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Category Archives: So Not True

Trick or Treat-The Other Side

Trick or Treat-The Other Side

Halloween 2011.. BEST. HALLOWEEN. EVER. Now, with your permission, or without it, I’d like to sit back, kick off my sock monkey slippers and tell you of my evening.

I began preparations earlier in the day, mixing up all the bags of candy that I had purchased just for this occasion into one big orange plastic bowl that came full of mini Snickers (which I devoured earlier in the day.) A beautiful assortment. I put the bowl on the table beside the door and put “Werewolves of London” on repeat on my stereo system which I had earlier positioned in the windows so as to drench the entire neighborhood in the sounds of Halloween. After 28 minutes of non-stop “Ahhhhhhh Ooooooooh Werewolves of London…Ahhhhhhh Oooooooh Werewolves of London” my neighbors put an end to that. Who knew nuns didn’t like Warren Zevon?

Then the trick-or-treaters began to trickle in. Trick-or- treat starts at six PM sharp, not a minute before in this house. I’m sorry to those little rugrats that showed up at five fifty-five. We have rules for a reason. I’m also sorry that they came back later and all I had left was a Ziploc bag full of crushed candy canes from four Christmas’ ago but that’s what happens when you don’t follow the rules.

At six, I opened the door and waited.

Ding dong.

Excitement like new love filled my stomach. I hurried to the door and peered out and saw a hippie, a hobo and an M&M. I reached into the bowl and took out a big handful and aimed carefully and WHACK! hit the hobo in the left eye. I felt a little bad at first but then I thought, “hey, you’re the one who chose to be a hobo, you might as well get the whole experience. You should just be glad I didn’t have a beer can.” While the hobo was crying into the folds of his mother’s skirt, I threw several pieces of chocolate at the M&M. He opened his bag and almost all of the pieces made it. He became very focused with the content of his bag as I threw the final bunch of candy to the little hippie. She had one of those orange plastic pumpkins and she caught all of it. Then she looked up at me and with a twinkle in her eye and said,

“Why don’t you hand out candy at the door like a normal person, you weirdo!” (I was up on my balcony tossing the candy off into the night air.)

“Yeah, and why are you passing out Easter candy? That was like 6 months ago. Gross” (There was a sale after Easter, ninety percent off. Who can pass that up?)

“Just for that you’re not getting the motherload: this entire package of Peeps,” I retorted as I flung another chocolate bunny for good measure.

Off they trotted, mumbling amongst themselves and to the mother who brought them. I’m pretty sure she was teaching them some new words.

A few minutes later, after I’d just settled in for another mini Snickers, another gaggle of girls rang the bell. Taking to heart what the hippie had said I decided to do the right thing and take the candy downstairs to the door.

I opened it and staring up at me was the cutest little pair of twin girls, probably around the age of 2 or 14, (it’s hard to tell when they’re at that age) each dressed up like a different Disney princess.

“Here ya go, Ariel,” I said as I put a few crispy rice chocolate eggs in her little canvas “Please don’t feed me razorblades” tote. She said thank you sweetly.

“And some for you Princess Jasmine,” I crooned, dropping a few chocolate bunnies in Jasmine’s “I’m allergic to peanuts” bag. She too, smiled up at me until she saw what had been dropped in the bag.

“What the? What is this junk? Are you seriously that cheap that you can’t even buy Halloween candy?”

Then Ariel piped up, “yeah, and why is it frozen? How long have you had this crap? Mom, can you believe this? I’m not eating this.”

But mom had already started to usher the girls away with her own look of disgust, making a mental (but audible) note to not come to this house again.

The evening parade of Spidermen, witches and Lindsay Lohans’ continued sporadically until about seven thirty, a half hour short of quitting time.

Each group of youngsters brought similar responses:

“What is this?”

“Didn’t you give out Christmas candy last year?”

“Popcorn balls? These aren’t even in sealed packages. Did you make these?”

“What am I going to do with this doily?”

“A toothpick? A TOOTHPICK? You can’t even give out a toothBRUSH?”

At seven fifty-five, a carload of trick-or-treaters showed up and rang the bell. Exhausted as I was from climbing up and down the stairs–only to be mocked and jeered might I add–I opened the door to find five very tall trick-or-treaters. One was in a sheet with two holes cut out, one had a plastic Homer Simpson mask on with a black trench coat, another had fake blood coming out of his nose or had a really bad coke habit (jury is still out on that one but you never like to jump to conclusions) and still another had a Freddie knife/glove on his hand and was wearing a Dave Matthews concert t-shirt and the last one, the driver, just had a pillowcase held out in front of my face. In fact none of them really had Halloween bags. All of them carried pillowcases except for one who carried a scrunched up black plastic garbage bag.

“What have we here?” I said, inspecting the group.

“Look just give us the candy,” sneered Dave Matthews.

“Well just hold on there little guy, I wanna see who I’m dealing with here.”

I tried to squat to his level when I said “little guy” but I realized that without even squatting he was still taller than I was.

“Look lady, we’re not playing the game. We just want candy.”

“Ok, well, I’m the one with the candy so I think I’ll be deciding the game we play, right gang?”

This was my first major mistake of the night. How was I to know that this was, indeed, the neighborhood gang? They got a little up in arms at my blatant calling out of their gang and one of them started to go for a switchblade. Then just as he came at me with the switchblade. I heard a loud thud as something smacked him in the back of his oversized head. I watched his eyes roll back as he crumpled to the ground in a teenage heap. When the others in the gang saw what had happened they all turned around to see who had taken down their leader. With looks of terror on their faces they scooped up their fallen comrade, who had now begun to cry and headed off to their car.

As I looked down at the ground in front of me I saw the weapon: a chocolate bunny. I looked in the direction that it had come from and couldn’t believe my eyes. Standing not eight and three quarters feet away from me was my rescuer: the hippie. She smiled at me and I smiled back at her and I knew then what I had to do.

Reaching back to the table by my front door, I picked up the last package I had left and as she held out her little orange plastic pumpkin, which by now was almost full, I put in the last package of yellow Peeps I had kept in my freezer since Easter….not this Easter but two Easters before.

As she looked up with her little angelic hippie-looking face, I said what we were both thinking,

“Let these thaw a little before you eat them or you’ll break off a tooth.”

 

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I Am In Prison

I Am In Prison

Dear loyal readers and children of all ages,

Wait, this letter may not be appropriate for children. Scratch that.  No, seriously, scratch that… lower, I can’t reach it.

Dear Loyal Readers,

I write this letter to you from the library of the Missouri state prison where the cell walls are decorated with pin-ups of Casey Anthony.  Normally they wouldn’t let an inmate have access to a computer but the ones they consider to have “special needs” are guaranteed this privilege. They determined that I had special needs because of my confidence in the fact that I believe I am Amelia Earhart. Often times to make sure I get the computer, I zip around the commons with my arms outstretched and a hefty amount of the one-ply toilet paper they give us wrapped around my head like a bomber helmet, yelling “ZOOOOOOOM!”  My dignity is a small price to pay for this privilege.

In case you’re wondering how I landed in the joint (that’s prison talk for jail. You learn these terms fast. You also learn to always have massive amounts of ciggies as they are good for bartering and making sure that you are not owned by anyone). I will not lie to you and say that I am innocent of the crime I am charged with, for I am not.

On August 3rd, I was arrested and convicted of jayriding.  I crossed Devonshire road on my tricycle (Stop judging me. It’s hard to balance on two wheels while holding a pint and trying to play harmonica) without using the cross walk.  I also zipped across the road when it said “Do not walk”  (which I wasn’t, I was riding the tricycle. Semantics.) because that’s just the kind of rebel I am.  It didn’t help my case that I was wearing a vinyl Fonzie Halloween costume complete with plastic mask. (I kept it since I was in first grade. I’m petite for my age, what can I say?)  I thought I could get out of my predicament by pointing out to the arresting officer that TECHNICALLY I wasn’t jay “walking” but apparently it was that semantic argument that made him decide to throw the book at me. Seriously he took his little book of tickets and hurled it at my noggin. All I said was “Look, you little man, I  have never in my life seen such a power tripping security guard wannabe let so little power go to his piggy head!”

This may have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.  

Off I was taken in handcuffs and ankle shackles to prison while the media went nuts snapping pictures of me.  Wait. That might not have been me. That might have been Paris Hilton…Yeah it was.  Sorry for the mistake.

Once I was strip searched and had a body cavity search (which from what I had always heard was not pleasant for either party involved and I now concur.) I was given my prison garb (luckily I got the orange jumpsuit instead of the stripes because I just don’t look good in stripes) and sent off to my cell with no supper.

The first few days were not too bad but then the Cheetos incident occurred only to be followed by what I henceforth will refer to as the Hostess Strawberry Pie fiasco. I fought hard for that pie and was able to distract the inmates by pointing out the new inmate, Sara Lee.  I was not as popular with the ladies because hey, nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee. And like her they did.

I spend most of my time in the arts and crafts room making key chains, leather wallets and Foreman Grill Cozies.  I’m also reading “So You Want To Learn To Make Shivs Out of Soap” in my quiet time.

I’m trying to keep a positive outlook but then the memories of past Christmas’ and the holidays yet to come flood into my memory like…a flood. I know now I won’t be home to eat Aunt Wilhemina’s Jello salad, the one that she always makes and leaves on the hood of the car and her cat walks through it with litter box sand-covered feet and she debates (every year, God bless her cat-loving soul) whether or not to bring it but just smears it around to cover up the cat tracks. It’s always gritty but deliciously lime flavored with mini marshmallows throughout.

I’ll also miss Grandpa’s telling of stories of fighting in the Civil War with General Patton and Elvis Costello (Grandpa is kind of losing it but we just let him live in his world) while Grandma Beth always tries to get all of the grandkids to “pull her finger.”

I’ll always picture Little Trigger Sue and Sipsy Matthew (The twins had their middle names mixed up at birth because their mother, my cousin, Gypsy Piffle was a paste eater most of her life.) running through the sprinklers in their underwear (they share one pair) even though it’s three below zero and trying to go belly first on the Slip and Slide in the backyard for a while before they come running into the house screaming that their stomachs hurt. (We go through this every year, they think they can slip and slide when it’s three below but every year their little bellies get stuck to the plastic, like an outstretched tongue sticking to a metal pole, and every year Gypsy looks up from her paste and sends them to Grandma Beth for first aid. The twins are forty-two now, you would think they had learned that they can’t slip nor slde when it’ s this cold.)

These memories will always be with me and I look to the future in hopes that I too may be home by the next Thanksgiving but it’s looking bleak for me, what with this past week’s Chef Boyardee incident.  I love Uncle Joseph’s (He’s not our real uncle, He’s Uncle Frank’s “Roommate”) Gummy Bear fruitcake (He thinks substituting Gummy Bears for candied fruit will go unnoticed and he can save a buck) and will hopefully be there to enjoy it.

Until then, please know that I miss and love you all and enjoy getting the care packages that NONE OF YOU HAVE BEEN SENDING.

Not bitter at all,

Inmate 4958375

P.S.  Please don’t send a cake with a file in it.  That will get me an extra six months and I’m hoping to be home for Grandma Beth’s opportunity to defend her title in the Miss Toots-A-Lot pageant.

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Posted by on October 6, 2011 in So Not True

 

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