2 11 2008

The first knock on the door came at about 6:15, in the midst of our getting-ready extravaganza. To say we were excited might be an understatement: we were downright giddy. These were our first trick-or-treaters. Ever. See, up until this year, we lived in an apartment. Above a store. On a super busy street. In Toronto. If anyone had knocked on our door on Halloween night, we would have assumed it was a disoriented crackhead, and ignored it. Or possibly called the cops. No one in their right mind would knock on that door on Halloween night. But here in our cozy little duplex in our cozy little neighbourhood in this cozy little city, we knew we’d have costumed kiddies knocking on our door on Halloween night. My sweet Mr. went to the door, bowl of treats in hand. A couple of fairy princesses and a witch? A fluffy maned lion toddling alongside his big brother, Batman? The terrifying trio of Dracula, a werewolf and Frankenstein? How about two pre-teen boys with gigantic treat bags and no costumes. And they just stood there on our step in their hoodies, sneakers and ridiculously baggy pants, talking about Nintendo games and waiting for Mr. to give them some junk. Apparently, they were dressed up as adolescent jerks. Mr. informed them that if they could not be bothered with costumes, the least they could do was say the magic words. They mumbled ‘trick-or-treat’, got a chocolate bar, and left without so much as a  thank-you.

But the grand disappointment of our first ever trick-or-treaters did nothing to dull the excitement in our house. When Neener and Roo realized that Halloween was really happening, they went ballistic. There are few sights more entertaining than seeing a tiger and a funky punky fairy princess pouncing and prancing and practically vibrating at the thought of knocking on doors and getting free candy. Except, perhaps, the sight of  a thirty-one year old punk pixie queen, pouting and preening and practically vibrating at the thought of teasing her hair like it’s 1989 and wearing enough make-up to choke a rhino. Far more glamorous than the enormously pregnant, orange garbage-bag pumpkin I dressed up as last year. At 6:30, Neener, Roo and I, along with my brother (who insisted on escorting us just in case any hooligans tried to steal our candy) and his girlfriend (who adores my kids as much as they adore her) left Mr. and Squiggles to handle what would surely be a barrage of creatively costumed pre-teen candy beggars, and we hit the streets.

After the first house, I had to lay down a rule: say trick or treat, but don’t scream it at the top of your lungs. Roo. At house number two I had to lay down a second rule: You’re not allowed to say “Excuse me, I don’t like chips. Do you have anything else?” six times in a row, at progressively greater volume and intensity, to little old deaf ladies who are only giving out chips. Neener. But, I did not have to repeat the one from last year that made me feel like a broken record because I had to say it at every single house we went to: don’t push past the person at the door and waltz right into their living room. Roo. And don’t ask if you can come in and see what the rest of their house looks like. Neener. We merrily traipsed up and down a couple of streets, and it was not long before the bags were too heavy for the kids to carry without tripping over sidewalks or falling downstairs. My brother graciously offered to help by both carrying the bags, and inhaling a few bags of chips to lighten the load. After about 45 minutes, Neener announced that she had enough candy and wanted to go home. No sooner were the words out of her mouth when my phone rang. It was Mr. He was out of candy, and wanted to know when we would be home. So, we made our way back to our house, making a few more stops along the way to bolster the treat supply. Less than an hour from the time we left, we were dumping treat bags out onto the table and sorting through an indecent amount of junkfood. We promptly removed all the bad stuff – tootsie rolls, lollipops, and anything that looked like it might have the melamine-y goodness of dollarstore candy – and put them in our bowl to pawn off on the next batch of shoddily costumed punk-assed pre-teens who knocked on our door. Then, we declared it All You Can Stomach Halloween Junk Food Extravaganza for the next 30 minutes. The tiger tore into the Smarties. The funky punky fairy princess hit the gummy candies. Mr. Blister, my bro and his girlfriend inhaled some more chips. And the punk pixie queen mixed herself a drink to wash down the Wunderbars. A body-polluting good time was had by all.




3 responses

2 11 2008

Ah you poor dear children! No trying to guess who the spooks are. No nearly lighting youselves on fire with sparklers and firecrackers. No soaping windows,tipping outdoor toilets or blowing up clotheslines. No crab apples or homemade goodies.No being proud because nobody could gues who you were! They don’t do Halloween like they used to! Thank god, I think.

2 11 2008

thanks for the update- i thought about them all evening. Glad all had a great time

3 11 2008

Hi Folks

I’m siiting here with tears in my eyes thinking of the times I took you and your brother up and down the road on Halloween. I’ll never forget the the time you encountered someone’s cross dog.
I’m not sure if the dog was red or not but let’s say it was.

All my love


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