Instant Halloween Karma

Halloween is over, and now I'm stuck with 800 pieces of candy and probable Type 2 Diabetes. I don't even want to know how much unrefined sugar I have flowing through my veins. And I'm still creeped out by Mark David Chapman, but I'll get back to that.

I'll be in Arizona at the end of this week and gone for 10 days in Texas for Thanksgiving, and I'm doing NaNoWriMo, so this month is going to be tough, and I apologize in advance for the crappy sloppy seconds writing the blog is going to endure. For those who aren't familiar with NaNoWriMo, it's a writing marathon where over 100,000 writers commit to writing a 50,000 word novel in the month of November (National Novel Writing Month). I've written 896 words so far. You need to write about 1700 words per day to keep up. Ouch. (For any NaNoWriMos who need a writing buddy, I'm Snarkypants.) I may post some of it here, if I'm not too mortified.

So Halloween is over. This year, my seventh grader still wanted to Trick or Treat with a friend. Since I'm still trying desperately to keep her young and immature, I looked around for a costume at stores, as a homemade costume would be mortifying at her age. I did not go the store route, because costumes in her size all had stickers on the front that said "IMPREGNATE ME". Hey preteen girls! Would you like to be a sexy cop? Or a sexy chef? Or a sexy crossing guard? Or a sexy S&M film star? And then next year you can be an incredibly unsexy baby momma working at the BP store selling lottery tickets and cigarettes to your meth dealer and GUESS WHAT! THAT costume isn't just for Halloween, it's for the rest of your life! Yay for you! She ended up being a Barbie, and we live in interesting times when the tamest costume you can come up with for your daughter is Barbie.

My son wanted to be Uncle Sam. So easy, right? No. The store costumes available to him were Mass Murderer, Blood-covered Zombie, Serial Killer, Ultimate Fighter, Dark Side Superhero or Star Wars. Hello, Goodwill. We ended up putting red stucco tape down the sides of white basketball warm up pants, duct taping a navy blue blazer from Goodwill, and cutting up a serial killer beard to make an Uncle Sam goatee and eyebrows. He won the costume competition at the school's Fall Fun Fest (not to be mistaken for a Halloween party, because that is too pagan and devil-worshipping for the public school day), but now the expectation for next year is even higher. I'm guessing he will want to be the Invisible Man. You can do that, right Mom?

I like to dress up to walk with the kids, because they think it's fun and it gives me a chance to indulge my complete immaturity. My youngest daughter was dressed up as Dorothy, from the Wizard of Oz, so I talked my good friend into being Galinda to my Elphaba. She's a partner in a large law firm, so it usually takes two glasses of wine to make her stop thinking about umbrella policies and liability claims, and by the time we were walking around the neighborhood, Galinda was waving her wand over the adults and telling them all of their wishes would be granted at midnight. She became Sexy Good Witch, and she did not take off her crown or my old prom dress until well after midnight. I told her to wear it home and make someone's wishes come true; it wouldn't be the first time that dress was hitched up around someone's hips. (Just kidding Mom!)

So Galinda and I are preparing to sweep the neighborhood, and this boy comes up the walk at her house looking like a Vietnam Vet. She gives him a King-Sized Hershey bar and he looks at her with dead eyes and says, "Just one?" And she says "Happy Halloween!" and shuts the door. We gather our children and leave the house.

A few blocks later, we see Vietnam Vet kid, and he is waving a silver gun around, demanding candy from people at their doors. Everyone is looking a little frightened, and we all notice how the kid is probably 11 or 12, is trick-or-treating alone, and has no adult supervision. He gets the candy at the door, turns and smiles a little evil smile and saunters to the next house. We are troubled, but forget about it as we are chasing six kids across streets where adults still insist on driving large trucks that say "Stump Removal" on the side and gun their accelerators every time a small child gets in the way.

We trick-or-treat at my house, where Current Husband is dressed up as The Edge, clearly hoping to get lucky. We get candy, and I drop off the dog, who has been dressed as The Cowardly Lion and has eaten about 25% of the brown yarn off of his mane and three dropped Starburst in their wrappers. CH says, "Have you seen the guy who killed John Lennon?" Uh, what? CH got a good look at the kid when he came to our door, and he was wearing a camouflage jacket that had the name "LENNON" on the front. CH said the kid waved his weapon around and was singing Imagine on the way down the walk. WHAT!?!? The kid was dressed up as Mark David Chapman, Lennon's assassin!!! Aaaah! As a huge John Lennon fan, I was going to have to find this boy and steal his candy. And take his most likely real gun. And micro-chip him.

Galinda and I swept the rest of the neighborhood, but we didn't see Mr. Future Juvenile Delinquent again. But as I ate my 15th Reese's Peanut Butter cup, accompanied by a lovely Shiraz, Watchin' the Wheels go round and round, I consoled myself with the fact that Instant Karma was gonna get him. And knock him in the head.