Things that go Blah! in the night.

What the hell? Today is being strange. I had all these big pre-mom visit plans, and they are steadily running down the toilet. It's already 10 AM. I was supposed to have (per my list) washed the floors, done laundry, mailed my sister's birthday present, cleaned out the fridge, and run. None. Zero. Zilch. Nada. Not done.
But, I have been sitting here, rocking out to Neil Diamond (Do NOT judge me) and thinking about Halloweens past.
I freaking hate Halloween. More than any other holiday, religious or otherwise. I hate it. Loathe. Detest. Abhor. Even more than all the pepto bismol pink of Valentine's Day and overly commercial Christmas. More than jingoist Fourth of July or intoxicated St. Pat's. More than the overly important Hannukah, and the only recently added Kwanzaa. More than the frilly, floppy Easter, or the age-old Passover.
Actually, apparently, I only like Thanksgiving, for the record. Which is true. I love Thanksgiving. I loved watching football with all the men in the family while my mom and grandma washed a million dishes. I loved sitting at the kiddie table with my uncle. I loved stuffing. I love mashed potatoes. I love dark meat on the turkey. I love the rolls my grandma used to make for us. I love the smell. I love the no-gift, no-problem experience. I love that every one is welcome anywhere. That's there's always enough. And more. For almost every one. On one day, there is enough for everyone.
Anyway, sorry for the rather sappy aside. Halloween is a problem for me. For one thing, I never had the right imagination for costumes. Like sometimes, not enough imagination: the year I wore the plastic Garfield costume. Sometimes, too much: the year I wore a black leotard with adhesive stars and was The Universe. Sometimes, misplaced: the year I was a 'punker' and everyone thought I was a hooker. Sometimes, overly executed: too-creepy witch when all my friends were good witches. Anyway. Almost every year, hell. I hated picking a costume. I hated whatever my mom bought. (Even if it was what I wanted). I hated trying to make a costume (how did that one kid make Storm Trooper so awesome out of TP rolls?) I hated that never in my entire childhood did we have one trick-or-treater at our house. We lived at the top of this steep hill that was unlit and spooky on the best of nights. Somebody REALLY had to want to come up there. No mini Milky Way was worth the trip, believe me.
We sometimes went trick or treating at a friend's neighborhood. Once in my grandma's neighborhood. But my parents had this (completely accurate) argument that we could have candy whenever we wanted. Why go beg for it? True. How to counter that? It all went bad anyway. We forgot about it, or my mom ate the ones with the nuts, or whatever. After we had it, we didn't care. So we traipsed around the neighborhood in the cold and the dark, begging for candy we didn't eat all of, or lame ass stickers we didn't want. I can NOT buy into the Halloween experience. Even now, I want my kids to have the perfect costumes. (They are Red Power Ranger and Buzz Lightyear). I want them to enjoy it. But with M. He'll take them out. Meh.
The only good costume, in my entire life--EVER--was when I was pregnant with one of the kids. I bought a cheerleader costume that you could iron on whatever school name you wanted on the shirt. My cheerleader costume was WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY too small. My giant belly hung out. My shirt said "SLUT." That costume rocked. One. In thirty something years.
So, trick or treat, y'all.
Bah, Humbug.