Trick-or- Let's Do The Time Warp-Treat

I remember being SO excited when the Little Prince was born, not just because we had one of each, but because I thought I would be exempt from bathroom-escort duty for the newcomer.

That, of course, did NOT happen. What did happen, however, was that I became exempt from trick-or-treat duty.

Even better.

The Little Princess was three-years-old when the Little Prince was born, so she was of her first, real, mobile-on-her-own, Trick-Or-Treat age, when he was most certainly not. At the time, we lived near one end of what was, arguably, the busiest street for T-O-T in W.L. – North Calhoun Street. For non-W.L. residents, this is one great big, long, almost completely un-side-streeted street that stretches for nearly a third of a mile – or the equivalent of at least 6 blocks, without any cross-streets. This was/is parent/child T-O-T paradise – let your kids out at one end, slowly drive your car up the street (and observe from warm comfort) as they go door to door to door, until they have a melt-down, their bag breaks from all that candy, or time runs out (or until you get bored), whichever comes first.

We had to take out a second mortgage to pay for all the T-O-T candy that we gave out when we lived there. (Never mind what we ate ourselves).

A side note: As a child growing up in WL, I lived two blocks (TWO BLOCKS!) south of this marathon stretch (T-O-T Nirvana/Valhalla) of North Calhoun, and never, in my recollection, did my T-O-T route venture that far north. (What kind of fool was I? What kind of kids never shared reports of this candy over-abundance?) Those were the days of grade-level class parties held at the town's churches and the Masonic Lodge – all of which (at that time) were South of the Thin, Sugared Line. (Except for the Middle School, which was 2 blocks East of NC, and therefore in a world all its own) At the time, my main concern was to plan out a route that was guaranteed to get me to my party on time! My most vivid, T-O-T memory is of the night my BFF nearly became a real, live, ghost/zombie in her haste to cross the 2-lane state highway that bisects the town. (P.S. I told her to wait.) (I blame the crappy, plastic masks of the day, of which I never was privileged to wear. Can you say perpetual hobo costume? Not that I'm bitter. Actually, Mom made me a furry Monster mask, which I wore For. Ev. Er.)

But I digress.

So we moved to a quiet sub-division of quiet W.B. A quiet sub-division, populated primarily by grandparents. There were probably eight children of T-O-T age in our subdivision that first year. But I was still in W.L. (and specifically North Calhoun) candy-buying mode. After amply supplying our approximately 20 Trick-Or-Treaters, we still had enough candy left over for one-bazillion and three kids.

The important thing is, His Royal Highness took The Little Princess Trick-Or-Treating, while I stayed home with The Little Prince, and handed out candy to the less-than-overwhelming horde.

And thus a tradition was born.

G&M, or M&M, circa a long time ago. Dang,they're cute.

The King took the Royal Progeny trick-or-treating on those cold, wet, dark (did I mention cold?) nights, for as long as they required an escort. I stayed at home, in the warm, well-lit, dry (did I mention warm and dry?) house, handing out (and eating) candy to an ever-shrinking number of trick-or-treaters.

And thus it came to pass, that on this All-Hallow's Eve I stayed at home where it was warm, dry, and well lit, and handed out candy to the neighborhood kids. (The grandparents have down-sized and moved away The sub-division has been re-populated by young families, of which we are not one).

And each time I answered the door I thought of my little ghost and goblin, and the costumes I sewed for them. (They were off doing who-knows-what kind of late-adolescent, it's-probably-better-I-don't-know kind of things.)

On the up-side, all the brown Tootsie-Pops have been handed out.

And I still have two bags of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

(Which I can give The Little Princess and The Little Prince when we have family dinner this weekend.)

(If there are any left.)

Night of the Living Brocco-tot

Once upon a time, in a quiet home on a quiet lane in a quiet town, something happened. Something so horrible, so terrifying, so unnatural, that even now – nearly four days later – it is referred to by shocked locals as ...

The House on Brocco-Lane.

It was a peaceful evening, like countless others in this unassuming home. The tranquility was broken only by the frenzied racing of a wild-eyed grey cat, running his nightly crazy-laps up and down the hallway with all the grace and elegance of a drunken zombie horde.

The mouth-watering aroma of cheesy chicken casserole filled the cozy home, luring the Little Prince and the King of the Castle from the dark depths of the basement, up the creaking staircase and into the kitchen. A solitary figure stood by the oven, waving a hot pad over a steaming cauldron and muttering an ancient incantation:

Double, double, toil and trouble;

Casserole's not browned, but at least it's bubbled.

It was … The Mom-ster! A toxic health-food spill in the freezer section of the local grocery mart had turned this normally mild-mannered housewife into a veggie-pushing mad chef!

“What's ... that?” the Little Prince asked cautiously, peering into the 9x12 baking dish.

“Chicken casserole,” The Mom-ster replied. “Mwaa-haa-haa!”

“What's on top of the casserole?” The Little Prince asked, suspicious of The Mom-ster's maniacal cackling and creepy hand wringing. “They look like … undercooked sausages.”

The Mom-ster hesitated a moment too long before replying.

“Yes! Yes, they are!”

“No they're not.” The Little Prince was not fooled by The Mom-ster's overzealous enthusiasm. He crossed his arms in a classic Picky Eater defensive move.

“You're right! They're …” the Mom-ster paused dramatically, waiting for the ominous music to play. Duh-duh-DUHHHH! There was no music, of course, because this was real life, not some horror movie. It was much, much more frightening than any movie could ever be. This was ... dinnertime! And those strange, grey-ish green blobs on top of the casserole? 

“They're Brocco-tots.”

The Little Prince gasped. The King of the Castle looked up from his magazine in shock. Even the cat screeched to a stop and hovered protectively over his food dish.

“Oh just eat them. They're good for you. One bite won't kill you.” Duh-duh-DUHHHH!

Before she could dish up steaming plates of chicken casserole with proportional amounts of the some-what healthy, albeit odd-looking, garnish the Mom-ster was called away to a meeting. She returned to find a decidedly dis-proportionate amount of brocco-tot leftovers.

“Curses! My attempts to foist somewhat healthy eating habits on my family have been foiled again!" the Mom-ster cried out in anguish, but not surprise.

When the brocco-scarred Little Prince related his tale to his sister The Princess, at first she reacted with mild disappointment.

“Sounds like a waste of perfectly good tater-tots. And broccoli.” She did not share his aversion to all things vegetable.

“But... but you don't understand!” The Little Prince protested. “There was no tater in these tots! Just broccoli!”

The Princess fixed The Mom-ster with an ice-cold glare.

“That's just … wrong.” The Princess said. “If she tries that again, let me know. I'll call protective services.”

They say that when the moon is full, and the wind whistles through the trees, and the weather calls out for the comfort of a home-baked casserole, if you listen carefully you can still hear the siren song of …

The Cauli-tot!

Wanna See Something Really Scary?

I love Halloween. What's not to love about dressing up and eating lots of candy? But I'm not a big fan of going through haunted houses – or haunted trails, tunnels, barns, fields, forests, malls, closets, and shoe boxes. For that matter, I don't like watching scary movies – unless they're SyFy originals. And the lights are on. And I control the remote.

I'm not exactly sure when I turned into such a big weenie. I used to like reading scary stories and watching scary movies (remember “Kiss Meets the Phantom of the Park”?) and I … tolerated … the local Jaycee's annual Haunted Whatever.

But somewhere along the way all that frightening stuff lost its appeal.

And I got along just fine until the Princess hit the teen years and decided she needed to experience all things spooky. Luckily her friends have parents much braver than I am (and they are too kind to point that out).

I've tried to look at my fear of fear-inducing activities rationally. I know that psychologically, scary movies, etc., can provide a “safe” way to face our fears. A horror movie or trip to a haunted house can provide a cathartic experience, just like watching a tear-jerking movie can make you feel better. But that rational viewpoint is the first thing to get catharsis-ed right out of me when some rubber-masked ghoul surprises me.

It's not like I think that vampire rising out of the cardboard box is actually going to “get” me. I know the difference between reality and make-believe, possible and impossible. A few examples: Zombies taking over the world? Impossible. (They lack the fine motor skills needed to fill out a voter registration form. Except in Chicago.). Chainsaw wielding maniac hacking me to bits? Impossible. (I know better than to walk through the darkened woods when that creepy violin music is playing.) Eric Balfour and Colin Firth fighting over me? Improbable (one lives in the US, the other in the UK).

Whatever the real reason, I've deluded myself into believing that I don't like horror movies/haunted houses because reality is more scary than any fantasy. Just a few of the real life things that scare me more than any haunted house could:

• Fitting rooms with florescent lights – As if the fun-house inspired mirrors weren't bad enough (my ass isn't really that big, is it?), those florescent lights give my cellulite the attractive pallor of the living dead.
• Pregnancy tests – At this time in my life, a positive pregnancy test for me (theoretically possible) would result in a heart attack; a positive test for the Princess would result in me behind bars.
• College tuition – For the Princess' sake, I hope Netflix starts offering scholarships. The Little Prince may end up playing his drums on street corners for donations.
• Yearbooks – In the company of friends, yearbooks can be a source of nostalgia. In the company of your children yearbooks are a source of fashion ridicule. Knowing that what comes around goes around doesn't help.
• Family car rides – Are we there yet? Are we there yet? Are we there yet?
• The shiny reflection at the bottom of an empty coffee can – My own personal worst fear could lead to my family's worst nightmare: Me without my morning coffee.

These are a few of my most fearful things, but in the spirit of Halloween, I've conjured up my vision of the most frightening, most realistic, most terrifying haunted house ever... enter if you dare:

The House of Eternal Clutter!

The first stop in this horror-provoking attraction is the (Abandon Hope All Ye Who) Entry Way: Sort through piles of abandoned shoes, bags, coats and other assorted detritus to clear a path through this deceptively small looking room and make your way to the...

Living (Dead) Room: Wind your way around the mountains of used tissues, stacks of papers and perilously leaning towers of books, and climb over haphazardly strewn blankets and pillows in your quest to find the three remotes required to activate the television and trigger the exit door. Once you figure out the right combination of buttons you may enter the...

Slumberless Bedchamber: Get your mind out of the gutter! By the time you sort, fold, and put away all the laundry accumulated on the king (kong)-sized bed, you'll be too tired to think of anything other than escape. Drag your bleary-eyed self to …

Rapuzel's Bathroom: Hair, hair everywhere, and not a bottle of Liquid Plumr to be found. The only drain not sporting a clump of hair the size of a housecat is the toilet, and it is filled with a roll of toilet paper. You'd better hope that plunger unclogs the passage to the final room on this tour...

(Hell's) Kitchen: You can see the parking lot from here! To earn your freedom all you have to do is prepare a nutritious breakfast... and wash the dishes in time to make a hearty lunch... and wash dishes in time to cook a bountiful dinner... and wash dishes... and plan for tomorrow's meals....

Enough, you say! Make a run for it! Jump over the laundry baskets, dodge the overflowing wastebaskets, stumble over the shoes piled in front of the exit! Freedom, sweet freedom!

But wait! The house has reset. All that cleaning you did has been undone! You're going to have to start all over again!

Hmmmm... that sounds awfully familiar. Are those shrieking violins I hear?

Ghostfish Tales

October, especially late October is the time for spooky, weird things, right? That's how I explained the latest apparition at the royal castle.

I believe there are, at the very least, two explanations for most things: the logical (or boring) explanation, and the the "whoo-hoo" crazy (much more fun) explanation. Of course I favor the "whoo-hoo." So, given my fondness for the "whoo-hoo," and the spooky-weird spirit of late October, allow me to present...

The Tale of the Haunted Aquarium

I was enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun, streaming through the windows of the royal chariot as I made my way hastily back to the castle after another day of holding raucous hordes of elementary students at bay. The 5-minute commute offered a little precious decompression time, so direly needed before facing the raucous horde of my own children and their attack cat. My reverie was broken by a call from the Princess.

"Does this mean we're getting fish?"

Does what mean we're getting fish?

"The aquarium in the driveway. Can we keep it?"

Now, due to its unique situation near the bottom of a hill, the edge of a curve, and who knows what other natural and supernatural formations of land, time and space, the castle seems to be at the epicenter of the Vortex of Lost Toys. We have had all manner of inflatable toys -- beach balls, swim rings, a pool cover, and bouncy balls -- blow into our yard and come to a stop. Once they blow in, they don't blow out, no matter how long I try to ignore them. We've even found a small tent, scarf and gloves at the end of our driveway.

But never an aquarium.

I assumed the Princess meant a little one- or two-gallon fish bowl, probably plastic. But no. There settled neatly by the garage door was a full-sized, 20-gallon, glass and metal fish aquarium. Complete with gravel, lid, net and a couple of shells. All very dry, neat, clean and tidy. And mysterious. No note, no message on the answering machine, no nothing. I assumed someone just got the wrong address when passing along an unused tank. But the days passed an no one returned to claim it.

There was something about that gravel. It was so dull and brown. It reminded me of a desert scene. And there was no cute little castle, treasure chest, "no fishing" sign, or plastic seaweed. Hmmm... boring brown rocks like you would find in...

A REPTILE TANK!!! OR A TARANTULA TANK!!!

No note, no message, and no inhabitant!! Had our mysterious benefactor merely dropped off an aquarium? Or did they drop off an aquarium AND SOME CREEPY CRAWLY/SLITHERY creature that was now on the loose? Yes, it was cold enough out to slow down any cold-blooded critters, but the aquarium was situated right next to the garage door, which the children had opened and left open when they arrived home.

Was there something hiding in the dark corners of the semi-warm garage (or under all the toys strewn across the garage floor forcing me to park in the driveway?). Would it attack as I carefully picked my way through the garage? Or would it bide its time, discover a hidden entrance into the house and hide in my shoes, under the bed, behind the toilet or in the cupboard? Venomous or not, I'm sure the shock would do me in.

I moved the aquarium out to the end of the driveway and amused myself by sticking humorous signs on it: "I'm lost! Am I yours? Take me home!" and an owl asking "Whooo do I belong to?" I asked around the neighborhood and quizzed the kids. No one knew anything about it. But I felt sure an answer was out there somewhere.

I had just handed out the last of the Halloween candy to the trick-or-treaters and had bundled the Prince and Princess off to bed when the phone rang. The King was, I believed, ensconced in his office quietly working and too busy to answer the call. He had been working hard all day and, come to think of it, I couldn't remember the last time he had ventured out of his basement office. Strange, but I didn't have time to wonder about it now. I wanted to answer the phone before the shrill -- it had an oddly shrill ring to it this time -- and incessant ringing awoke the slumbering angels.

A deep raspy voice responded to my greeting.

"Did you find the aquariummmmmmm?" it asked. The line crackled and hissed with static.

"Yes, but..." I began to ask, confused.

"And how is Fluuuuuffy? Are you keeping him well fehhhhhhhhhhd? Bwahahaha..."

The maniacal laughter was cut off by a loud boom of thunder. At that moment the line went dead and the lights flickered before the electricity went out completely. The house took on an oppressive silence, broken only by the sound of a footstep... and another, another, another, another, another, another, and another. Eight heavy footsteps on the stairway from the basement. A flash of lightning illuminated eight gigantic, inhuman, hairy legs inching closer, closer....

In the interest of indulging my fancy, that's how the story should have ended. Unfortunately, at this point our story takes on a decidedly logical, boring ending. The aquarium provider had, indeed, gotten names mixed up when delivering the aquarium. He then was called out of town and did not realize the mistake until I had sprouted several more gray hairs.

But that doesn't explain the half-dollar sized, black, fuzzy spider I squashed near the garage door. Or that strange rustling noise coming from the furnace room.

Bwaaahaahaaha!