bed. Luxury Smuxury.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Ten days on the radar

I don't want to alarm you, but Friday, among the discounted Halloween bins, there was (brace yourself) a whole lotta Christmas crap.
My sister and her husband, Type A Extraordinaires, phoned me from an actual store (not their office, in front of the computer) to verify Hanukah gifts for my kids.
The grocery store had a sign urging me to order holiday hams now.
No.
I refuse.
I decline to be shuttled from holiday to holiday by the retail Powers That Be. I don't want to be immersed in the list-making, last minute shopping, teacher gift forgetting chaos that is the holidays. IN NOVEMBER.
I don't want anything ahead of me except Veteran's Day. That is 10 days from now. I will put on a poppy, tie a yellow ribbon, and pay respect to the honorable veterans of this and other countries. I can do that. I can feel in control for a ten day plan ahead schedule.
I might even go so far as to be able to look to November 19th, when my parents come to town. I can think of the things that need cleaning, and the organizing to do.
That's it. My limit. 2 weeks and 4 days.
Damn you, stock market expectations for retailers. Stupid shop-ahead-and-save sales. Ridiculous buy buy buy mentality. There are literally shelves full of Snuggies for Pets with signs plastered everywhere: makes a great gift!!!!!! (Exclamation marks not mine.)
Just to let you know, if you ARE going to the stupid shop-ahead-and-save sales, or ARE of the buy buy buy mentality: don't buy me a Snuggie for Clooney. He has fur, like all lovable pets (who wants a bald chihuahua?), and doesn't need a blanket, much less a blanket with sleeves, since he doesn't read, or do crosswords, or use the remote control, and therefore doesn't need his paws free.
Snuggies DO NOT make great gifts!!!!!! (Exclamation marks mine.)
SO. I am breaking out my inner Scrooge in concert with the ever-earlier Christmas Marketing Extravaganza. I will not be proceeding into the holiday melee until Hanukah or Christmas (whichever comes first) is 2 weeks and 4 days away.
Until then, have an emotionally appropriate Veteran's Day.

Sunday, November 1, 2009

All Hallow's Over

Halloween is theoretically a holiday for children. We know this because it is a holiday set up with a two sided power structure. Us vs. Them. Kids vs. grown ups. Pros vs. Cons. It is the only holiday that comes with built in arguments.
Can I wear this ghoulish freaky costumes with weeping wounds and dangling eyeballs?
No.
Can I arm myself to the teeth and bring 45 different types of knives, assault weapons, scythes, lasers, swords, blasters, and daggers to school for the costume parade?
No.
Can I roam the streets of this town at night, clad entirely in black knocking on strangers' doors by myself?
No.
Can I eat my weight in candy, including the disgusting year-old Werther Originals that the octogenarian neighbor fished out of the candy dish on her coffee table because she forgot to turn out the lights on the front porch and therefore wasn't expecting trick-or-treaters?
No.
So, we go around and 'round over the freaking Halloween crap. And I realize that only a child could get excited about this stupid holiday. But, no.
I've seen grown adults with glow in the dark skeleton earrings. Not small ones, either. Giant, shoulder-grazing skeleton earrings.
Patchwork sweatshirts. My Christmas favorite, theme clothing, also seems to have a significant Halloween constituency. Black gingham cats on purple t-shirts. Embroidered witches with witticisms like, "just wait 'til I get my broom!" Knitted sweaters with pockets. Flashing necklaces.
This doesn't even begin to cover the issue of adult costumes. Which I refuse to address because of my denial.
But the thing is, last night I got 3 trick-or-treaters. THREE! So, if this is a holiday for kids, and their grown ups are equally enthusiastic, where the hell were all the kids? Next year, I am going to tell my boys that trick or treat has been canceled, and I'll give them the giant bag of candy I usually buy for trick-or-treaters, we'll watch TV, hang a black sheet over the door so no one knows we're home, and just be done with the whole damn thing.
Argument over. Thankfully, so is the holiday. And I don't have to worry about it again until the costume catalogs come in the mail next August.

This plan does nothing to relieve me of a giant bag of candy that is specifically not permitted on the cardboard diet. Milk Duds, anyone?